Chapter 18

Benton, after grumbling because the old man would make no statement, and again hinting at the fact that he might be the culprit, left with very ill grace, his long journey from London having been in vain.

If Henfrey was to be free to marry Louise, then his innocence must first be proved. Charles Benton had for many weeks realized that his chance of securing old Mr. Henfrey’s great fortune was slowly slipping from him. Once Hugh had married Louise and settled the money upon her, then the rest would be easy. He had many times discussed it with Molly, and they were both agreed upon a vile, despicable plot which would result in the young man’s sudden end and the diversion of his father’s fortune.

The whole plot against old Mr. Henfrey was truly one of the most elaborate and amazing ones ever conceived by criminal minds.

Charles Benton was a little too well known in Nice, hence he took care to leave the place by an early train, and went on to Cannes, where he was a little less known. As an international crook he had spent several seasons at Nice and Monte Carlo, but had seldom gone to Cannes, as it was too aristocratic and too slow for an _escroc_ like himself.

Arrived at Cannes he put up at the Hotel Beau Site, and that night ate an expensive dinner in the restaurant at the Casino. Then, next day, he took the _train-de-luxe_ direct for Calais, and went on to London, all unconscious of the sensational events which were then happening.

On arrival in London he found a telegram lying upon his table among some letters. It was signed “Shaw,” and urged him to meet him “at the usual place” at seven o’clock in the evening. “I know you are away, but I’ll look in each night at seven,” it concluded.

It was just six o’clock, therefore Benton washed and changed, and just before seven o’clock entered a little cafe off Wardour Street, patronized mostly by foreigners. At one of the tables, sitting alone, was a wiry-looking, middle-aged man--Mr. Howell, The Sparrow’s friend.

“Well?” asked Howell, when a few minutes later they were walking along Wardour Street together. “How did you get on in Nice?”

“Had my journey for nothing.”

“Wouldn’t the old man tell anything?” asked Howell eagerly.

“Not a word,” Benton replied. “But my firm opinion is that he himself tried to kill Yvonne--that he shot her.”

“Do you really agree with me?” gasped Howell excitedly. “Of course, there has, all along, been a certain amount of suspicion against him. The police were once on the point of arresting him. I happen to know that.”

“Well, my belief is that young Henfrey is innocent. I never thought so until now.”

“Then we must prove Cataldi guilty, and Henfrey can marry Louise,” Howell said. “But the reason I wanted to get in touch with you is that the police went to Shapley.”

“To Shapley!” gasped Benton.

“Yes. They went there the night you left London. Evidently somebody has given you away!”

“Given me away! Who in the devil’s name can it be? If I get to know who the traitor is I--I’ll--by gad, I’ll kill him. I swear I will!”

“Who knows? Some secret enemy of yours--no doubt. Molly has been arrested and has been up at Bow Street. They also arrested Louise, but there being no charge against her, she has been released. I’ve sent her up to Cambridge--to old Mrs. Curtis. I thought she’d be quite quiet and safe there for a time.”

“But Molly arrested! What’s the charge?”

“Theft. An extradition warrant from Paris. That jeweller’s affair in the Rue St. Honore, eighteen months ago.”

“Well, I hope they won’t bring forward other charges, or it will go infernally bad with her. What has The Sparrow done?”

“He’s abroad somewhere--but I’ve had five hundred pounds from an unknown source to pay for her defence. I saw the solicitors. Brigthorne, the well-known barrister, appeared for her.”

“But all this is very serious, my dear Howell,” Benton declared, much alarmed.

“Of course it is. You can’t marry the girl to young Henfrey until he is proved innocent, and that cannot be until the guilt is fixed upon the crafty old Giulio.”

“Exactly. That’s what we must do. But with Molly arrested we shall be compelled to be very careful,” said Benton, as they turned toward Piccadilly Circus. “I don’t see how we dare move until Molly is either free or convicted. If she knew our game she might give us away. Remember that if we bring off the Henfrey affair Molly has to have a share in the spoils. But if she happens to be in a French prison she won’t get much chance--eh?”

“If she goes it will be ten years, without a doubt,” Howell remarked.

“Yes. And in the meantime much can happen--eh?” laughed Benton.

“Lots. But one reassuring fact is that, as far as old Henfrey’s fate is concerned, Mademoiselle’s lips are closed. Whoever shot her did us a very good turn.”

“Of course. But I agree we must fix the guilt upon old Cataldi. He almost as good as admitted it by his face when I taxed him with it. Why not give him away to the Nice police?”

“No, not yet. Certainly not,” exclaimed Howell.

“It’s a pity The Sparrow does not know about the Henfrey business. He might help us. Dare we tell him? What do you think?”

“Tell him! Good Heavens! No! Surely you are fully aware how he always sets his face against any attempt upon human life, and no one who has taken life has ever had his forgiveness,” said Howell. “The Sparrow is our master--a fine and marvellous mind which has no equal in Europe. If he had gone into politics he could have been the greatest statesman of the age. But he is Il Passero, the man who directs affairs of every kind, and the man at the helm of every great enterprise. Yet his one fixed motto is that life shall not be taken.”

“But in old Henfrey’s case we acted upon our own initiative,” remarked Benton.

“Yes. Yours was a wonderfully well-conceived idea. And all worked without a hitch until young Henfrey’s visit to Monte Carlo, and his affection for that girl Ranscomb.”

“We are weaning him away from her,” Benton said. “At last the girl’s suspicions are excited, and there is just that little disagreement which, broadening, leads to the open breach. Oh! my dear Howell, how could you and I live if it were not for that silly infection called love? In our profession love is all-conquering. Without it we could make no progress, no smart coups, no conquests of women who afterwards shed out to us money which at the assizes they would designate by the ugly word ‘blackmail.’”

“Ah! Charles. You were always a philosopher,” laughed his companion--the man who was a bosom friend of The Sparrow. “But it carries us no nearer. We must, at all costs, fix the hand that shot Yvonne.”

“Giulio shot her--without a doubt!” was Benton’s quick reply.

They were standing together on the kerb outside the Tube station at Piccadilly Circus as Benton uttered the words.

“Well, my dear fellow, then let us prove it,” said Howell. “But not yet, remember. We must first see how it goes with Molly. She must be watched carefully. Of course, I agree that Giulio Cataldi shot Yvonne. Later we will prove that fact, but the worst of it is that the French police are hot on the track of young Henfrey.”

“How do you know that?” asked his companion quickly.

“Well,” he answered, after a second’s hesitation, “I heard so two days ago.”

Then Howell, pleading an urgent meeting with a mutual friend, also a crook like themselves, grasped the other’s hand, and they parted.

TWENTY-SIXTH CHAPTER

LISETTE’S DISCLOSURES

At ten o’clock on the morning that Hugh Henfrey left Avignon for Paris, The Sparrow stood at the window of his cozy little flat in the Rue des Petits Champs, where he was known to his elderly housekeeper--a worthy old soul from Yvetot, in the north--as Guillaume Gautier.

The house was one of those great old ones built in the days of the First Empire, with a narrow entrance and square courtyard into which the stage coaches with postilions rumbled before the days of the P.L.M. and aircraft. In the Napoleonic days it had been the residence of the Dukes de Vizelle, but in modern times it had been converted into a series of very commodious flats.

The Sparrow, sprightly and alert, stood, after taking his _cafe au lait_, looking down into the courtyard. He had been reading through several letters and telegrams which had caused him some perturbation.

“They are playing me false!” he muttered, as he gazed out of the window. “I’m certain of it--quite certain! But, Gad! If they do I’ll be even with them! Who could have given Henfrey away in London--_and why_?”

He paced the length of the room, his teeth hard set and his hands clenched.

“I thought they were all loyal after what I have done for them--after the fortunes I have put into their pockets. Fancy! One of them a well-known member of Parliament--another a director of one of the soundest insurance companies! Nobody suspects the really great crooks. It is only the little clumsy muddlers whom the police catch and the judge makes examples of!”

Then crossing back to the window, he said aloud:

“Lisette ought to be here! She was due in from Toulouse at nine o’clock. I hope nothing further has happened. One thing is satisfactory--young Henfrey is safe.”

As a matter of fact, the girl had spoken to The Sparrow from her hotel in Toulouse late on the previous night, and told him that her “friend Hugh” was in Marseilles.

Even to the master criminal the whole problem was increasingly complicated. He could not prove the innocence of young Henfrey, because of the mysterious, sinister influence being brought to bear against him. He had interested himself in aiding the young fellow to evade arrest, because he had no desire that there should be a trial in which he and his associates might be implicated.

The Sparrow hated trials of any sort. With him silence was golden, and very wisely he would pay any sum rather than court publicity.

Half an hour went past, but the girl he expected did not put in an appearance.

Monsieur Gautier--the man with the gloved hand--was believed by his old housekeeper to be a rich and somewhat eccentric bachelor, who was interested in old clocks and antique silver, and who travelled extensively in order to purchase fine specimens. Indeed it was by that description he was registered in the archives of the Surete, with the observation that notwithstanding his foreign name he was an Englishman of highest standing.

It was never dreamed that the bristly-haired alert little man, who was so often seen in the salerooms of Paris when antique silver was being sold, was the notorious Sparrow.

Lisette’s failure to arrive considerably disturbed him. He hoped that nothing had happened to her. Time after time, he walked to the window and looked out eagerly for her to cross the courtyard. In those rooms he sometimes lived for weeks in safe obscurity, his neighbours regarding him as a man of the greatest integrity, though a trifle eccentric in his habits.

At last, just before eleven, he saw Lisette’s smart figure in a heavy travelling coat crossing the courtyard, and a few moments later she was shown into his room.

“You’re late!” the old man said, as soon as the door was closed. “I feared that something had gone wrong! Why did you leave Madrid? What has happened?” he asked eagerly.

“Happened!” she echoed in French. “Why, very nearly a disaster! Someone has given us away--at least, Monsieur Henfrey was given away to the police!”

“Not arrested?” he asked breathlessly.

“No. We all three managed to get away--but only just in time! I had a wire to-night from Monsieur Tresham, telling me guardedly that within an hour or so after we left Madrid the police called at my hotel--and at Henfrey’s.”

“Who can have done that?” asked The Sparrow, his eyes narrowing in anger, his gloved hand clenched.

“Your enemy--and mine!” was the girl’s reply. “Franklyn is in Switzerland. Monsieur Henfrey is in Marseilles--at the Louvre et Paix--and I am here.”

“Then we have a secret enemy--eh?”

“Yes--and he is not very far to seek. Monsieur Howell has done this!”

“Howell! He would never do such a thing, my dear mademoiselle,” replied the gloved man, smiling.

“Oh! wouldn’t he? I would not trust either Benton or Howell!”

“I think you are mistaken, mademoiselle. They have never shown much friendship towards each other.”

“They are close friends as far as concerns the Henfrey affair,” declared mademoiselle. “I happen to know that it was Howell who prepared the old man’s will. It is in his handwriting, and his manservant, Cooke, is one of the witnesses.”

“What? _You know about that will, Lisette?_ Tell me everything.”

“Howell himself let it out to me. They were careful that you should not know. At the time I was in London with Franklyn and Benton over the jewels of that ship-owner’s wife, I forget her name--the affair in Carlton House Terrace.”

“Yes. I recollect. A very neat piece of business.”

“Well--Howell told me how he had prepared the will, and how Benton, who was staying with old Mr. Henfrey away in the country, got him to put his signature to it by pretending it to be for the purchase of a house at Eltham, in Kent. The house was, indeed, purchased at Benton’s suggestion, but the signature was to a will which Howell’s man, Cooke, and a friend of his, named Saunders, afterwards witnessed, and which has now been proved--the will by which the young man is compelled to marry Benton’s adopted daughter before he inherits his father’s estates.”

“You actually know this?”

“Howell told me so with his own lips.”

“Then why is young Henfrey being made the victim?” asked The Sparrow shrewdly. “Why, indeed, have you not revealed this to me before?”

“Because I had no proof before that Howell is _our_ enemy. He has now given us away. He has some motive. What is it?”

The bristly-haired little man of twenty names and as many individualities pondered for a moment. It was evident that he was both apprehensive and amazed at the suggestion the pretty young French girl had placed before him.

When one finds a betrayer, then in order to fix his guilt it becomes necessary to discover the motive.

The Sparrow was in a quandary. Seldom was he in such a perturbed state of mind. He and his accomplices could always defy the police. It was not the first time in his career, however, that he had found a traitor in his camp. If Howell was really a traitor, then he would pay dearly for it. Three times within the last ten years there had been traitors in the great criminal organization. One was a Dutchman; the second was a Greek; and the third a Swiss. Each died--for dead men tell no tales.

The Sparrow ordered some _cafe noir_ from his housekeeper and produced a particularly seductive brand of liqueur, which mademoiselle took--together with a cigarette.

Then she left, he giving her the parting injunction:

“It is probable that you will go to Marseilles and meet young Henfrey. I will think it all over. You will have a note from me at the Grand Hotel before noon to-morrow.”

TWENTY-SEVENTH CHAPTER

THE INQUISITIVE MR. SHRIMPTON

An hour later Hugh stood in The Sparrow’s room, and related his exciting adventure in Marseilles and on the high road.

“H’m!” remarked the man with the gloved hand. “A very pretty piece of business. The police endeavoured to mislead you, and you, by a very fortunate circumstance, suspected. That cigarette, my dear young friend, stood you in very good stead. It was fortunate that I gave it to you.”

“By this time the driver of the car has, of course, recovered and told his story,” Hugh remarked.

“And by this time the police probably know that you have come to Paris,” remarked The Sparrow. “Now, Mr. Henfrey, only an hour ago I learnt something which has altered my plans entirely. There is a traitor somewhere--somebody has given you away.”

“Who?”

“At present I have not decided. But we must all be wary and watchful,” was The Sparrow’s reply. “In any case, it is a happy circumstance that you saw through the ruse of the police to get you to Cette. First the Madrid police were put upon your track, and then, as you eluded them, the Marseilles police were given timely information--a clever trap,” he laughed. “I admire it. But at Marseilles they are even more shrewd than in Paris. Maillot, the _chef de la Surete_ at Marseilles, is a really capable official. I know him well. A year ago he dined with me at the Palais de la Bouillabaisse. I pretended that I had been the victim of a great theft, and he accepted my invitation. He little dreamed that I was Il Passero, for whom he had been spreading the net for years!”

“You are really marvellous, Mr. Peters,” remarked Hugh. “And I have to thank you for the way in which you have protected me time after time. Your organization is simply wonderful.”

The man with the black glove laughed.

“Nothing really wonderful,” he said. “Those who are innocent I protect, those who are traitors I condemn. And they never escape me. We have traitors at work now. It is for me to fix the identity. And in this you, Mr. Henfrey, must help me. Have you heard from Miss Ranscomb?”

“No. Not a word,” replied the young man. “I dare not write to her.”

“No, don’t. A man from Scotland Yard went to see her. So it is best to remain apart--my dear boy--even though that unfortunate misunderstanding concerning Louise Lambert has arisen between you.”

“But I am anxious to put it right,” the young fellow said. “Dorise misjudges me.”

“Ah! I know. But at present you must allow her to think ill of you. You must not court arrest. We now know that you have enemies who intend you to be the victim, while they reap the profit,” said The Sparrow kindly. “Leave matters to me and act at my suggestion.”

“That I certainly will,” Hugh replied. “You have never yet advised me wrongly.”

“Ah! I am not infallible,” laughed the master criminal.

Then he rose, and crossing to the telephone, he inquired for the Grand Hotel. After a few minutes he spoke to Mademoiselle Lisette, telling her that she need not go to Marseilles, and asking her to call upon him again at nine o’clock that night.

“Monsieur Hugh has returned from the south,” he added. “He is anxious to see you again.”

“_Tres bien, m’sieur_,” answered the smart Parisienne. “I will be there. But will you not dine with me--eh? At Vian’s at seven. You know the place.”

“Mademoiselle Lisette asks us to dine with her at Vian’s,” The Sparrow said, turning to Hugh.

“Yes, I shall be delighted,” replied the young man.

So The Sparrow accepted the girl’s invitation.

On that same morning, Dorise Ranscomb had, after breakfast, settled herself to write some letters. Her mother had gone to Warwickshire for the week-end, and she was alone with the maids.

The whole matter concerning Hugh puzzled her. She could not bring herself to a decision as to his innocence or his guilt.

As she sat writing in the morning-room, the maid announced that Mr. Shrimpton wished to see her.

She started at the name. It was the detective inspector from Scotland Yard who had called upon her on a previous occasion.

A few moments afterwards he was shown in, a tall figure in a rough tweed suit.

“I really must apologize, Miss Ranscomb, for disturbing you, but I have heard news of Mr. Henfrey. He has been in Marseilles. Have you heard from him?”

“Not a word,” the girl replied. “And, Mr. Shrimpton, I am growing very concerned. I really can’t think that he tried to kill the young Frenchwoman. Why should he?”

“Well, because she had connived at his father’s death. That seems to be proved.”

“Then your theory is that it was an act of vengeance?”

“Exactly, Miss Ranscomb. That is our opinion, and a warrant being out for his arrest both in France and in England, we are doing all we can to get him.”

“But are you certain?” asked the girl, much distressed. “After all, though on the face of things it seems that there is a distinct motive, I do not think that Hugh would be guilty of such a thing.”

“Naturally. Forgive me for saying so, miss, but I quite appreciate your point of view. If I were in your place I should regard the matter in just the same light. I, however, wondered whether you had heard news of him during the last day or two.”

“No. I have heard nothing.”

“And,” he said, “I suppose if you did hear, you would not tell me?”

“That is my own affair, Mr. Shrimpton,” she replied resentfully. “If you desire to arrest Mr. Henfrey it is your own affair. Why do you ask me to assist you?”

“In the interests of justice,” was the inspector’s reply.

“Well,” said the girl, very promptly, “I tell you at once that I refuse to assist you in your endeavour to arrest Mr. Henfrey. Whether he is guilty or not guilty I have not yet decided.”

“But he must be guilty. There was the motive. He shot the woman who had enticed his father to his death.”

“And how have you ascertained that?”

“By logical deduction.”

“Then you are trying to convict Mr. Henfrey upon circumstantial evidence alone?”

“Others have gone to the gallows on circumstantial evidence--Crippen, for instance. There was no actual witness of his crime.”

“I fear I must allow you to continue your investigations, Mr. Shrimpton,” she said coldly.

“But your lover has deceived you. He was staying down in Surrey with the girl, Miss Lambert, as his fellow-guest.”

“I know that,” was Dorise’s reply. “But I have since come to the conclusion that my surmise--my jealousy if you like to call it so--is unfounded.”

“Ah! then you refuse to assist justice?”

“No, I do not. But knowing nothing of the circumstances I do not see how I can assist you.”

“But no doubt you know that Mr. Henfrey evaded us and went away--that he was assisted by a man whom we know as The Sparrow.”

“I do not know where he is,” replied the girl with truth.

“But you know The Sparrow,” said the detective. “You admitted that you had met him when I last called here.”

“I have met him,” she replied.

“Where does he live?”

She smiled, recollecting that even though she had quarrelled with Hugh, the strange old fellow had been his best friend. She remembered how the White Cavalier had been sent by him with messages to reassure her.

“I refuse to give away the secrets of my friends,” she responded a trifle haughtily.

“Then you prefer to shield the master criminal of Europe?”

“I have no knowledge that The Sparrow is a criminal.”

“Ask the police of any city in Europe. They will tell you that they have for years been endeavouring to capture Il Passero. Yet so cleverly is his gang organized that never once has he been betrayed. All his friends are so loyal to him.”

“Yet you want me to betray him!”

“You are not a member of the gang of criminals, Miss Ranscomb,” replied Shrimpton.

“Whether I am or not, I refuse to say a word concerning anyone who has been of service to me,” was her stubborn reply. And with that the man from the Criminal Investigation Department had to be content.

Even then, Dorise was not quite certain whether she had misjudged the man who loved her so well, but who was beneath a cloud. She had acted hastily in writing that letter, she felt. Yet she had successfully warned him of his peril, and he had been able to extricate himself from the net spread for him.

It was evident that The Sparrow, who was her friend and Hugh’s, was a most elusive person.

She recollected the White Cavalier at the ball at Nice, and how she had never suspected him to be the deputy of the King of the Underworld--the man whose one hand was gloved.

Within half an hour of the departure of her visitor from Scotland Yard, the maid announced Mr. Sherrard.

Dorise, with a frown, arose from her chair, and a few seconds later faced the man who was her mother’s intimate friend, and who daily forced his unwelcome attentions upon her.

“Your mother told me you would be alone, Dorise,” he said in his forced manner of affected elegance. “So I just dropped in. I hope I’m not worrying you.”