BOOK I: SHADOW VARNE

--I--

THREE YEARS LATER

The East End being, as it were, more akin to the technique and the mechanics of the thing, applauded the craftsmanship; the West End, a little grimly on the part of the men, and with a loquacity not wholly free from nervousness on the part of the women, wondered who would be next.

"The cove as is runnin' that show," said the East End, with its tongue delightedly in its cheek, "knows 'is wye abaht. Wish I was 'im!"

"The police are nincompoops!" said the outraged masculine West End. "Absolutely!"

"Yes, of course! It's quite too impossible for words!" said the female of the West End. "One never knows when one's own--_do_ let me give you some tea, dear Lady Wintern..."

From something that had merely been of faint and passing interest, a subject of casual remark, it had grown steadily, insidiously, had become conversationally epidemic. All London talked; the papers talked--virulently. Alone in that great metropolis, New Scotland Yard was silent, due, if the journals were to be believed, to the fact that that world-famous institution was come upon a state of hopeless and atrophied senility.

With foreknowledge obtained in some amazing manner, with ingenuity, with boldness, and invariably with success, a series of crimes, stretching back several years, had been, were being, perpetrated with insistent regularity. These crimes had been confined to the West End of London, save on a few occasions when the perpetrators had gone slightly afield--because certain wealthy West-Enders had for the moment changed their accustomed habitat. The journals at spasmodic intervals printed a summary of the transactions. In jewels, and plate, and cash, the figures had reached an astounding total, not one penny of which had ever been recovered or traced. Secret wall safes, hidden depositories of valuables opened with obliging celerity and disgorged their contents to some apparition which immediately vanished. There was no clue. It simply happened again and again. Traps had been set with patience and considerable artifice. The traps had never been violated. London was accustomed to crimes, just as any great city was; there were hundreds of crimes committed in London; but these were of a _genre_ all their own, these were distinctive, these were not to be confused with other crimes, nor their authors with other criminals.

And so London talked--and waited.

It was raining--a thin drizzle. The night was uninviting without; cosy within the precincts of a certain well-known West End club, the Claremont, to be exact. Two men sat in the lounge, in a little recess by the window. One, a man of perhaps thirty-three, of athletic build, with short-cropped black hair and clean-shaven face, a one-time captain of territorials in the late war, and though once known on the club membership roll as Captain Francis Newcombe was to be found there now as Francis Newcombe, Esquire; the other, a very much older man, with a thin, grey little face and thin, grey hair, would, on recourse to the club roll, have been found to be Sir Harris Greaves, Bart.

The baronet made a gesture with his cigar, indicative of profound disgust.

"Democracy!" he ejaculated. "The world safe for democracy! I am nauseated with that phrase. What does it mean? What did it ever mean? We have had three years now since the war which was to work that marvel, and I have seen no signs of it yet. So far as I--"

Captain Francis Newcombe laughed.

"And yet," he said, "I embody in my person one of those signs. You can hardly deny that, Sir Harris. Certainly I would never have had, shall I call it the distinction, of being admitted to this club had it not been for the democratic leaven working through the war. You remember, of course? An officer and a gentleman! We of England were certainly consistent in that respect. While one was an officer one was a gentleman. The clubs were all pretty generally thrown open to officers during the war. Some of them came from the Lord knows where. T.G.'s they were called, you remember--Temporary Gentlemen. Afterward--but of course that's another story so far as most of them were concerned. Take my own case. I enlisted in the ranks, and toward the latter end of the war I obtained my commission--I became a T.G. And as such I enjoyed the privileges of this club. I was eventually, however, one of the fortunate ones. At the close of the war the club took me on its permanent strength and, ergo, I became a--Permanent Gentleman. Democracy! Private Francis Newcombe--Captain Francis Newcombe--Francis Newcombe, Esquire."

"A rather thin case!" smiled the baronet. "What I was about to say when you interrupted me was that, so far as I can see, all that the world has been made safe for by the war is the active expression of the predatory instinct in man. I refer to the big interests, the trusts; to the radical outcroppings of certain labour elements; to--yes!"--he tapped the newspaper that lay on the table beside him--"the Simon-pure criminal such as this mysterious gang of desperadoes that has London at its wits' ends, and those of us who have anything to lose in a state of constant apoplexy."

Captain Francis Newcombe shook his head.

"I think you're wrong, sir," he said judicially. "It isn't the aftermath of the war, or the result of the war. It is _the_ war, of which the recent struggle was only a phase. It's been going on since the days of the cave man. You've only to reduce the nation to the terms of the individual, and you have it. A nation lusts after something which does not belong to it. It proceeds to take it by force. If it fails it is punished. That is war. The criminal lusts after something. He flings down his challenge. If he is caught he is punished. That is war. What is the difference?"

The baronet sipped at his Scotch and soda.

"H'm! Which brings us?" he suggested.

"Nowhere!" said Captain Francis Newcombe promptly. "It's been going on for ages; it'll go on for all time. Always the individual predatory; inevitably in cycles, the cumulative individual running amuck as a nation. Why, you, sir, yourself, a little while ago when somebody here in the room made a remark to the effect that he believed this particular series of crimes was directly attributable to the war because it would seem that some one of ourselves, some one who has the entrée everywhere, who, through being contaminated by the filth out there, had lost poise and was probably the guilty one, meaning, I take it, that the chap finding himself in a hole wasn't so nice or particular in his choice of the way out of it as he would have been but for the war--you, Sir Harris, denied this quite emphatically. It--er--wouldn't you say, rather bears me out?"

The old baronet smiled grimly.

"Quite possibly!" he said. "But if so, I must confess that my conclusion was based on a very different premise from yours. In fact, for the moment, I was denying the theory that the criminal in question was one of ourselves, quite apart from any bearing the war might have had upon the matter."

The ex-captain of territorials selected a cigarette with care from his case.

"Yes?" he inquired politely.

The old baronet cleared his throat. He glanced a little whimsically at his companion.

"It's been a hobby, of course, purely a hobby; but in an amateurish sort of way as a criminologist I have spent a great deal of time and money in--"

"By Jove! Really!" exclaimed Captain Newcombe. "I didn't know, Sir Harris, that you--" He paused suddenly in confusion. "That's anything but a compliment to your reputation though, I'm afraid, isn't it? A bit raw of me! I--I'm sorry, sir."

"Not at all!" said the old baronet pleasantly; and then, with a wry smile: "You need not feel badly. In certain quarters much more intimate with the subject than you could be supposed to be, I am equally unrecognised."

"It's very good of you to let me down so easily," said the ex-captain of territorials contritely. "Will you go on, sir? You were saying that you did not believe these crimes were being perpetrated by one in the same sphere of life as those who were being victimised. Why is that, sir? The theory seemed rather logical."

"Because," said the old baronet quietly, "I believe I know the man who is guilty."

The ex-captain of territorials stared.

"Good Lord, sir!" he gasped out. "You--you can't mean that?"

"Just that!" A grim brusqueness had crept into the old baronet's voice. "And one of these days I propose to prove it!"

"But, sir"--the ex-captain of territorials in his amazement was still apparently groping out for his bearings--"in that case, the authorities--surely you--"

"They were very polite at Scotland Yard--_very_!" The old baronet smiled drily again. "That was the quarter to which I referred. Socially and criminologically--if I may be permitted the word--I fear that the Yard regards me from widely divergent angles. But damme, sir"--he became suddenly irascible--"they're too self-sufficient! I am a doddering and interfering old idiot! But nevertheless I am firmly convinced that I am right, and they haven't heard the end of the matter--if I have to devote every penny I've got to substantiating my theory and bringing the guilty man to justice!"

Captain Francis Newcombe coughed in an embarrassed way.

The old baronet reached for his tumbler, and drank generously. It appeared to soothe his feelings.

"Tut, tut!" he said self-chidingly. "I mean every word of that--that is, as to my determination to pursue my own investigations to the end; but perhaps I have not been wholly fair to the Yard. So far, I lack proof; I have only theory. And the Yard too has its theory. It is a very common disease. The theory of the Yard is that the man I believe to be guilty of these crimes of to-day died somewhere around the middle stages of the war."

"By Jove!" Captain Francis Newcombe leaned sharply forward on the arms of his chair. "You don't say!"

The old baronet wrinkled his brows, and was silent for a moment.

"It's quite extraordinary!" he said at last, with a puzzled smile. "I can't for the life of me understand how I got on this subject, for I think we were discussing democracy--but you appear to be interested."

"That is expressing it mildly," said the ex-captain of territorials earnestly. "You can't in common decency refuse me the rest of the story now, Sir Harris."

"There is no reason that I know of why I should," said the old baronet. "Did you ever hear of a man called Shadow Varne?"

Captain Francis Newcombe shook his head.

"No," he said.

"Possibly, then," said the old baronet, "you may remember the robbery at Lord Seeton's place? It was during the war."

"No," said the other thoughtfully. "I can't say I do. I don't think I ever heard of it."

"Well, perhaps you wouldn't," nodded the old baronet. "It happened at a time when, from what you've said, I would imagine you were in the ranks, and--however, it doesn't matter. The point is that the robbery at Lord Seeton's is amazingly like, I could almost say, each and every one of this series of robberies that is taking place to-day. The same exact foreknowledge, the hidden wall safe, or hiding place, or repository, or whatever it might be, that was supposedly known only to the family; the utter absence of any clue; the complete disappearance of--shall we call it?--the loot itself. There is only one difference. In the case of Lord Seeton, the jewels--it was principally a jewel robbery--were eventually recovered. They were found in Paris in the possession of Shadow Varne. But"--the old baronet smiled a little grimly again--"the police were not to blame for that."

Sir Harris Greaves, amateur criminologist, reverted to his tumbler of Scotch and soda.

Captain Francis Newcombe knocked the ash from his cigarette with little taps of his forefinger.

"Yes?" he said.

"It's a bit of a story," resumed the old baronet slowly. "Yes, quite a bit of a story. I do not know how Shadow Varne got to Paris; I simply know that, had he not taken sick, neither he nor the jewels would ever have been found. But perhaps I am getting a little too far ahead. I think I ought to say that Shadow Varne, though he had never actually up to this time been known in a _physical_ sense to the police, had established for himself a widespread and international reputation. His name here, for instance, amongst the criminal element of our own East End was a sort of talisman, something to conjure with, as it were, though no one could ever be found who had seen or could describe the man. I suppose that is how he got the name of Shadow. Some must have known him, of course, but they were tight-lipped; and even these, I am inclined to believe, would never have been able to lay fingers on him, even had they dared. He was at once an inscrutable and diabolical character. I would say, and in this at least Scotland Yard will agree with me, he seemed like some evil, unembodied spirit upon whom one could never come in a tangible sense, but that hovered always in the background, dominating, permeating with his personality the criminal world."

"But if this is so, if no one knew him, or had ever seen him," said the ex-captain of territorials in a puzzled way, "how was he recognised as Shadow Varne in Paris?"

"I am coming to that," said the old baronet quietly. "As you know very well, in those days they were always poking into every rat hole in Paris for draft evaders. That is how they stumbled on Shadow Varne. They dug him out of one of those holes, a very filthy hole, like a rat--like a very sick rat. The man was raving in delirium. That is how they knew they had caught Shadow Varne--because in his delirium he disclosed his identity. And that is how they recovered Lord Seeton's jewels."

"My word!" ejaculated Captain Francis Newcombe. "A bit tough, I call that! My sympathies are almost with the accused!"

"I am afraid I have failed to make you understand the inhuman qualities of the man," said the old baronet tersely. "However, Shadow Varne was even then too much for them--at least temporarily. A few nights later he escaped from the hospital; but he was still too sick a man to stand the pace, and they were too close on his heels. He had possibly, all told, a couple of hours of liberty, running, dodging through the streets of Paris. The chase ended somewhere on the bank of the Seine. He was fired at here as he ran, and though quite a few yards in the lead, he appeared to have been hit, for he was seen to stagger, fall, then recover himself and go on. He refused to halt. They fired and hit him again--or so they believed. He fell to the ground--and rolled over the edge into the water. And that was the last that was ever seen of him."

"My word!" ejaculated the ex-captain of territorials again. "That's a nice end! And I must say, with all due deference to you, Sir Harris, that I can't see anything wrong with Scotland Yard's deduction. I fancy he's dead, fast enough."

"Yes," said the old baronet deliberately, "I imagined you would say so; and I, too, would agree were it not for two reasons. First, had it been any other man than Shadow Varne; and, second, that the body was never recovered."

"But," objected Captain Francis Newcombe, "if, as you believe, the man is still carrying on, having been identified once, he would, wouldn't you say, be recognised again?"

"Not at all!" said the old baronet decidedly. "You must take into account the man's sick and emaciated condition when he was caught, and the subsequent hospital surroundings. Let those who saw him then see the same man to-day, robust, in health, and in an entirely different atmosphere, locality and environment! Recognised? I would lay long odds against it, even leaving out of account the man's known ingenuity for evading recognition."

The ex-captain of territorials nodded thoughtfully.

"Yes," he said, "that is quite possible; but, even granting that he is still alive, I can't see--"

"Why I should believe he is at the bottom of what is going on to-day here in London?" supplied the old baronet quickly. "Perhaps intuition, perhaps the mystery about the man that has interested me from the time I first heard of him in the early years of the war, and which has ever since been a fascinating study with me, has something to do with it. I told you to begin with that my _proof_ was theory. But I believe it. I do not say he is alone in this, or was alone in the Lord Seeton affair; but he is certainly the head and front and brains of whatever he was, or is, engaged in. As for the similarity of the cases, I will admit that might be pure coincidence, but we _know_ that Shadow Varne did have the Seeton jewels in his possession. The strongest point, however, that I have to offer in a tangible sense, bearing in mind the man himself and his hideously elusive propensities, is the fact there is no absolute proof of his death. Why wasn't his body recovered? You will answer me probably along the same lines that the Paris police argued and that were accepted by Scotland Yard. You will say that it was dark, that the body might not have come to the surface immediately, and under the existing conditions, by the time they procured a boat and began their search, it might easily be missed. Very good! That is quite possible. But why, then, was not the body eventually recovered in two or three days, say--a week, if you like? You will say that this would probably be very far indeed from being the first instance in which a body was never recovered from the Seine. And here, too, you would be quite right. But I do not believe it. I do not believe it was a dead man, or a man mortally wounded, or a man wounded so badly that he must inevitably drown, who pitched helplessly into the water that night. I believe he did it voluntarily, and with considered cunning, as the only chance he had. Go into the East End. Listen to the stories you will hear about him. The world does not get rid of such as he so easily! The man is not human. The crimes he has committed would turn your blood cold. He is the most despicable, the most wanton thing that I ever heard of. He would kill with no more compunction than you would break in two that match you are holding in your hand. Where he came from God alone knows, and--"

A club attendant had stopped beside the old baronet's chair.

"Yes?" said the old baronet.

"I beg pardon, Sir Harris, but your car is here," announced the man.

"Very good! Thank you!" The old baronet drained his glass and stood up. "Well, you have heard the story, captain," he said with a dry smile. "I shall not embarrass you by asking you to decide between Scotland Yard and myself, but I shall at least expect you to admit that there is some slight justification for my theory."

The ex-captain of territorials, as he rose in courtesy, shook his head quietly.

"If I felt only that way about it," he said slowly, "I should simply thank you for a very interesting story and your confidence. As it is, there is so much justification I feel impelled to say to you that, if this man is what you describe him to be, is as dangerous as you say he is, I would advise you, Sir Harris, in all seriousness to leave him--to Scotland Yard."

"What!" exclaimed the old baronet sharply. "And let him go free! No, sir! Not if every effort I can put forth will prevent it! Never, sir--under any circumstances!"

Captain Francis Newcombe smiled gravely, and shrugged his shoulders.

"Well, at least, I felt I ought to say it," he said. "Good-night, Sir Harris--and thank you so much!"

"Good-night, captain!" replied the old baronet cordially, as he turned away. "Good-night to you, sir!"

Captain Francis Newcombe watched the other leave the room, then he walked over to the window. The drizzle had developed into a downpour with gusts of wind that now pelted the rain viciously at the window panes. He frowned at the streaming glass.

A moment later, as he moved away from the window, he consulted his watch. It was a quarter past eleven. Downstairs he secured his hat and stick, and spoke to the doorman.

"Get a taxi, please, Martin," he requested, "and tell the chap to drive me home."

He lighted a cigarette as he waited, and then under the shelter of the doorman's umbrella entered the taxi.

It was not far. The taxi stopped before a flat in a fashionable neighbourhood that was quite in keeping with the fashionable club Captain Francis Newcombe had just left. His man admitted him.

"It's a filthy night, Runnells," said the ex-captain of territorials.

Runnells slammed the door against a gust of wind.

"You're bloody well right!" said Runnells.

--II--

AN IRON IN THE FIRE

It was a neighbourhood of alleyways and lanes of ferocious darkness; of ill-lighted, baleful streets, of shadows; and of doorways where no doors existed, black, cavernous and sinister openings to inner chambers of misery, of squalid want, of God-knows-what.

It was the following evening, and still early--barely eight o'clock. Captain Francis Newcombe turned the corner of one of these gloomily lighted streets, and drew instantly back to crouch, as an animal crouches before it springs, in the deep shadows of a wretched tenement building. Light footfalls sounded; came nearer. Two forms, skulking, yet moving swiftly, came into sight around the corner.

Captain Francis Newcombe sprang. His fist crashed with terrific force to the point of an opposing jaw. A queer grunt--and one of the two men sprawled his length on the pavement and lay quite still. Captain Francis Newcombe's movements were incredibly swift. His left hand was at the second man's throat now, and a revolver was shoved into the other's face.

The tableau held for a second.

"A bit of a 'cushing' expedition, was it?" said the ex-captain of territorials calmly. "I looked a likely victim, didn't I? Just the usual bash on the head with a neddy, and then the usual stripping even down to the boots if they were good enough--and mine were good enough, eh? And I might get over that bash on the head, or my skull might be cracked; I might wake up in one of your filthy passageways here, or I might never wake up! What would it matter? It's done every night. You make your living that way. And who's to know who did it?" His grip tightened suddenly on the other's throat. "Your kind are better dead," said Captain Francis Newcombe, and there was something of horrible callousness in his conversational tones. "You lack art; you have no single redeeming feature." It was as though now he were debating in cold precision with himself. "Yes, you are much better dead!"

"Gor' blimy, guv'nor, let me go," half choked, half whined the other. "We wasn't goin' to touch you. No fear! Me an' me mate was just goin' round to the pub for an 'arf-pint--"

"It would make a noise," said Captain Francis Newcombe unemotionally. "That is the trouble. I should have to clear out of here, and be put to the annoyance of waiting a half hour or so before I could come back and attend to my own affairs. That's the only reason I haven't fired this thing off in your face, and I'm not sure that reason's good enough. But it's a bit of a fag to argue it out, so--don't move, you swine, or that'll settle it quicker still!" His fingers, from the other's throat, searched his own waistcoat pocket, and produced a silver coin. "Heads or tails?" he inquired casually. "You call it."

"My Gawd, guv'nor," whimpered the man, "yer don't mean that! Yer wouldn't shoot a cove down like that, would yer? My Gawd, yer wouldn't do that!"

"Heads or tails?" The ex-captain of territorial's voice was bored. "I shan't ask you again."

The light was poor. The man's features, save that they were dirty and unshaven, were almost indistinguishable; but the eyes roved everywhere in hunted fear, and he lumped the fingers of one hand together and plucked with them in an unhinged way at his lips.

"I--no!" gurgled the man. "My Gawd!" His words were thick. His fingers, plucking, clogged his lips. "I carn't--I--" The mechanism of the revolver intruded itself--as unemotional as its owner--an unemotional click. The man screamed out. "No, no--wait, guv'nor! Wait!" he screamed. "'Eads! Gawd! 'Eads!"

Captain Francis Newcombe examined the coin; the sense of touch, as he rubbed his fingers over it, helping out the bad light.

"Right, you are!" he said indifferently. "Heads it is! You're in luck!" He tossed the coin on the pavement. "I'd keep that, if I were you." His voice was still level, still bored. "You haven't got anything, of course, to do any sniping with, for anything as valuable as that would never remain in the possession of your kind for more than five minutes before you would have pawned it." He glanced at the prostrate form of the thug's companion, who was now beginning to show signs of returning consciousness. "I fancy you'll find his jaw's broken. Better give him a leg up," he said, and, turning on his heel, walked on down the street.

Captain Francis Newcombe did not look back. He traversed the murky block, turned a corner, turned still another, and presently made his way through an entrance, long since doorless, into the hallway of a tenement house. It was little better than a pit of blackness here, but his movements were without hesitation, as one long and intimately familiar with his surroundings. He mounted a rickety flight of stairs, and, without ceremony, opened the door of a room on the first landing, entered, and closed the door behind him. The room had no light in it.

"Who's there?" demanded a weak, querulous, female voice.

The visitor made no immediate reply. The place reeked with the odour of salt fish; the air was stale, and an offence that assaulted the nostrils. Captain Francis Newcombe crossed to the window, wrenched at it, and flung it viciously open.

A protracted fit of coughing came from a corner behind him.

"Didn't I tell you never to _send_ for me?" he snapped out in abrupt menace.

"'Ow, it's you, is it?" said the woman's voice. "Well, I ain't never done it afore, 'ave I? Not in three years I ain't."

"You've done it now; you've done it to-night--and that's once too often!" returned Captain Francis Newcombe savagely. "And before I'm through with you, I'll promise you you'll never do it again!"

"No," she answered out of the darkness, "I won't never do it again, an' that's why I done it to-night--'cause I won't never 'ave another chance. The doctor 'e says I ain't goin' to be 'ere in the mornin'."

Captain Francis Newcombe lit a match. It disclosed a tallow dip and a piece of salt fish on a battered chair--and, beyond, the shadowy outline of a bed. He swept the piece of fish to the floor out of his way, lighted the candle, and, leaning forward, held it over the bed.

A woman's face stared back at him in the flickering light; a curiously blotched face, and one that was emaciated until the cheek bones seemed the dominant feature. Her dull, almost glazed, grey eyes blinked painfully in even the candle rays; a dirty woollen wrap was fastened loosely around a scrawny neck, and over this there straggled strands of tangled and unkempt grey hair.

"Well, I fancy the diagnosis isn't far wrong," said the ex-captain of territorials critically. "I've been too good to you--and prosperity's let you down. For three years you haven't lifted a finger except to carry a glass of gin to your lips. And now this is the end, is it?"

The woman did not answer. She breathed heavily. The hectic spots on her cheeks burned a little wider.

Captain Francis Newcombe set the candle back on the chair, and, with his hands in his pockets, stood looking at her. His face exhibited no emotion.

"I haven't heard yet _why_ you sent for me," he said sharply.

"Polly," she said thickly. "I wanter know wot abaht Polly?"

Captain Francis Newcombe smiled without mirth.

"My dear Mrs. Wickes," he said evenly, "you know all about Polly. I distinctly remember bringing you the letter she enclosed for you in mine ten days ago, because I distinctly remember that after you had read it I watched you tear it up. And as your education is such that you cannot write in return, I also distinctly remember that you gave me messages for her which I was to incorporate in my own reply. Since then I have not heard from Polly."

The woman raised herself suddenly on her elbow, and, her face contorted, shook her fist.

"My dear Mrs. Wickes!" she mimicked furiously through a burst of coughing. "Yer a cool 'un, yer are. That's wot yer says, yer stands there an' smiles like a bloomin' hangel, an' yer says, my dear Mrs. Wickes! Curse yer, I knows more abaht yer than yer thinks for. Three years I've watched yer, an' hif I've kept my tongue to meself that don't say I don't know wot I knows."

"Indeed!" Captain Francis Newcombe shrugged his shoulders. He smiled slightly. "Then I should say, if it were true, that it is sometimes _dangerous_, Mrs. Wickes--to know even a little about some things."

The woman rocked in the bed, and hugged her thin bosom against a spasm of coughing that came near to strangulation.

"Bah!" she shouted, when she could get her breath. "I ain't afraid of yer any more. Damn yer, I'm dyin' anyhow! It's nothin' to you wiv yer smug smile, except yer glad I'll be out of the wye--an'--an', Gawd, it ain't nothin' to me either. I'm sick, of it all, an' I'm glad, I am; but afore I goes I wanter know wot abaht Polly. Wot'd yer tyke her awye for three years ago?"

"For the price of two quid paid weekly to a certain Mrs. Wickes, who is Polly's mother," said Captain Francis Newcombe composedly; "and with which the said Mrs. Wickes has swum in gin ever since."

Mrs. Wickes fell back exhausted on her pillow.

"Wot for?" she whispered in fierce insistence. "I wanter know wot for?"

"Well," said Captain Francis Newcombe, "even at fifteen Polly was an amazingly pretty little girl--and she showed amazing promise. I'm wondering how she has developed. Extremely clever youngster! Don't see, in fact, Mrs. Wickes, where she got it from! Not even the local desecration of the king's English--in spite of the board schools! Amazing! We couldn't let a flower like that bloom uncultivated, could we?"

The woman was up in the bed again.

"A gutter brat!" she cried out. "An' you says send 'er to school wiv the toffs in America, 'cause there wouldn't be no chance of doin' that 'ere at 'ome; an' I says the toffs don't tyke 'er kind there neither. An' you says she goes as yer ward, an' yer can get 'er in, only she 'as to forget abaht these 'ere London slums. An' she ain't to write no letters to me except through you, 'cause hif any was found down 'ere they'd turn their noses up over there an' give Polly the bounce."

"Quite right, Mrs. Wickes!" said Captain Francis Newcombe imperturbably. "And for three years Polly has been in one of the most exclusive girls' seminaries in America--and incidentally I might say I am arranging to go over there shortly for a little visit. If her photographs are to be relied upon, she has more than fulfilled her early promise. A very beautiful young woman, educated, and now, Mrs. Wickes--a lady. She has made a circle of friends among the best and the wealthiest. Why, even now, with the summer holidays coming on, you know, I understand she is to be the guest of a school friend in a millionaire's home. Think of that, Mrs. Wickes! What more could any woman ask for her daughter? And why should you, for instance, ask more to-night? Why this eleventh hour curiosity? You agreed to it all three years ago, Mrs. Wickes--for two quid a week."

"Yes," said the woman passionately, "an' I'm probably goin' to 'ell for it now! I knowed then yer wasn't doin' this for Polly's sake, an' in the three years I kept on knowin' yer more an' more for the devil you are. But I says to meself that I'm 'ere to see Polly don't come to no harm, but--but I ain't goin' to be 'ere no more, an' that's wot I wants to know to-night. An' I asks yer, wot's yer game?"

"Really!" Captain Francis Newcombe shrugged his shoulders again. "This isn't very interesting, Mrs. Wickes. And in any case, I fail to see what you are going to do about it, or what lever you could possibly bring to bear to make me divulge what you are pleased to imagine is some base and ulterior motive in what I have done. It is quite well known among Captain Newcombe's circle that he is educating a ward in America. It is--er--rather to his credit, is it not?"

"Gawd curse yer wiv yer smooth tongue!" said Mrs. Wickes wildly. "I knows! I knows yer got a game--some dirty game wiv Polly in it. Yer clever, yer are--an' yer ain't human. But yer won't win, an' all along 'o Polly. She won't do nothin' that ain't straight, she won't. Polly ain't that kind."

"Oh, as to that, and granting my wickedness," said Captain Francis Newcombe indifferently, "I shouldn't worry. Having you in mind, Mrs. Wickes, I fancy even that would be quite all right--blood always tells, you know."

"Blood! Blood'll tell, will it?" The woman was rocking in the bed again. She burst into harsh laughter. It brought on another, and even more severe, strangling fit of coughing. "Blood'll tell, will it?" she choked, as she gasped for breath. "Well, so it will! So it will!"

Captain Francis Newcombe stared at her from narrowed eyes. "What do you mean by that?" he demanded sharply.

But Mrs. Wickes had fallen back upon her pillow in utter exhaustion. She lay fighting painfully, pitifully now for every breath.

"What do you mean by that?" repeated Captain Francis Newcombe still more sharply.

And then suddenly, as though some strange premonition were at work, all fight gone from her, the woman threw out her arms in a broken gesture of supplication.

"I'm a wicked woman, a bloody wicked 'un I've been. Gawd forgive me for it!" she whispered. "Polly ain't no blood of mine."

Captain Francis Newcombe rested his elbows on the back of the chair, and smiled coolly.

"I think," he said evenly, "it's my turn now to ask what the game is? That's a bit thick, isn't it--after three years?"

The hectic spots had faded from the woman's face, and an ominous greyness was taking their place. She was crying now.

"It's Gawd's truth," she said. "I was afraid yer wouldn't 'ave give me the two quid a week hif yer'd known I 'adn't no 'old on 'er. Polly don't know. No one knows but me, an'--" Her voice trailed off through weakness.

Captain Francis Newcombe, save that his eyes had narrowed a little more, made no movement. He watched her without comment as she struggled for her breath again.

"I didn't mean to 'ave no fight wiv yer, Gawd knows I didn't. Gawd knows I didn't send for yer for that. I only wanted to ask yer wot abaht Polly, an' to ask yer to be good to 'er, an'--an' tell yer wot I'm tellin' yer now afore it's too late. An'--an'--" She raised herself with a sudden convulsive effort to her elbow. "Gawd, I--I'm goin' _now_."

With a swift movement Captain Francis Newcombe whipped a flask from his pocket, and held it to the woman's lips.

She swallowed a few drops with difficulty, and lay still.

Presently Mrs. Wickes' lips moved.

Captain Francis Newcombe, close beside the bed now, leaned over her.

"A lydy 'er mother was, an' 'er father 'e was a gentleman born 'e was. I--I don't know nothin' abaht 'em except she was a guverness an' 'e 'adn't much money. Neither of 'em 'adn't no family accordin' to 'er, an' countin' wot 'appened she told the truth, poor soul."

Again Mrs. Wickes lay silent. Her lips continued to move, but they were soundless. She seemed suddenly to become conscious of this, and motioned weakly for the flask. And again with difficulty she swallowed a few drops.

"Years ago this was." Mrs. Wickes forced the words with long pauses between. "'Ard times came on 'em. 'E got killed in a haccident. An' she took sick after Polly came, an' the money went, an' she wouldn't 'ave charity, an' she got down to this, like us 'uns 'ere, tryin' to keep body an' soul together on the bit she 'ad left. An' she died, an' I took Polly. Two years old Polly was then. There wasn't no good of tellin' Polly an' 'ave 'er give 'erself airs when she 'ad to go out an' do 'er bit an' earn something. An', wot's more, if she'd known I wasn't 'er mother she might 'ave stopped workin' for me--an' I couldn't 'ave made 'er, 'avin' lost my hold on 'er--an' I wasn't goin' to 'ave anything like that. Polly Wickes--Polly Wickes--the flower girl. Flowers--posies--pretty posies--that's where yer saw 'er--"

The woman's voice had thickened; her words, in snatches, were incoherent:

"Polly Wickes--Polly Wickes--Polly Gray--Polly Gray 'er name is--Polly Gray. I got the lines an' the birth paper. I kept 'em all these years. 'Ere! I got 'em 'ere."

"Where?" said Captain Francis Newcombe tersely.

"'Ere!" Mrs. Wickes plucked feebly at the edge of the bed clothing. "'Ere!"

Captain Francis Newcombe thrust his hand quickly in under the mattress. After a moment's search he brought out a soiled envelope. It bore a faded superscription in a scrawling hand. He picked up the candle from the chair and read it:

"Polly's papers which is God's truth, Mrs. Wickes X her mark."

He tore the envelope open rather carefully at the end. It contained two papers that were turned a little yellow with age. Yes, it was quite true! His eyes travelled swiftly over the names:

"Harold Morton Gray.... Elizabeth Pauline Forbes. Pauline Gray...."

There was a sudden sound from the bed--like a long, fluttering sigh. Captain Francis Newcombe swung sharply about. The woman's arm was stretched out toward him; dulled eyes seemed to be striving desperately in their fading vision to search his face.

"Polly!" Mrs. Wickes whispered. "For--for for Christ's sake--be--be good to Polly--be good to--"

The outstretched arm fell to the bed covering--and Mrs. Wickes lay still.

Captain Francis Newcombe leaned forward, holding the candle, searching the form on the bed critically with his eyes. After a moment he straightened up.

Mrs. Wickes was dead.

Captain Francis Newcombe replaced the papers in the envelope, and placed the envelope in his pocket. He set the candle back on the chair, blew it out, and walked across the room to the door.

"Gray, eh?" said Captain Francis Newcombe under his breath, as he closed the door behind him. "Polly Gray, eh? Well, it doesn't matter, does it? It's just as good an iron in the fire whether it's--Wickes or Gray!"

--III--

THREE OF THEM

Twenty-five minutes later, Captain Francis Newcombe stood at the door of his apartment. Runnells admitted him.

"Paul Cremarre here yet?" demanded the ex-captain of territorials briskly.

"Yes," said Runnells. "Been here half an hour."

With Runnells behind him, Captain Francis Newcombe entered the living room of the apartment. A tall man, immaculately dressed, with a small, very carefully trimmed black moustache, with eyes that were equally black but whose pupils were curiously minute, stood by the mantel.

"Ah, monsieur!" He waved his arm in greeting. "_Salut_!"

"Back, eh, Paul?" nodded Captain Francis Newcombe, flinging himself into a lounge chair. "Expected you, of course, to-night. Well, what's the news? How's the fishing smack?"

Paul Cremarre smiled faintly.

"Ah, the poor _Marianne_!" he said. "Such bad weather! It is always the bilge. If it did not leak so furiously!" He lifted his shoulders, and blew a wreath of cigarette smoke languidly ceilingward.

"So!" said Captain Francis Newcombe. "Been searched again, eh?"

The Frenchman laughed softly.

"Two very charming old gentlemen who were summering on the French coast, and were so interested in everything. Could they come aboard? But, why not? It was a pleasure! Such harmless old children they looked--not at all like Leduc and Colferre of the Préfecture!"

"One more sign of the times!" commented Captain Francis Newcombe a little shortly. "And Père Mouche?"

"Ah!" murmured the Frenchman. "That is another story! I am afraid it is true that his back is really bending under the load. He has done amazingly, but though the continent is wide, it can only absorb so much, and there are always difficulties. He says himself that we feed him too well."

Captain Francis Newcombe frowned.

"Well, he's right, of course! Leduc and Colferre, eh? I don't like it! If we needed anything further to back us up in our decision lately that it was about time to lay low for a while, we've got it here. There is to-morrow night's affair, of course, that naturally we will carry through, but after that I think we should come to a full stop for, say--a six months' holiday. Personally, as you know, I'm rather anxious to make a little trip to America. I'll take Runnells along as my man for the looks of it. He can play at valeting and still enjoy himself if he keeps out of mischief--which I will see to it"--Captain Francis Newcombe's lips thinned--"that he does! That will account for the temporary closing up of this apartment here. And you, Paul--I suppose it will be the Riviera for you?"

The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders.

"Ah!" he said. "As to that I do not know, but what does it matter?" He laughed good-humouredly. "I have no attraction such as monsieur with a charming ward in America. I am of the desolate, one of the forlorn of the earth in whom no one has more than a passing interest."

"Except Scotland Yard and the Préfecture," said the ex-captain of territorials with a grim smile. He rose suddenly from his chair and paced once or twice the length of the room. "Yes," he said decisively, "we'd be fools to do anything else. It will give Père Mouche a chance to work down his surplus stock, and the police to lose a little of their ardour. It's getting a bit hot. Scotland Yard is badly flicked on the raw. London is becoming unhealthy. Even Runnells here, whom I would never accuse of having any delicate sense of prescience, has been uneasy of late as though he felt the net drawing in."

"You're bloody well right!" said Runnells gruffly. "I don't know how, but it's true. Let the coppers nose a cold scent for a while, I says. I can do with a bit of America whenever you're ready!"

"Quite so!" said Captain Francis Newcombe. "It's in the air. Like Runnells, I do not know exactly where it comes from, but I know it's there."

"Monsieur," said the Frenchman, "I have often wondered about the fourth--stragglers, I think you called us that night--about the fourth straggler."

"You mean?" demanded Captain Francis Newcombe sharply.

"Nothing!" said the Frenchman. "One sometimes wonders, that is all. The thought flashed through my mind as you spoke. But it means nothing. How could it? More than three years have gone. Let us forget my remark." He flicked the ash from his cigarette. "Well, then, as I am the only one left to speak, I will say that I too agree. For six months we do not exist so far as business is concerned--after to-morrow night." He made a wry face, and laughed. "Well, it will be dull! I fear it will be dull, and one will become _ennuyé_, but it is wise. So! It is decided. And so there remains only to-morrow night. I was to be here this evening to discuss the details--and here I am. Shall we proceed to discuss them? I have made a promise to the little Père Mouche that when I return he shall eat a _ragoût_ from a veritable gold plate, and that Scotland Yard--"

The doorbell interrupted the Frenchman's words.

Runnells left the room to answer the summons. He was back in a moment with a card on a silver tray, which he handed to the ex-captain of territorials.

The card tray was significant. Captain Francis Newcombe glanced first at Runnell's face, frowned--then picked up the card. His eyes narrowed as he read it. On the card was written:

DETECTIVE-SERGEANT MULLINS NEW SCOTLAND YARD

He handed the card coolly to Paul Cremarre.

"Everything all right so far as you are concerned?" he demanded in a low, quick tone.

The Frenchman smiled at the card in a curious way, handed it back, and lighted a fresh cigarette.

"Yes," he said.

"_Sure?_" said Captain Francis Newcombe.

"Absolutely!" replied the Frenchman in the same low tone.

"Very good!" said the ex-captain of territorials. "Don't look so damned white around the gills, Runnells. _And watch yourself!_" He raised his voice. "Show the sergeant in, Runnells!" he said.

A minute later, Runnells ushered in a thick-set, florid-faced man.

"Sergeant Mullins, sir!" he announced, and withdrew from the room.

The sergeant looked inquiringly from one to the other of the two men.

"I'm sorry to intrude, gentlemen," he said. "It's Captain Newcombe, I--"

Captain Francis Newcombe waved his hand pleasantly.

"Not at all, sergeant!" he said. "I am Captain Newcombe. What can I do for you?"

"Well, sir," said the man from Scotland Yard, "I'm not saying you can do anything, and then again maybe you can." He glanced at the Frenchman, and coughed slightly.

"Mr. Cremarre is a close friend of mine," said Captain Francis Newcombe quietly. "You may speak quite freely before him, so far as I am concerned."

"Very good, sir!" said Sergeant Mullins. "Well, then, even if the papers hadn't been full of it all day, you'd probably know about it anyway, being as how you were a friend of his. It's Sir Harris Greaves, sir--Sir Harris' murder."

Captain Francis Newcombe, as though instinctively, turned toward an evening paper that lay upon the table, its great headlines screaming the murder across the front page.

"Good God, sergeant--yes!" he exclaimed. "It's a shocking thing! Shocking!" He jerked his head toward the paper, and glanced at Paul Cremarre. "You've read it, of course, Paul?"

"I've never read anything like it before," said the Frenchman grimly. "The most wanton thing I ever heard of! Absolutely purposeless!"

"Don't you be too sure about that, sir," said Detective-Sergeant Mullins crisply. "Things aren't done purposelessly--leastways, not them kind of things."

"Exactly!" agreed Captain Francis Newcombe. "Right you are, sergeant! But you'll pardon me if I appear a bit curious as to why you should have come to me about it."

"Well, sir," said Sergeant Mullins, "that's simple enough. You are the last one as had any conversation with Sir Harris before he was murdered."

Captain Francis Newcombe stared at the Scotland Yard man in a puzzled way.

"I am afraid I don't quite understand, sergeant," he said a little helplessly. "According to the published accounts, Sir Harris was stabbed in his bed, presumably during the early morning hours, though no sound was heard, and the crime wasn't discovered until his man went to take Sir Harris his tea at the usual hour this morning. But perhaps the accounts are inaccurate?"

"No, sir," said Sergeant Mullins; "as far as that goes, they're accurate enough. The doctors say it must have been somewhere between two and three o'clock in the morning."

"Quite so!" said Captain Francis Newcombe. "That is what I had in mind. The last time I saw Sir Harris was yesterday evening at the club. Sir Harris left the club shortly before I did. I have no exact idea what the hour was, though the doorman would probably be able to say, but I am quite certain it could not have been later than half past eleven."

"It wasn't even as late as that, sir," said the man from Scotland Yard seriously. "Ten after eleven, it was, when Sir Harris left; and you, sir, at a quarter past. But I didn't say, sir, that you were the last one as _spoke_ to Sir Harris alive. Conversation was what I said, sir--and a lengthy one too. One says a lot in an hour or so, sir."

"Oh, I see!" said Captain Francis Newcombe, with a smile. "Or, rather--I don't! What about this conversation, sergeant?"

"Well, sir, if you don't mind," said Detective-Sergeant Mullins, "that's what I'd like to know--what it was about?"

"Good Lord!" gasped the ex-captain of territorials feebly. "I'm not sure I know myself--now. What do men generally talk about over a Scotch and soda? I believe we started with the subject of democracy, and I'm afraid, in fact I'm certain, I talked a good bit of drivel, and incidentally settled several of the world questions and so on, and then we drifted from one thing to another in a desultory fashion."

"Yes, sir," said Sergeant Mullins. "And the things you drifted to--could you remember them, sir? It's very important, sir, that you should."

"Well, if it's important, I'll try," said Captain Francis Newcombe gravely. "The shows, of course, and the American Yacht race, horses, a hunting lodge Sir Harris had in Scotland, and--yes, I believe that's all, sergeant. But it's quite a range, at that."

Detective-Sergeant Mullins inspected the bottom button of his waistcoat intently.

"Sir Harris was a bit of a criminologist in his way, as perhaps you've heard, sir?" he said.

"Yes, I believe I have heard it said that was a hobby of his," nodded Captain Francis Newcombe. "But I wouldn't have known it from anything Sir Harris said last night, if that's what you mean. The subject wasn't mentioned."

"Nor any crime? And particularly any particular criminal?" prodded the Scotland Yard man.

Captain Francis Newcombe shook his head.

"Not a word," he said.

Detective-Sergeant Mullins looked up a little gloomily from his waistcoat button.

"I'm sorry for that," he said.

"So am I, if it would have helped any," said the ex-captain of territorials heartily. "But what's the point, sergeant?"

"Well, you see, sir," said the Scotland Yard man, "with all due respect to the dead, Sir Harris fancied himself a bit, he did, along those lines. Some queer notions he had, sir--and stubborn, as you might say. He's got himself into trouble more than once, and the Yard's had its own time with him. He's been warned, sir, often enough--and if he was alive, he wouldn't say he hadn't. It's what he's been told might happen. There's no other reason, as far as we've gone, why he should have been murdered. It looks the likely thing that he went too far this time, and got to know more than some crook took a notion it was safe to have him know."

Paul Cremarre smiled inscrutably at the Scotland Yard man.

"I take back what I said about it being a purposeless murder, sergeant," he murmured.

"Yes, sir," said Detective-Sergeant Mullins. "Well, I fancy that's all, gentlemen. We were hoping that if matters had reached as grave a state as that--that is, if Sir Harris ever realised how deep he'd got in--it would have been a bit on his mind, as you might say, and in the course of a long conversation with a friend, sir, a hint of it, even if he didn't go any further, might have cropped up." He buttoned his coat. "You're quite sure, Captain Newcombe, thinking it over, that there wasn't anything mentioned, even casually like, that would give us a clue?"

"Quite, sergeant!" said the ex-captain of territorials emphatically.

"Well, I'll be going, then," said the Scotland Yard man. "And sorry to have taken up your time, sir."

"You've done nothing but your duty," said Captain Francis Newcombe pleasantly. He rang the bell. "Runnells, bring Sergeant Mullins a drink!" And with a smile to the Scotland Yard man: "Will it be Scotch, sergeant?"

"Why, thank you very much, sir," said Detective-Sergeant Mullins. He took the glass from Runnells. "Here's how, sir!" He wiped his lips with the back of his hand. "Good-night, gentlemen!"

"Good-night, sergeant," said the ex-captain of territorials.

"Good-night, sergeant," said the Frenchman.

Detective-Sergeant Mullins' footsteps died away in the hall.

Captain Francis Newcombe's dark eyes rested unemotionally upon the Frenchman.

The Frenchman leaned against the mantel and stared at the end of his cigarette.

The front door closed, and Runnells came back into the room.

"Now, Runnells," said Captain Francis Newcombe blandly, "bring us _all_ a drink, and we will talk about--to-morrow night."

--IV--

GOLD PLATE

A motor ran swiftly along a country road.

Two men sat in the front seat.

"My friend, Runnells," said one of the two quizzically, after a silence that had endured for miles, "what in hell is the matter with you to-night?"

"I don't know," said Runnells, who drove the car. "What the captain was talking about last night, maybe--the things you feel in the air."

"Bah!" said Paul Cremarre composedly. "If it is only the air! For three years we have found nothing in the air but good fortune."

"That's all right," Runnells returned sullenly. "But just the same that's the way I feel, and I can't help it. We're going to lay low for a spell after to-night, and maybe that's what's wrong too--kind of as though we were pushing our luck over the edge by sticking it just one night too many."

The Frenchman whistled a bar lightly under his breath.

"I should be delighted--_delighted_," he said, "to leave to-night alone--but not the Earl of Cloverley's gold plate! Have you forgotten that I told you I had made a promise to our little Père Mouche--to eat _ragoût_ from a gold plate? I have never eaten from a gold plate. It is a dream!"

"You're bloody well right, it is!" said Runnells gruffly. "And I only hope it ain't going to be anything worse'n a dream to-night."

"It is evident," said Paul Cremarre, with a low laugh, "that, whatever you have eaten _from_, and whatever you have eaten _of_, to-night, my Runnells, it has not agreed with you! Is it not so?"

"Look here!" said Runnells suddenly. "If you want to know, I'll tell you. I know everything's fixed for to-night, maybe better than it's ever been fixed before--it ain't that. It's _last_ night. It's damned queer, that bloke from Scotland Yard showing up in our rooms!"

"Ah!" murmured Paul Cremarre. "Yes, my Runnells, I too have thought of that. But you were at home the night before, when Sir Harris Greaves was murdered, you and the captain, were you not? It is nothing, is it? A mere little coincidence--yes? You should know better than I do."

"There's nothing to know," said Runnells shortly. "It's just the idea of a Scotland Yard man coming to _our_ diggings. Like a warning, somehow, it looks."

"Yes," said Paul Cremarre. "Quite so! And the headlights now--hadn't you better switch them off? And run a little slower, Runnells. It is not far now, if I have made no mistake in my bearings."

Darkness fell upon the road; the motor slackened its speed.

"You were speaking of the visit from Scotland Yard," resumed the Frenchman calmly. "You were at home, of course, when Captain Newcombe returned from the club the night before last at--what time was it, he said?"

"Oh, that's straight enough!" grunted Runnells. "He came in about half past eleven, and we were both in bed by twelve. I've told you it ain't that. What would he have to do with sticking an old toff like Sir Harris that never done him any harm?"

"Nothing," said Paul Cremarre. "I was simply thinking that Sergeant Mullins' theory reminded me of something that you, too, may perhaps remember."

"What's that?" inquired Runnells.

"A rifle shot that was fired one night in a thicket when the Boche had us on the run," said Paul Cremarre.

Runnells swung sharply in his seat.

"Gawd!" he said hoarsely. "What d'you want to bring _that_ up for to-night? I--damn it--I can see it out there in the black of the road now!"

The Frenchman remained silent.

Runnells spoke again after a moment.

"He's a rare 'un, all right, he is, is the captain," he said slowly; "but it wasn't him that did in Sir Harris Greaves. I'd take my oath on that. We was both in bed by twelve, as I told you, and he was still sleeping like a babe when I got up in the morning."

"And you, Runnells," inquired the Frenchman softly, "you too slept well?"

"You mean," said Runnells quickly, "that he slipped out again during the night?"

"Not at all!" said Paul Cremarre quietly. "How should I know? I mean nothing, except that Captain Francis Newcombe is a man like no other man in the world; that he is, as I once had the honour to remark--incomparable."

Runnells grunted over the wheel.

"I shan't ask him," he said tersely.

"Nor I," said Paul Cremarre.

Again there was silence; then the Frenchman spoke abruptly:

"Slower, Runnells. If I am not mistaken, we are arrived. The lodge gates can't be more than a quarter of a mile on, and the bit of lane that borders the park ought to be just about here--yes, there it is!"

Runnells stopped the motor; and then, with the engine running softly, backed it for a short distance from the main road down an intensely black, tree-lined lane.

"That's far enough," said Paul Cremarre. "We can't take any risk of being heard from the Hall. Now edge her in under the trees."

"What for?" grumbled Runnells. "It's so bloody dark, I'd probably smash her. She's right enough as she is. There's a fat chance of any one coming along this here lane at two o'clock in the morning, ain't there?"

"Runnells," said the Frenchman smoothly, "I quote from the book of Captain Francis Newcombe: 'Chance is the playground of fools.' Edge her in, my Runnells."

"Oh, all right!" said Runnells--and a moment later the lane was empty.

Still another moment, and the two men, each carrying two rather large-sized, empty travelling bags, began to make their way silently and cautiously through the thickly wooded park of the estate. It was not easy going in the darkness. Now and then they stumbled. Once or twice Runnells cursed fiercely under his breath; once or twice the Frenchman lost his urbanity and swore softly in his native tongue.

Five, ten minutes passed. And now the two reached the farther edge of the wooded park, and halted here, drawn back a little in the shadow of the trees. Before them was a narrow breadth of lawn; and, beyond, a great, rambling, turreted pile lay black even against the darkness, its castellated roof and points making a jagged fringe against the sky line.

Runnells appeared suddenly to find vent for his ill humour in a savage chuckle.

"What is it, Runnells?" demanded the Frenchman.

"I was just thinking that in the five or six years since I was here with Lord Seeton, you know, I ain't forgotten his nibs the Earl of Cloverley. I'd like to see his face in the morning! He's a crabbed old bird. My word! He'll die of apoplexy, he will! And if he don't, he won't be so keen on his 'ouse parties to visiting nabobs and cabinet ministers. He didn't send into London and get his gold service out of the bank for _us_ when we were here."

"Perhaps," said the Frenchman gently, "he did not know that you were valeting Lord Seeton at the time--or perhaps it was because he did!"

"Aw, chuck it!" said Runnells gruffly. He stared at the black, shadowy building for a minute. Then abruptly: "It's two o'clock, ain't it? You looked, didn't you?"

"Yes," said Paul Cremarre. "I looked when we left the motor. The time's right. It was just ten minutes of two."

"Well, what the blinking 'ell's the matter now, then?" complained Runnells. "The place is as black as a cat. They're all in bed, aren't they?"

"That is not for me to say," replied the Frenchman calmly. "We will wait, Runnells."

Runnells, with another grunt, sat down on one of the bags, his back against a tree. The Frenchman remained standing, his eyes glued on the great house across the lawn.

"Aye," said Runnells after a moment, and chuckled savagely to himself again, "I'd give a bob or two, I would, to see the old boy in the morning! A fussy, nosey, old fidge-budget, that's what he is! A-poking of his sharp little nose into everything, and always afraid some 'un won't earn the measly screw he's paying for work he'd ought to pay twice as much for! It's no wonder he's rich!"

"You seem to have very pleasant recollections of your visit, Runnells," said the Frenchman slyly. "I wonder what he caught you at?"

"He didn't catch _me_!" said Runnells defiantly. "Though I'll say this, that if I'd known then that I was ever coming back now, I'd have kept my eyes peeled, and he'd be going into mourning for more'n his blessed gold plate to-night! He didn't bother me none, me being Lord Seeton's man, but at that I saw enough of him so that the talk that went on in the servants' hall wasn't in any foreign language that I couldn't tumble to. My eye!" said Runnells. "A rare state he'll be in!"

The Frenchman said nothing.

The minutes dragged along. Runnells too had relapsed into silence. A quarter of an hour passed. Then Runnells commenced to mutter under his breath and move restlessly on his improvised seat; and then, getting up suddenly, he moved close over beside the Frenchman.

"I say!" whispered Runnells uneasily. "I don't like this, I don't! What d'you suppose is up?"

"A great deal, I have no doubt, my Runnells," said the Frenchman imperturbably. "More perhaps than you and I could overcome in the same time--if at all."

"That's all right!" returned Runnells. "I'm not saying it ain't, but it's getting creepy standing here and staring your eyes out. I'm beginning to see the trees moving around and coming at you, and in every bit of breeze the leaves are like a lot of bloody voices whispering in your ears. I wish to Gawd you hadn't said anything about _that_ night! It gives me the--"

"Look!" said the Frenchman suddenly.

From an upper window, out of the blackness of the building across the lawn, there showed a faint spot of light that held for a few seconds--and then, in quick succession, a series of little flashes came from the room within.

The two men stood motionless, intent, staring at the window.

The flashes ceased.

The Frenchman reached out and laid his hand on Runnells' arm.

"No need for a repeat," he said quickly. "You got it, didn't you?"

"My word!" exclaimed Runnells. "Two guards--butler's pantry--all clear! Strike me pink!"

The Frenchman laughed purringly under his breath.

"Did I not say he was incomparable? Come on, then, Runnells--quickly now!"

And now it was as though two shadows moved, flitting swiftly across the lawn, and along the edge of the building and around to the rear. And here they crouched before a doorway, and the Frenchman whispered:

"Don't be delicate about it, Runnells. This isn't any _inside_ job! Nick it up badly enough so's a blind man could see where we got in."

"That's what I'm doing," said Runnells mechanically. His mind seemed obsessed with other things. "Two guards!" he muttered. And again: "Strike me pink!"

And after a moment, with both door and frame eloquent of the rough surgery that had been practised upon them, the door opened.

The two men entered, and closed the door silently behind them. An electric torch stabbed suddenly through the blackness and played for a moment inquisitively over its surroundings.

"'Tain't changed a bit, as I said when I saw the plan," commented Runnells.

They went on quickly. But where before there had been a steady play of the electric torch it winked now through the darkness only at intervals. A door opened here and there noiselessly; the footsteps of the men were cautious, wary, almost without sound. And then, as they halted finally, and the torch shot out its ray again, Runnells drew in his breath with a low, catchy, whistling sound.

The torch disclosed a narrow serving pantry, and, on the floor at one side, a great metal box or chest--obviously the object of their visit. But Runnells for the moment was apparently not interested in the chest.

"Look at that!" he breathed hoarsely--and pointed to the farther end of the pantry where a swinging door was ajar, and through which an upturned foot protruded.

The Frenchman set his bags down beside the metal chest, moved swiftly forward, pushed the swinging door open, and stepped silently through into what was obviously the dining room. And Runnells, beside him, whispered hoarsely again, but this time with a sort of amazed admiration in his voice.

"Gawd!" said Runnells. "Neat, I calls that! Neat! What?"

Two men lay upon the floor, gagged, bound and apparently unconscious. One, from his livery, was a servant in the house; the other was in civilian clothes.

Paul Cremarre pointed to the latter.

"The man that came out from London with the box from the bank," he observed complacently. He pushed Runnells back through the swinging door into the pantry. "Well, my Runnells, you were grumbling over a few minutes' delay, let us see if we can be equally as expeditious and efficient with infinitely less to do." He reached the chest and examined it. "Padlocks, eh? Let me see if I can persuade them!" He bent over the chest, and from his pocket came a little kit of tools.

Runnells stood silently by. There was no sound now save the breathing of the two men, and, as the minutes passed, an occasional faint, metallic rasp and click from Paul Cremarre at work.

And then the Frenchman flung back the lid, and straightened up.

"Quick now, Runnells--to work!" he said briskly. "Père Mouche is waiting for his _ragoût_!"

"My eye!" said Runnells with enthusiasm, as the electric torch bored into the interior of the box. "Pipe it! I've served with the swells, I have, and Lord Seeton was one of the biggest of 'em, but I never saw the likes of this before. Gold plate to eat off of! My eye!"

"They are very beautiful," said the Frenchman judicially; "but it would be a sacrilege against art to appraise them in haste and in a poor light. Work quickly, Runnells! And do not fill any one of the bags too full. You will find it heavy. The four will hold it all comfortably."

"Gawd!" said Runnells eagerly, as he bent to his task.

The men worked swiftly now, without words, transferring the Earl of Cloverley's priceless service of gold plate to the four travelling bags. The Frenchman, the quicker of the two, completed his task first, and locked his two bags. And then suddenly he touched Runnells on the shoulder.

"Listen!" he whispered. "What's that?"

Faintly, scarcely audible, there came a curiously padded, swishing sound--like slippered feet. It came from the direction, not of the swing door where the two guards lay, but from beyond the door through which Runnells and the Frenchman had entered the pantry.

"It's some one coming, all right," Runnells whispered back.

"But only _one_," said the Frenchman instantly. "Quick! Finish your job--but don't make a sound." There was a sudden, vicious snarl in his whisper. "Pull that hat of yours down over your eyes. I'll answer the door, as you English say!"

He moved back along the pantry with the noiseless tread of a cat, and took up his position against the wall at the edge of the closed door. From his pocket he drew a revolver. It was quite black, quite silent now--save for the approaching footsteps.

Perhaps a minute passed.

And then the door opened, and a light went on. A grey-whiskered little man in a dressing gown, with bare feet thrust into slippers, stood on the threshold. He cast startled eyes on a crouching figure in the centre of the pantry, the tell-tale travelling bags, the gaping treasure chest, and wrenched a revolver from the pocket of his dressing gown. But the Frenchman, reaching out, struck from the edge of the doorway. The revolver sailed ceilingwards from the other's hand, and exploded in mid-air. And coincidently the Frenchman struck again--with the butt of his own weapon--and the man went limply to the floor.

Runnells came staggering forward under the load of the bags.

"Strike me dead!" he gasped, "if it ain't the nosey old bird himself! Serves him proper--sneaking around to make sure he ain't paying money for nothing, and hoping he'll catch 'em asleep on sentry-go!"

The Frenchman snatched up two of the bags.

"Quick!" he said tersely.

Captain Francis Newcombe raised his head from his pillow, and propped himself up on his elbow. A door nearby suddenly opened. Other doors were being rapped upon. Voices came.

The ex-captain of territorials sprang from his bed, thrust his feet into slippers, threw a bathrobe over his pajamas, opened his door and stepped out into the hall. Some one had already turned on a light. He found himself amongst a group of fellow guests, whose number was being constantly augmented. From other doorways, wary of their extreme dishabille, women's faces peered out timidly--their voices, less restrained, demanding to know what was the matter, added an hysterical note to the scene.

"A shot was certainly fired somewhere in the house, though I couldn't place where it came from," declared some one. "I am quite sure of it."

"There is no question about it," corroborated another. "It woke me up, and I ran out here into the hall."

"The Earl is not in his room!" announced a third excitedly. "I've just been there."

"Ring for the servants!" screeched an elderly female voice. "Some one may be killed!"

"For God's sake!" snapped a man gruffly. "I didn't hear it myself, but if a shot was fired it's fairly obvious by now that it wasn't fired up _here_! What are you standing around like a pack of sheep for?"

"That's what I was wondering," said Captain Francis Newcombe softly to himself--and joined the now concerted rush down the stairway.

Lights were going on all over the house now, and the men servants began to appear. The rush scurried from one room to another. A cry went up from some one ahead. It turned the rush into the dining room, and there, in their motley garbs, chorusing excited exclamations, the crowd surrounded the two gagged and bound guards.

Then some one else shouted from the pantry that the metal chest had been broken open, and that the gold service was gone. There was another rush in that direction. Captain Francis Newcombe accompanied this rush. On the floor lay a revolver. The ex-captain of territorials picked it up.

"Hello!" he ejaculated. "It's rather queer this has been left behind--or perhaps it belongs to one of the two out there in the dining room."

"No, sir," said one of the servants at his elbow. "It's the Earl's, sir. I'd know it anywhere. And, begging your pardon, sir, it's a bit strange that _he_ hasn't been seen since--"

"Here he is!" cried a voice from beyond the farther pantry door. "Here, lend a hand! The Earl's been hurt."

Captain Francis Newcombe aiding, the Earl was carried back to the dining room, and restoratives hastily applied. Here, the man in livery, released now, his voice weak and unsteady, was telling his story; his companion was still unconscious.

"... Gawd knows," the man was saying. "We was in the pantry, and Brown there 'e thought 'e 'eard a sound out 'ere in the dining room. And 'e gets up and pushes the swinging door open and goes through, and a minute later I 'ears what I thinks is 'im calling me. ''Ere, quick, Johnston!' 'e says. And I goes through the door, and something bashes me over the 'ead, and I goes out. What 'appened though is as clear as daylight now. Brown goes through the door and gets hit on the 'ead, and I goes through the door and gets hit on the 'ead. And it wasn't Brown as called to me, it was the blighter that did us in, and--"

The Earl's voice broke in suddenly.

"I'm all right, I tell you!" he insisted weakly. "There were two of them ... one behind the door knocked the revolver out of my hand as I fired, and smashed me over the head with something ... bags, travelling bags for the plate ... that's the way they're carrying it ... I--"

The Earl's voice trailed off.

"It can't have been more than five minutes ago then," said the man with the gruff voice, "for they were therefore in the house when the shot was fired. They can't have got very far carrying that load. Quick now! We'll search the park."

"But they wouldn't attempt to carry it very far anyway," objected some one. "They'd have a motor, of course."

"Exactly!" retorted the other. "But not near enough to the house to be heard. Did any one hear a motor after that shot was fired? Of course, not! We may get them before they get their motor. Also, we'll use a motor too! Any one of the chauffeurs here?"

"Yes, sir," answered a man.

"Good! Any one armed?"

"I've got the Earl's revolver," said Captain Francis Newcombe.

"Well, there's the gun room," said the man who had assumed command. "And you servants get lanterns and things. Look lively, now! Sharp's the word!"

And for some reason Captain Francis Newcombe smiled grimly to himself, as he attached his person to the chauffeur, and, accompanied by three other pajama-clad guests, raced from the house.

At the garage Captain Francis Newcombe appropriated the front seat beside the chauffeur, his fellow guests scrambled into the tonneau, and a moment later the big car shot around the end of the house and began to sweep down the driveway. The ex-captain of territorials screwed around in his seat for a backward glance as they tore along. Every window in the great, rambling, castle-like edifice appeared to be alight; this caused a filmy, lighted zone without, and through this raced ghostly figures in bathrobes and dressing gowns that were almost instantly swallowed up in the shadows of the trees; and from amongst the trees, dancing in and out, like huge fireflies in their effect, there showed in constantly increasing numbers the glint of lanterns.

But now the motor was at the lodge gates, nosing the main road, and the chauffeur pulled up.

"Which way would you say, sir?" he asked anxiously.

"I'd vote for whichever is the shortest way to London--that's to the left, isn't it?" Captain Francis Newcombe responded promptly. He turned to his fellow guests. "I don't know what you think about it?"

"Yes," one of the others answered, "I'd say that's the way they'd most likely take."

"Very good, sir!" said the chauffeur. "Left, it is, and--" He broke short off. "There they are!" he cried excitedly. "Listen! They're coming out of that lane there, over to the right!" He swung the motor sharply into the straight of the main road. "There they are! See 'em!" he cried again, as the headlights brought the rear of a speeding motor into view. "The old general back there in the house was right. They didn't bring their motor any nearer for fear it would be heard. That's where it has been--up the lane there. But we've got 'em now! This old girl'll touch seventy and never turn a hair."

"Corking!" contributed Captain Francis Newcombe enthusiastically. "You're sure of the seventy, are you?"

"Rather!" exclaimed the chauffeur. "Look for yourself, sir. We're overhauling them now like one o'clock."

The ex-captain of territorials for a moment stared intently along the headlights' rays to where, gradually, the other motor was coming more and more into focus.

"By Jove, I believe you're right!" he agreed heartily--and from the pocket of his dressing gown produced the Earl's revolver.

The motor was lurching now with the speed. A hundred yards intervening between the flying cars diminished to seventy-five--to fifty. _Still closer_! The men in the tonneau clung to their seats. Twenty-five yards!

Captain Francis Newcombe shouted to his companions over the roar and sweep of the wind.

"I'll take a pot at the beggars, and see if that'll stop 'em!" he yelled. "Better chance over the top of the windshield, what?"

Captain Francis Newcombe stood up, swayed with the car, fired twice in quick succession and once after a short pause over the top of the windshield--but the ex-captain of territorials' mark seemed curiously comprehensive in expanse, for his eyes were at the same time searching the side of the road ahead. And now there showed at the end of the headlight's path a hedgerow bordering close against the side of the road. Captain Francis Newcombe fired again, but as the car lurched now the ex-captain of territorials seemed momentarily to lose his balance, and with the lurch swayed heavily against the chauffeur's arm.

There was a startled yell from the chauffeur; a vicious swerve--and the big motor leaped at the hedge. Came a crash of splintering glass as Captain Francis Newcombe was pitched head first against the windshield; a rip and rend and tear as the motor bucked and plunged and twisted in its conflict with the thick, heavy hedge; and then a terrific jolt that in its train brought a full stop.

And Captain Francis Newcombe, flung back and half out of the car, put his hands to his eyes and brought them away wet from a great gush of blood.

"Carry on! Carry on!" he cried weakly. "You'll never have a better chance to get them."

"My God!" screamed the chauffeur. "Carry on? We're a bally wreck!"

"What beastly luck!" murmured Captain Francis Newcombe--and lost consciousness.

--V--

"DEAR GUARDY"

Captain Francis Newcombe, a bandage swathing his head from the tip of his nose upward, groped out with his hand for a glass that stood on the bedside table, succeeded only in upsetting it, and swore savagely under his breath. At the same moment, he heard the front door of his apartment open and close.

"Runnells!" he shouted irritably. "D'ye hear, Runnells? Come here!"

A footstep came hurriedly along the hall, and the door of the bedroom opened.

Paul Cremarre stood on the threshold.

"It is not Runnells," said the Frenchman, staring at the bed. "I used my key. I saw Runnells and another man go out a few minutes ago."

"You, Paul!" exclaimed Captain Francis Newcombe quickly. "I did not expect you to return from France until to-morrow. I thought Runnells had forgotten something and come back. That was the doctor with him. Runnells has gone out for supplies. They've only just brought me back from Cloverley's this morning, and the place here was pretty well cleaned out of necessities."

The Frenchman moved over to the bedside, and grasped Captain Francis Newcombe's hand.

"Monsieur," he said earnestly, "I am desolated to see you like this. How am I to tell you of my gratitude? How am I to tell you what I owe you? We would have been caught. In two or three more little minutes, Runnells and I would have been _pouf_!"

"That seemed rather obvious," said Captain Francis Newcombe dryly.

"_Bon Dieu!_" ejaculated the Frenchman. "Yes! I heard from Runnells, of course--the whole story in code. There is only one man who would have done that. I, Paul Cremarre, will never forget it. Never! And I say again that I am desolated to see you like this. Runnells said your eyes were very badly injured."

"That is Runnells' lack of balance in the use of English," said the ex-captain of territorials. "There is nothing whatever the matter with my _eyes_. If I am blind for the moment, it is because my eyelids are kept shut by some damned medical method of torture, and because of this bandage. When I took a header into the broken windshield, I got a bit of a cut that beginning with the bridge of my nose had a go straight across on each side just under the eyebrows. They've made a bit of a fuss over it, wouldn't let me come home until now, and I must still be tucked up in bed, but--"

"It is more than you make out," said the Frenchman gravely. "I know that. But that your eyes are saved--that is luck!"

"Quite so!" Captain Francis Newcombe shrugged his shoulders. "And you?--speaking of luck."

"The best!" replied the Frenchman in a low, quick tone. "Père Mouche has had his _ragoût_, and afterwards another that was so hot that--would you believe it?--it melted the dishes. And, besides, he has had a stroke of good fortune in getting rid of some other stock, a lot of it, on the continent. There will be a nice bank account in a day or so--to-morrow, if you want any." His voice grew suddenly less buoyant. "But just the same, it is well that we are taking a holiday. It has caused a furor. The papers, the Earl, Scotland Yard--how they buzz! And the Prefecture more suspicious than ever! Your English journals are like spoiled children. They will not stop crying, and they are very bad tempered about it. This morning, for instance. I have one here. Shall I read to you what it says?"

"Good heavens--no!" expostulated Captain Francis Newcombe hastily. "Everybody from the Earl down to Runnells has read that stuff to me for a week! If you want to do anything that smacks of intelligence you can get me another drink in place of the one I knocked over when you came in--you know where the Scotch is; and if you want to do any reading see if there is any mail for me. I mentioned letters but the doctor said no. However, the doctor is gone, so look on the desk in the living room."

"All right," said the Frenchman, as he turned briskly away. "_Un petit coup_ is decidedly in order this morning. I will have one with you."

He was back presently from his errand. He filled the glasses, and placed one in Captain Francis Newcombe's hand.

"_Salut, mon capitaine!_" he said. "Here's to the cash the little Père Mouche is getting ready for us--a fat, a very nice fat little dividend!"

"Good!" said the ex-captain of territorials. "How about the mail? Any letters?"

"I've got them here," Paul Cremarre answered. "There were only three."

"Well, what are they?" demanded Captain Francis Newcombe.

The Frenchman examined the first of the letters in his hand.

"A city letter from Hipplewaite, Jones & Simpkins, Solicitors--"

Captain Francis Newcombe chuckled.

"That's about a hen Runnells ran over a month or so ago. Extremely valuable fowl! Poultry show stock, and all that, you know. What has the price risen to now?"

Paul Cremarre tore the letter open.

"Two pounds, ten and six," he said.

"Still much too cheap!" grinned Captain Francis Newcombe. "The man is simply robbing himself. Chuck it away before Runnells sees it. He could have settled for a pound three weeks ago. What's next?"

The Frenchman examined another envelope.

"City letter again," he said. "From 'The Sabbath House.'"

"Ah, yes!" said Captain Francis Newcombe gravely. "Most worthy object. Gave 'em ten quid last month. A mission down in Whitechapel, you know. Elevation of the unelevated, and all that. Shocking conditions! I must see that your name goes on that list."

"Shall I tear it up?" drawled the Frenchman.

"Yes," said Captain Newcombe.

The Frenchman remained silent for a moment.

"Well?" prompted the ex-captain of territorials. "You said there were three."

"I have put the other on the table beside you," said the Frenchman. "It is _intime_. The stamp from America. The handwriting of a lady. You will read it yourself when you are able."

"Able!" echoed Captain Francis Newcombe, with sudden asperity. "I won't be able to do anything for another week, let alone read. Open it! You know damned well it's only from my ward in America. And since I'm going out there as soon as I'm fit again, I'm rather keen to know what her immediate plans are. She was going to a school friend's home for the summer. I've explained to you before that her mother did a rather big thing for me once, and I'm trying to repay the debt. Open it, and read it to me. There's nothing private about it."

"But, certainly!" agreed the Frenchman, as he opened the letter. "It is only that you are both young, and that the thought crossed my mind you--"

"Read the letter!" snapped Captain Francis Newcombe. "If there's any enclosure for her mother, you can lay that aside."

"There is no enclosure," returned the Frenchman good-humouredly. "Well, then, listen! I read:

The Corals, Manwa Island, Florida Keys, Tuesday, June 30th.

DEAR GUARDY:

You knew, of course, I was going to visit Dora Marlin and her father, Mr. Jonathan P. Marlin, this summer, so you won't be altogether surprised at the above address. You see, we came here a little sooner than I expected, so that your last letter, forwarded on from New York, has just reached me.

I am wild with delight to know that you have decided to come out to America for a visit. I showed your letter at once to Dora and Mr. Marlin, and they absolutely insist that you come here as their guest. You will, won't you? You old dear! You'll have to, else you won't see me--so there! You see, we're on an island in the Florida Keys, and it's ever so far from the mainland, and there's no other place on it to stay except with us. I wonder, I wonder if you'll know me? I'm not the little Polly I was, you know.

Oh, guardy, it's simply wonderful here! The house is really a castle, and it's built mostly of coral, and is so pretty; and the foliage is a dream--the whole island, and it's really an awfully big one, is just like a huge garden. And, too, it's just like a little world all of your own. The servants are mostly negroes, with pickaninnies running around, and they live in jolly little bungalows, ever and ever so many of them, that peep out of the trees at you everywhere you go. And then there is the aquarium. It's Mr. Marlin's hobby. I couldn't begin to describe it. I never knew such beautiful and wonderful and queer creatures existed in the sea.

Dora's a dear, of course. I'm sure you'll lose your heart to her at once. And I've already grown so fond of Mr. Marlin, and the more so, perhaps, because Dora is frightfully worried about him. I am afraid there is something very serious the matter with his mind, though a great deal of the time he appears to be quite normal. I don't understand it, of course, because it is all about the financial conditions in the world; but anyway--

Paul Cremarre stopped reading aloud abruptly. There was a moment of silence while his eyes swept swiftly on to the end of the paragraph.

"Well?" inquired Captain Francis Newcombe. "What's the matter? Have you lost your place?"

The Frenchman drew in his breath sharply.

"_Bon Dieu!_" he exclaimed excitedly. "Listen to this! It is the lamp of Aladdin! It is the Isle of Croesus! We are rich! It is superb! It is magnificent! Listen! I read again:

--he has a great sum of money in banknotes here; half a million dollars, he said. He showed it to me. It was hard to believe there was so much. Why, you could just make a little bundle of it and put it under your arm. I asked him why he had it here, and he patted it and smiled at me, and told me it was the only safe thing to do. And then he tried to explain a lot of things to me about money that I couldn't understand at all.

Paul Cremarre looked up, and waved the letter about jubilantly.

"Yes, yes!" he cried. "I am awake! See! I pinch myself! It is amazing! In banknotes! In American money! _That_ is valuable, eh? And a little bundle that one could put under one's arm!"

Captain Francis Newcombe's lips were a straight line under the bandages.

"I'm afraid I don't get the point," he said coldly.

"The point!" Paul Cremarre's face was flushed now, his eyes burned with excitement. "But, sacre nom, the point is--a half million dollars in cash. And so easy! It is ours for the taking. The man is--ha, ha!--yes, I learned something in the war from the Americans--he is what they call a nut!" He tapped his forehead. "And from the nut we extract the kernel! Yes?"

"I think not!" said Captain Francis Newcombe evenly.

"Heh?" The Frenchman stared incredulously. "But it must be that you joke--a little joke of exquisite irony. Yes, of course; for what could be better--or suit us better? We were about to lay low for a while because it was becoming too hot for us on this side of the water--and, presto, like a gift of the gods, there immediately awaits us fortune on the other side!"

Captain Francis Newcombe suddenly thrust out a clenched hand toward the other.

"_No!_" he said in a low voice.

"_Bon Dieu!_" gasped the Frenchman helplessly. "But I do not understand."

"Then I'll try to make it plain," said Captain Francis Newcombe in level tones. "There are limits to what even I will do, and it is well over that limit here. To go there as a guest of--"

"Monsieur was a guest, I understand, of the Earl of Cloverley a few days ago," interrupted the Frenchman quickly.

"Yes!" said Captain Francis Newcombe tersely. "And the guest before that of many others. But I did not have a ward to consider upon whose reputation I was to trade, and which I would wreck. Do you understand that?"

"Damn!" said the Frenchman. "There is always a woman! Damn all women, I say!"

"You may damn them as much as you please," said Captain Francis Newcombe, a grim savagery in his voice; "but there'll be none of that sort of thing here. And you keep your hands off! Do you also understand that? There's going to be one decent thing in my life!" He stretched out his clenched hand again. "Curse these bandages! I wish I could see your face! But I tell you now that if any attempt is made to get that money I'll crush you with as little compunction as I would crush a snake. Is _that_ plain?"

"But, monsieur--monsieur!" protested the Frenchman. "That is enough! Why should you say such things to me? I am distressed. And it is not just. You asked me to read a letter, and I read it. That was not my fault. And surely it was but natural, what I said. Has it not been our business to do that sort of thing together? I did not know how you felt about this. But now that I know it is at an end. I have forgotten it, my friend. It is as though it had never been."

"All right, then!" said the ex-captain of territorials in a softer tone. "As you say, that ends it."

"Shall I go on with the letter?" asked the Frenchman pleasantly.

"No," said Captain Francis Newcombe. "Give it to me. I've had enough of it for now." He smiled suddenly, as the Frenchman placed the letter in his hand. "I'm afraid I'm a bit off colour this morning, Paul. Sorry! The trip down from Cloverley's has done me in a bit, and my eyes hurt like hell. I'd give a hundred pounds for a few good hours of sleep."

"Try, then," suggested the Frenchman. "I'll be where I can hear you if you want anything. I won't go out until Runnells gets back."

"Good enough!" agreed Captain Francis Newcombe; and then abruptly, as the Frenchman rose from his chair: "Speaking of Runnells, Paul--you will _oblige_ me by saying nothing to him of the contents of this letter."

"I will say nothing to any one, let alone Runnells," replied the Frenchman quietly. "It is already forgotten. Call, if you want anything."

"I will," said Captain Francis Newcombe.

The Frenchman's footsteps died away in an outer room.

Captain Francis Newcombe's fingers tightened around the letter he held in his hand, crushed it, and carefully smoothed it out again. He lay there motionless then, his face turned away from the door, his lips thinned, his under jaw outthrust a little.

"Three years in the planting!" he muttered to himself. "It has ripened well! Very well! Paul--bah! What does it matter, after all, that he read the letter? I am not sure but that he has already outlived his usefulness--and Runnells too!" He thrust the letter suddenly underneath his pillow. "Damn the infernal pain!" he gritted between his teeth. "If I could only sleep for a bit--sleep--sleep!"

And for a time he tossed restlessly from side to side, and then presently he slept.

Runnells, in response to a demand from the bedroom, brought in the luncheon tray.

"You've had a rare whack of sleep," he said, as he laid the tray down on the table beside the bed.

"What time is it?" inquired Captain Francis Newcombe.

"Three o'clock," said Runnells. "Here, sit up a bit, and I'll bolster the pillows in behind you."

"Where's Paul?" asked the ex-captain of territorials.

Runnells did not answer immediately. In arranging the pillows he had found a letter. He looked at it coolly. It ought to be worth looking at if Captain Francis Newcombe kept it under his pillow.

"Well?" snapped the ex-captain of territorials.

Runnells placed the letter on the table within easy reach beside the tray, pulled the table a little closer, and sat down on the edge of the bed.

"He went out after I got back," said Runnells. "Said he'd sleep here to-night, that's all I know. This is a bit of stew."

Runnells, with one hand presented a forkful of meat to Captain Francis Newcombe's lips, and with the other hand possessed himself of the letter again.

Runnells read steadily now. He conveyed food to Captain Francis Newcombe's mouth mechanically.

"Damn it!" spluttered the ex-captain of territorials suddenly. "Do you take me for a boa constrictor? I can't bolt food as fast as that!"

Runnells' eyes were curiously, feverishly alight.

"Yesterday you said I went too slow," he mumbled.

"In a great many respects, Runnells," said Captain Francis Newcombe tartly, "you are an irritating, tactless ass. But not to be too hard on you, and especially in view of the last week, I have to admit you possess one redeeming feature that I am bound to give you credit for."

"What's that?" Runnells was at the end of the letter now. He stared at the bandaged face with eyes a little narrowed, and with lips that twisted in a strange, speculative smile.

"A fidelity of the same uninitiative quality that a dog has," said Captain Francis Newcombe, motioning for more to eat. "And in that sphere you're a success. I hope you'll always stick to it."

Runnells made no answer. His eyes were on the letter again--re-reading it.

The lunch proceeded in silence.

At its conclusion, Runnells stood up, slipped the letter behind the pillow again, and gathered the various dishes together on the tray.

"America, eh?" confided Runnells to himself, as he carried the tray from the room. "So _that's_ the bit of all right, is it? And Paul don't know anything about it! And the captain don't know--I know! Half a million dollars! Strike me pink!"

--VI--

THE WRITING ON THE WALL

It was a night of storm. The rain, wind driven, swept the decks in gusty, stinging sheets; the big liner rolled and pitched, disgruntled, in the heavy sea.

Within the smoking room at a table in the corner Captain Francis Newcombe turned from a companion who sat opposite to him to face a steward who had just arrived with a tray.

"How about this, steward?" he asked. "Is this weather going to delay our getting in? I understand that if we don't pass quarantine early enough they hold us up all night."

"So they do, sir," the steward answered. "But this isn't holding us up any, a bit nasty though it is. We'll be docked at New York by two o'clock to-morrow afternoon at the latest. Thank you, sir!" He pocketed a generous tip as he departed.

The young man at the opposite side of the table, dark-eyed, dark-haired, with fine, clean-cut features, a man of powerful physique, whose great breadth of shoulder was encased in an immaculate dinner jacket, lifted the glass the steward had just set before him.

"Here's how, captain!" he smiled.

"The same, Mr. Locke!" returned Captain Francis Newcombe cordially.

Howard Locke extracted a cigarette from his case, and lighted it.

"The end of as chummy a crossing as I've ever had," he said. "Thanks to you. And I've been lucky all round. Cleaned up well in London, and 'll get a pat on the back for it from dad--and a holiday, which, without throwing any bouquets at myself, I'll say I've earned. I think I'll do a bit of coast cruising in that little old fifty-footer of mine that I've filled your ear full of during the last few days. Wow! And not least of all my luck was Joyce introducing me to you at lunch that day in the club."

"It's very good of you to say so," said Captain Francis Newcombe.

"Good, nothing!" exclaimed the young American. "I mean it! You've made the trip for me. And now how about your plans? I know you're going on South somewhere, for you mentioned it the other day. But what about New York? You'll be a little while there, and I feel pleasurably responsible for the stranger in the strange land. The house is barred, for the family is away for the summer; but there are the clubs, and I'd like to put you up and show you around a bit."

Captain Francis Newcombe studied the young man's face for a moment--he smiled disarmingly as he did so. Howard Locke was the son of a man of great wealth, the head of a great financial house, and of a family whose social status left nothing to be desired--and America was the Land of Promise! But one could be _too_ eager!

"I'd like to," he said heartily; "but I fancy I've still quite a little trip ahead of me, and I'm afraid I'm a bit overdue already. As you say, I mentioned that I was going South. To be precise, I'm going down Florida way--or do you call it up?--as the guest of a Mr. Marlin."

Howard Locke removed the cigarette from his lips.

"Marlin?" he repeated. "Not Jonathan P. Marlin, by any chance?"

Captain Francis Newcombe nodded.

"Whew!" The young American whistled softly under his breath.

Captain Francis Newcombe lifted his eyebrows inquiringly.

"You know him?" he asked.

"No," Locke answered. "Not personally. I know of him, of course. Everybody does. And I don't want to be nosey and butt in, and you can heave that glass at me by way of reply if you like, but how in the world do you happen to know him?"

Captain Francis Newcombe smiled.

"I don't," he said. "My ward, who has been over here at school for the past few years, has been a classmate of Miss Marlin, and she is spending part of the summer with them."

"Oh, I see!" Howard Locke tapped the end of his cigarette on the edge of an ash tray once or twice, and glanced in evident indecision at his companion.

"Go on!" invited Captain Francis Newcombe. "What is it?"

Howard Locke laughed a little awkwardly.

"Well, I don't know," he said. "Nothing very much. And I'm afraid it's not done, as you English put it, for me to say anything, since he is your prospective host; still, as you say you are not personally acquainted with him yourself, I think perhaps you ought to know just the same. I haven't anything definite to go on, no authoritative source of information, but it is rather generally understood that old Marlin's gone a bit queer in the head."

"Really!" ejaculated Captain Francis Newcombe. "Good lord! I had no idea of any such thing! And my ward's on this island of his in the Florida Keys, and--"

"There's nothing whatever to be alarmed about," said the young American hastily. "It's nothing like that. He's as harmless as you are, or as I am. It's only on one subject--money. I suppose he was one of the wealthiest men in America at the close of the war, and since then he's been wiped out."

"Wiped out?" Captain Francis echoed incredulously.

"Comparatively, of course," said Howard Locke. "I don't know how much he has got left--nobody does. It's been the talk of the financial district. There isn't a share of stock anywhere to be found standing in his name. He sold everything; and how much was used to cover losses, and how much remained to himself no one knows. You see, the last few years, to put it mildly, have been hell in a financial and business way. The foreign exchange situation has been a big factor in helping to play the devil with all sorts of holdings. Values have depreciated; the market has gone smash. Industries that were big dividend payers haven't been able to meet their overhead. You may not believe it, but hundreds and hundreds have taken their money out of the banks, and, insisting on being paid in American gold certificates, when they couldn't get the actual gold itself, have hoarded it in the safe deposit vaults. God knows why! Just instances the general panicky conditions everywhere, I suppose. The aftermath of the war! History repeating itself, so the writers on economics tell us. Small consolation! However! Marlin met with crash after crash. He lost millions. He's not a young man, you know, and it evidently got him finally in the shape of a monomania. Finance! You understand? He was on a dozen big directorates and his trouble began to show itself in the shape of an obsession that everything should be turned into cash, buildings, plants, everything--into American cash. Naturally he was quietly and unostentatiously dropped. Poor devil! Certainly, his losses were terrific. I don't know whether he's got anything left or not."

"By Jove!" said Captain Francis Newcombe gravely. "I'm glad you told me. Pretty rough that, I call it."

"Yes," said Locke. "It is! Damned rough! I think everybody was sorry for him. And so he's down there at this place of his now on an island in the Florida Keys, eh?"

"Yes," said Captain Francis Newcombe.

The young American selected another cigarette from his case, rolled it slowly between his fingers--and leaned suddenly across the table.

"Look here!" he said. "I've an idea. I'm going cruising somewhere--why not there? The Florida coast hits me down to the ground. How would you like to make the trip with me?"

Captain Francis Newcombe leaned back in his chair, and laughed a little.

"I'm afraid not," he said. "I--"

"Oh, come on, be a sport!" urged Howard Locke enthusiastically. "The more I think of it, the better I like it. I'll have good company on a cruise, and you'll enjoy it. And it's quite all right so far as my showing up there is concerned. It isn't as though I were foisting myself on their hospitality. The little old boat's my home; and, for that matter, I can drop you and sail solemnly away. You'll have the time of your life. What's the objection?"

"Time," said Captain Francis Newcombe. "It would take a long while, wouldn't it?"

"Well," said Howard Locke, "I wouldn't guarantee to get you there as fast as a train would, but what difference does a few days make? It isn't as though it were a business engagement you had to keep."

"No; that's so," acknowledged Captain Francis Newcombe. "And frankly I must admit it appeals to me; but"--he looked at his watch--"I don't know whether I can manage it or not. Anyway, I promise to sleep on it. It's after twelve, and time to turn in. What do you say?"

"That suits me," said Howard Locke, "so long as you promise to say 'yes' in the morning."

"We'll see," said Captain Francis Newcombe.

The two men rose from their chairs, and, crossing the room where several games of bridge were in progress, stepped out on the deck. And here, their respective cabins lying in different directions, they bade each other good-night.

But now Captain Francis Newcombe, despite the pitching of the ship and the general unpleasantness of the night, appeared to be in no hurry. He walked slowly. It was the lee side, and under the covered deck he was protected from the rain. He looked behind him. The young American, evidently in no mind for anything but the snugger shelter of his cabin, had disappeared. The deck was deserted.

The ex-captain of territorials stepped to the rail, and stared out into the murk, through which there showed, like pencilled streaks on a black background, the white, irregular shapes of the cresting waves. The howl of the wind, the boom and crash of the seas made thunderous tumult, conflict, turmoil. And he laughed. And spume, flying, struck his face. And he laughed again because a sort of fierce exaltation was upon him, and he found something akin in these wild, untramelled voices of the elements--a challenge, far-flung and savage, and contemptuous of all who would say them nay.

And then his eyes narrowed thoughtfully, and his fingers played a soft tattoo upon the dripping rail.

"I wonder!" said Captain Francis Newcombe to himself. "I wonder if it suits my book?"

His mind began to moil over the problem in a cold, unprejudiced, judicial way. Was the balance for or against the acceptance of the young American's offer? To arrive at Marlin's place in the company of a man of the standing of Howard Locke was an endorsation that spoke for itself. But he already had an unqualified endorsation. Polly supplied it. Still, he could not have too much of that sort of thing. Would, then, the man be in the way, a hindrance, a complication? He could not answer that off-hand, but it did not seem to be a vital point. What he proposed to do on Manwa Island in a general way he knew well enough; but just how he proposed to do it, and just how long he proposed to stay there, a week, or a month, or longer, only local conditions as he found them must decide.

He shrugged his shoulders suddenly. Neither Howard Locke nor any other man would make of himself a hindrance--hindrances were removed. But there was another point, an outstanding point. After Manwa Island there was--America. True, he had brought Runnells with him, while he had said good-bye to Paul Cremarre, who had departed for Paris, and thereafter for such destination as his fancy prompted, for the period, mutually agreed upon, of six months--but he, Captain Francis Newcombe, was not prepared to say when, or where, if ever, he intended to utilise, in the same manner as before, the services of either Runnells or the Frenchman again. Certainly not in America, if a lone hand promised better there! He proposed to play a lone hand at this Manwa Island. It might well be that he would continue to do so thereafter. And in America an intimacy with Howard Locke, such as this projected cruise offered, would help amazingly to spread and germinate the seed already sown by Polly Wickes. Polly Wickes was his private property!

Captain Francis Newcombe smiled confidentially at the angry waters.

"Yes," he said, "I think it is quite possible that he may be able to _persuade_ me."

He turned abruptly away from the rail, making for his cabin, which was on the deck above and on the opposite side of the ship. And presently, halting in the lighted alleyway before his door, he turned the key in the lock and entered.

And then, just across the threshold, he stood for the fraction of a second like a man dazed--and the door, torn from his hand by a fierce gust of wind, slammed with a bang behind him. The cabin was on the windward side, the window was open, and outside the window, indistinct, shadowy, as though almost it might be an hallucination of the mind, a man's form suddenly loomed up. There was a flash, the roar of a revolver shot, muffled, almost drowned out in the thunder of the storm--and Captain Francis Newcombe lay flat upon the cabin floor.

The next instant he flung himself over beside the settee, and protected here from another shot, raised his head. The form had vanished from the window.

A cold fury seized upon the man. From his pocket he drew his own revolver, and covering the window as he backed swiftly for the door, wrenched the door open and made for the first egress to the deck. Too late, of course! The deck was deserted. He stood there, grim-faced, tight-lipped, straining his eyes up and down the length of the deck through the darkness, the rain beating into his face.

And then he began to run again--like a dog seeking scent. There were a dozen places up here where a man might hide--the juts of the superstructure, the great, grotesque, looming ventilators, the openings through to the other side of the deck. But he found nothing, no one--there was only the deserted deck, the drenching rain. And the howl of the wind metamorphosed itself into ironical shrieks.

Captain Francis Newcombe returned along the deck, and halted outside his cabin window. He examined it critically. It had been pried open from the outside--the marks were distinctly indented on the sill, as though a jimmy, or iron bar of some kind, had been used.

He stared at it, his jaws clamped. It was unpleasant. Some one on the ship had deliberately, premeditatively, attempted to murder him. There was something of hideous malignancy in it. To pry the window open, and wait there patiently in the storm for the sole purpose of ending a man's life! It hadn't succeeded because intuition, or, perhaps, better, an exaggerated instinct of self-preservation born of the years in which he had flaunted defiance of every law in the face of his fellow men, had prompted him, though taken unawares, to act even quicker than his assailant who lay in wait, and to fling himself instantly to the floor of the cabin.

Who was it? Why was it? Who, on board the ship, had any incentive, any reason, any cause to murder him? Save for Locke, the young American, he knew no one on board, barring Runnells, of course, except in the ordinary, casual way of shipboard acquaintanceship struck up since the ship had left Liverpool. It could not be any one of these--at least, not logically. And of them all, it certainly could not be Locke. The ship's company? Absurd! Runnells? Still more absurd! And so he had eliminated _everybody_, and yet _somebody_ had done it!

He began to work with the window. Reaching inside he drew the curtains carefully together, and then lowered the window itself. When he re-entered his room, even providing he were still being watched, he would not be exposed in the same way as a target again!

He stood there now in the rain, his face hard, with savage, drooping lines at the corners of his mouth. Was he being watched now? Was there a cat-and-mouse game in play? Well, two could play at that! He, too, could prowl about the ship. His bed held little of invitation for him!

He went to Runnells' room. The man was in bed asleep. That definitely disposed of Runnells!

He returned and made another circuit of the upper deck; and then, forward, by one of the open companionways, he descended to the deck below. His mind was in a strange state of turmoil. It was not physical fear. It was as though a host of haunting shapes were being marshalled against him, were rising up out of the past to disturb him, jeering at him, mocking him, plaguing him with sinister possibilities. The past was peopled with shapes, shapes that had lived in the world of Shadow Varne; shapes which might well be accused of this attempt to do away with him, could they but take tangible form, could their presence but be reconciled with the here and now, with this ship, with these damp, slippery decks, with the drive and sting of the rain, with the scream and howl of the wind, with the plunge and roll of the great liner, the buffeting of the waves--if they could but be reconciled with _material_ things. He clenched his hands. He was not as a man who could search his memory in vain for one who owed him such a debt as this; it was, rather, that his memory became crowded and confused with the _number_ that came thronging in upon it, each vying with the others to shriek the loudest its boasted claim to the attempted retribution to-night.

He set his teeth. Where had he failed? When had he left ajar behind him the door of the past that allowed any one of these ghostly shapes to slip through upon his heels? Ghostly? There was little of the ghostly here! He _must_ have been recognised by some one on board the ship. It seemed incredible, impossible--but it was equally incontrovertible. Who? And what did it portend? To-night he had won the first hand, but--

_Locke_! He was standing beside the smoking room window. Locke was in there, his back turned, standing beside one of the bridge tables, watching a game. It was a little strange! He had parted with Locke out here on the deck--and Locke was going to his cabin to turn in.

For an instant Captain Francis Newcombe held there, his brows knitted in a perplexed frown. Howard Locke! It was preposterous; it would not hold water; it was childish--unless the young American were some one other than he pretended to be, and there wasn't a chance in a thousand of that! His mind worked swiftly now. Locke had been introduced to him at lunch in the club by a fellow member a few days before they had sailed. That certainly vouched for the man sufficiently, didn't it? Locke had volunteered the information that he had booked passage on this ship, and they had not met again until here on shipboard. If Locke was what he passed for, if he was of one of the best families of America, the son of a millionaire, a clever, hard-working and ambitious young business man, it was untenable to assume for an instant that he was a potential murderer. It was even laughable. There wasn't even that one chance in a thousand that he could be any other than he seemed, not a chance in a million, and yet--

"Chance," said Captain Francis Newcombe, "is the playground of fools. We will see!"

He turned and ran swiftly along the deck. A minute later he was standing before one of the two doors of the young American's suite. A little metal instrument was in his hand, but it went instantly back into his pocket--the door was not locked. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. Locke had one of the best and most expensive reservations on the ship--a suite of two rooms and a private bath, but there was a separate door from each of these rooms to the passageway without, since, naturally, they were not always booked en suite. And the room he stood in now was the one Locke used for his sitting room, and always as the entrance to the suite itself.

Captain Francis Newcombe was quick in every movement now. He ran through to the other room--the bedroom--closing the connecting door behind him. He switched on the light, and turned at once to the door that gave here on the passageway. The key was in the lock, and the door was locked. He unlocked it. The next instant he had a portmanteau open and was delving into its contents. It contained nothing but clothing--shirts, collars, ties, underwear, and the like. He opened another, and still another with the same result. Papers! It was the man's papers that interested him.

He snarled a little savagely to himself. There was nothing for it then but the steamer trunk under the couch--and Locke might be back at any moment. He dragged out the trunk--and snarled again savagely. It was locked. He began to work with it now, swiftly, deftly, with the little steel picklock. It yielded finally, and he flung back the lid. Yes, this was what he wanted! On the top lay a leather despatch case. But this also was locked. Again Captain Francis Newcombe set to work--and presently was glancing through a mass of papers and documents that the despatch case had contained: letters from the father's firm to the son, signed by Locke senior; a letter of credit in substantial amount; an underwriting agreement with a London house for the floating of a huge issue of bonds, signed and sealed, the tangible evidence of young Locke's successful trip, of which he had spoken. Incontrovertible evidence that Howard Locke was no other than he appeared to be, and--

Captain Francis Newcombe sprang for the electric-light switch, and turned off the light. There was Locke now! The pound of the ship, the noise of the storm, had of course deadened any sound in the passageway, but he could hear the other at the sitting room door. There was no time to replace the despatch case and push the trunk back under the couch, let alone attempt to lock either one. The man was coming now--across the other room. Captain Francis Newcombe laid the despatch case silently down on the floor, opened the door as silently, stepped out into the passageway and ran noiselessly along it.

He reached the door of his own cabin. His excursion to Locke's cabin and the evidence of intrusion he had been forced to leave behind him had put an end to any more "prowling" on his part to-night. Locke would probably kick up a fuss. There would be a very strict search for "prowlers!" He snapped his jaws together viciously. That did not at all please him. He would very much prefer that the would-be assassin should have another opportunity of showing his hand, that the man would be inspired to make a _second_ attempt. He, Captain Francis Newcombe, would be a little better prepared this time!

He pushed open the door of his cabin cautiously--and for an instant stood motionless, a little back from the threshold, and at one side. There was always the possibility, remote though it might be, that while he had been out searching for the other, the man had slipped inside and, waiting, had made of the cabin a death trap which he, Captain Francis Newcombe, was now invited to enter. It was not likely. It would require a little more nerve than the firing of a shot through the window, and then running away. But, for all that, having failed the first time, the other might be moved to take what might possibly be considered more certain measures on the next attempt. And in that case--No; the cabin was empty! The light from the passageway, filtering in through the open door, showed that quite plainly.

Captain Francis Newcombe stepped inside, and, before closing the door, looked curiously over the woodwork near the door and on a line with the window. Yes, there it was! The writing on the wall! The bullet had splintered a piece of the wall panelling, and had embedded itself in the wall a little to the right of the door casing.

He closed and locked the door now, shutting out the light, and, with his revolver in his hand, sat down in the darkness, out of direct range himself, but where he could command the window. It was a bit futile. He was conscious of that. But there was always the possibility of the man's return, and there was no other possibility that promised any better--or, indeed, promised anything at all.

His mind began to weigh, and sift, and grope as through a maze, battling with the problem again. Not Locke! He was rather definitely prepared to set Locke apart from everybody else on board the ship, and say that it was not Locke. Who, then? Who had any--

He straightened up, suddenly even more alert. There was some one out in the passageway now--some one outside his door. There came a low, quick rap.

"Who's there?" demanded Captain Francis Newcombe sharply.

Locke's voice answered:

"It's Locke. May I come in?"

Captain Francis Newcombe crossed to the door, unlocked it, and flung it open.

"Hello!" ejaculated the young American, as the light from the passageway fell upon the other. "Not in bed, and in the dark! What's the idea? Why no light?"

"Because I fancy it's safer--in the dark," said Captain Francis Newcombe. "Come in."

"Safer!" Howard Locke stepped into the cabin, and closed the door behind him. "How safer? Say, look here! Some one's been turning my stateroom inside out--been going through my things."

"You're lucky!" said Captain Francis Newcombe tersely.

"Lucky!" echoed the young American quickly. "What do you mean?"

"That it wasn't anything worse," said Captain Francis Newcombe coolly. "Some one's been trying to put a bullet through me--only it went into the wall over there instead. Here, take a look!" He switched on the light. "See it--there by the door casing!"

"Good God!" exclaimed Locke. "Yes; I see it! When was this?"

"Shortly after I left you. As I opened the door here and stepped into the cabin, I was fired at through the window. And the window had been opened from the outside--there are marks on it--and whoever it was, was waiting for me."

"That's damned queer," said Howard Locke. "When I left you I went to my rooms, and everything was all right. I went back to the smoking room because I had left my cigarette case there. I stayed a few minutes watching several hands of bridge, and when I went back to my rooms again I found my steamer trunk open and a case of papers on the floor."

"Anything missing?" asked Captain Francis Newcombe.

"No; not so far as I know," Locke answered. "What do you think had better be done?"

"I think you had better switch that light off, and stand away from the line of the window."

The young American shook his head.

"No," he said. "It's hardly likely that the same game would be tried twice in the same night. Say, what do you make of it? It seems mighty queer that you and I should have been picked out for some swine's attentions! What should be done?"

"What _have_ you done?"

"Nothing, so far," Locke replied. "I came here at once to tell you about it, and ask your advice. I suppose the commander ought to be told."

Captain Francis Newcombe sat down on the edge of his bunk.

"I can't see the good of it," he said slowly. "We're landing to-morrow. It would mean the shore police aboard, and no end of a fuss; and an almost certain delay, nobody allowed off the ship, and all that, you know. I can't see how it would get us anywhere. You haven't lost anything; and I--well, I'm still alive."

"That's true," said Locke. He was staring at the bullet hole in the wall. "And worst of all there'd be the reporters. Three-inch headlines! I'm not for _that_! I agree with you. We'll say nothing."

Captain Francis Newcombe inspected Locke's back.

"How much of a crew do you carry on this fifty-footer of yours?" he inquired softly.

"Why not necessarily any one but the two of us and your man, if you'll come along." Howard Locke turned around suddenly to face the other. "Why?"

"Well," said Captain Francis Newcombe quietly, "under those conditions, as the two victims of to-night, we'd form a sort of mutual protective society--and perhaps, if the offer is still open, it would be the safest way for me to reach my destination. There wouldn't be any windows for any one to fire through."

Howard Locke lighted a cigarette.

"That's a go!" he said. "I'm very keen to make the trip with you. And if all this has decided it, I'm glad it's happened. That's fine! And now--what are you going to do for the rest of the night?"

"Why, I'm going to bed," said Captain Francis Newcombe casually; "and at the risk of appearing inhospitable, I should advise you to do likewise."

"Right!" agreed Locke. "There's nothing else to do." He stepped toward the door, but paused, staring at the bullet mark in the wall again.

"That bullet hole seems to fascinate you," smiled Captain Francis Newcombe.

"Yes," said Locke, as he opened the door. "I was thinking what a rotten thing it was to be fired at cold-bloodedly in the dark. Good-night!"

The door closed.

Captain Francis Newcombe did not go to bed. With the light out again, he sat there on the bunk.

Long minutes passed; they drifted into hours.

The man's figure became crouched, became a shape that lost human semblance, that was like unto some creature huddled in its lair; and the face was no longer human, for upon it was stamped the passions of hell; and the head became cocked curiously sideways in a strained attitude of attention, as though listening, listening, listening, always listening.

And there came a time when he spoke aloud, and called out hoarsely:

"Who's that? Who's whispering there? Who's calling Shadow Varne ... Shadow Varne ... Shadow Varne...."

And in answer the ship's bell struck the hour of dawn.