On his way out of London, Hugh had made excuse and stopped the car at a post office in Putney, whence he sent an express note to Dorise, telling her his change of address. He though it wiser not to post it.
Hence it was on the morning following Louise’s arrival at Shapley, he received a letter from Dorise, enclosing one she had received under cover for him. He had told Dorise to address him as “Mr. Carlton Symes.”
It was on dark-blue paper, such as is usually associated with the law or officialdom. Written in a neat, educated hand, it read:
“DEAR MR. HENFREY,—I hear that you have left Abingdon Road, and am greatly interested to know the reason. You will, no doubt, recognize me as the friend who sent a car for you at Monte Carlo. Please call at the above address at the earliest possible moment. Be careful that you are not watched. Say nothing to anybody, wherever you may be. Better call about ten-thirty P.M., and ask for me. Have no fear. I am still your friend,
“GEORGE PETERS.”
The address given was 14, Ellerston Street, Mayfair.
Hugh knew the street, which turned off Curzon Street, a short thoroughfare, but very exclusive. Some smart society folk lived there.
But who was George Peters? Was it not The Sparrow who had sent him the car with the facetious chauffeur to that spot in Monte Carlo? Perhaps the writer was the White Cavalier!
During the morning Hugh strolled down the hill and through the woods with Louise. The latter was dressed in a neat country kit, a tweed suit, a suede tam-o’-shanter, and carried a stout ash-plant as a walking-stick. They were out together until luncheon time.
Meanwhile, Benton sat with his hostess, and had a long confidential chat.
“You see, Molly,” he said, as he smoked lazily, “I thought it an excellent plan to bring them together, and to let them have an opportunity of really knowing each other. It’s no doubt true that he’s over head and ears in love with the Ranscomb girl, but Lady Ranscomb has set her mind on having Sherrard as her son-in-law. She’s a clever woman, Lady Ranscomb, and of course, in her eyes, Hugh is for ever beneath a cloud. That he went to the woman’s house at night is quite sufficient.”
“Well, if I know anything of young men, Charles, I don’t think you’ll ever induce that boy to marry Louise,” remarked the handsome adventuress whom nobody suspected.
“Then if he doesn’t, we’ll just turn him over to Scotland Yard. We haven’t any further use for him,” said Benton savagely. “It’s the money we want.”
“And I fear we shall go on wanting it, my dear Charles,” declared the woman, who was so well versed in the ways of men. “Louise likes him. She has told me so. But he only tolerates her—that’s all! He’s obsessed by the mystery of old Henfrey’s death.”
“I wonder if that was the reason he went that night to see Yvonne?” exclaimed Benton in a changed voice, as the idea suddenly occurred to him. “I wonder if—if he suspected something, and went boldly and asked her?”
“Ah! I wonder!” echoed the woman. “But Yvonne would surely tell him nothing. It would implicate her far too deeply if she did. Yvonne is a very shrewd person. She isn’t likely to have told the old man’s son very much.”
“No, you’re right, Molly,” replied the man. “You’re quite right! I don’t think we have much to fear on that score. We’ve got Hugh with us, and if he again turns antagonistic the end is quite easy—just an anonymous line to the police.”
“We don’t want to do that if there is any other way,” the woman said.
“I don’t see any other way,” replied the adventurer. “If he won’t marry Louise, then the money passes out of our reach.”
“I don’t like The Sparrow taking such a deep interest in his welfare,” growled the woman beneath her breath.
“And I don’t like the fact that Yvonne is still alive. If she were dead—then we should have nothing to fear—nothing!” Benton said grimly.
“But who fired the shot if Hugh didn’t?” asked Mrs. Bond.
“Personally, I think he did. He discovered something—something we don’t yet know—and he went to the Villa Amette and shot her in revenge for the old man’s death. That’s my firm belief.”
“Then why has The Sparrow taken all these elaborate precautions?”
“Because he’s afraid himself of the truth coming out,” said Benton. “He certainly has looked after Hugh very well. I had some trouble to persuade the lad to come down here, for he evidently believes that The Sparrow is his best friend.”
“He may find him his enemy one day,” laughed the woman. And then they rose and strolled out into the grounds, across the lawn down to the great pond.
When at half-past seven they sat down to dinner, Hugh suddenly remarked that he found it imperative to go to London that evening, and asked Mrs. Bond if he might have the car.
Benton looked up at him quickly, but said nothing before Louise.
“Certainly; Mead shall take you,” was the woman’s reply, though she was greatly surprised at the sudden request. Both she and Benton instantly foresaw that his intention was to visit Dorise in secret. For what other reason could he wish to run the risk of returning to London?
“When do you wish to start?” asked his hostess.
“Oh! about nine—if I may,” was the young man’s reply.
“Will you be back to-night?” asked the girl who, in a pretty pink dinner frock, sat opposite him.
“Yes. But it won’t be till late, I expect,” he replied.
“Remember, to-morrow we are going for a run to Bournemouth and back,” said the girl. “Mrs. Bond has kindly arranged it, and I daresay she will come, too.”
“I don’t know yet, dear,” replied Mrs. Bond. The truth was that she intended that the young couple should spend the day alone together.
Benton was filled with curiosity.
As soon as the meal was over, and the two ladies had left the room, he poured out a glass of port and turning to the young fellow, remarked:
“Don’t you think it’s a bit dangerous to go to town, Hugh?”
“It may be, but I must take the risk,” was the other’s reply.
“What are you going up for?” asked Benton bluntly.
“To see somebody—important,” was his vague answer. And though the elder man tried time after time to get something more definite from him, he remained silent. Had not his unknown friend urged him to say nothing to anybody wherever he might be?
So at nine Mead drove up the car to the door, and Hugh, slipping on his light overcoat, bade his hostess good-night, thanked her for allowing him the use of the limousine, and promised to be back soon after midnight.
“Good-night, Hugh!” cried Louise from the other end of the fine old hall. And a moment later the car drove away in the darkness.
Along the Hog’s Back they went, and down into Guildford. Then up the long steep High Street, past the ancient, overhanging clock at the Guildhall, and out again on the long straight road to Ripley and London.
As soon as they were beyond Guildford, he knocked at the window, and afterwards mounted beside Mead. He hated to be in a car alone, for he himself was a good driver and used always to drive his father’s old “‘bus.”
“I’ll go to the Berkeley Hotel,” he said to the man. “Drop me there, and pick me up outside there at twelve, will you?”
The man promised to do so, and then they chatted as they continued on their way to London. Mead, a Guildfordian, knew every inch of the road. Before entering Mrs. Bond’s service he had, for a month, driven a lorry for a local firm of builders, and went constantly to and from London.
They arrived at the corner of St. James’s Street at half-past ten. Hugh gave Mead five shillings to get his evening meal, and said:
“Be back here at midnight, Mead. I expect I’ll be through my business long before that. But it’s a clear night, and we shall have a splendid run home.”
“Very well, sir. Thank you,” replied his hostess’s chauffeur.
Hugh Henfrey, instead of entering the smart Society hotel, turned up the street, and, walking quickly, found himself ten minutes later in Ellerston Street before a spacious house, upon the pale-green door of which was marked in Roman numerals the number fourteen.
By the light of the street lamp he saw it was an old Georgian town house. In the ironwork were two-foot-scrapers, relics of a time long before macadam or wood paving.
The house, high and inartistic, was a relic of the days of the dandies, when country squires had their town houses, and before labour found itself in London drawing-rooms. Consumed by curiosity, Hugh pressed the electric button marked “visitors,” and a few moments later a smart young footman opened the door.
“Mr. George Peters?” inquired Hugh. “I have an appointment.”
“What name, sir?” the young, narrow-eyed man asked.
“Henfrey.”
“Oh, yes, sir! Mr. Peters is expecting you,” he said. And at once he conducted him along the narrow hall to a room beyond.
The house was beautifully appointed. Everywhere was taste and luxury. Even in the hall there were portraits by old Spanish masters and many rare English sporting prints.
The room into which he was shown was a long apartment furnished in the style of the Georgian era. The genuine Adams ceiling, mantelpiece, and dead white walls, with the faintly faded carpet of old rose and light-blue, were all in keeping. The lights, too, were shaded, and over all was an old-world atmosphere of quiet and dignified repose.
The room was empty, and Hugh crossed to examine a beautiful little marble statuette of a girl bather, with her arms raised and about to dive. It was, no doubt, a gem of the art of sculpture, mounted upon a pedestal of dark-green marble which revolved.
The whole conception was delightful, and the girl’s laughing face was most perfect in its portraiture.
Of a sudden the door reopened, and he was met by a stout, rather wizened old gentleman with white bristly hair and closely cropped moustache, a man whose ruddy face showed good living, and who moved with the brisk alertness of a man twenty years his junior.
“Ah! here you are, Mr. Henfrey!” he exclaimed warmly, as he offered his visitor his hand. Upon the latter was a well-worn black glove—evidently to hide either some disease or deformity. “I was wondering if you received my letter safely?”
“Yes,” replied Hugh, glancing at the shrewd little man whose gloved right hand attracted him.
“Sit down,” the other said, as he closed the door. “I’m very anxious to have a little chat with you.”
Hugh took the arm-chair which Mr. Peters indicated. Somehow he viewed the man with suspicion. His eyes were small and piercing, and his face with its broad brow and narrow chin was almost triangular. He was a man of considerable personality, without a doubt. His voice was high pitched and rather petulant.
“Now,” he said. “I was surprised to learn that you had left your safe asylum in Kensington. Not only was I surprised—but I confess, I was alarmed.”
“I take it that I have to thank you for making those arrangements for my escape from Monte Carlo?” remarked Hugh, looking him straight in the face.
“No thanks are needed, my dear Mr. Henfrey,” replied the elder man. “So long as you are free, what matters? But I do not wish you to deliberately run risks which are so easily avoided. Why did you leave Abingdon Road?”
“I was advised to do so by a friend.”
“Not by Miss Ranscomb, I am sure.”
“No, by a Mr. Benton, whom I know.”
The old man’s eyebrows narrowed for a second.
“Benton?” he echoed. “Charles Benton—is he?”
“Yes. As he was a friend of my late father I naturally trust him.”
Mr. Peters paused.
“Oh, naturally,” he said a second later. “But where are you living now?”
Hugh told him that he was the guest of Mrs. Bond of Shapley Manor, whereupon Mr. Peters sniffed sharply, and rising, obtained a box of good cigars from a cupboard near the fireplace.
“You went there at Benton’s suggestion?”
“Yes, I did.”
Mr. Peters gave a grunt of undisguised dissatisfaction, as he curled himself in his chair and examined carefully the young man before him.
“Now, Mr. Henfrey,” he said at last. “I am very sorry for you. I happen to know something of your present position, and the great difficulty in which you are to-day placed by the clever roguery of others. Will you please describe to me accurately exactly what occurred on that fateful night at the Villa Amette? If I am to assist you further it is necessary for you to tell me everything—remember,everything!”
Hugh paused and looked the stranger straight in the face.
“I thought you knew all about it,” he said.
“I know a little—not all. I want to know everything. Why did you venture there at all? You did not know the lady. It was surely a very unusual hour to pay a call?” said the little man, his shrewd eyes fixed upon his visitor.
“Well, Mr. Peters, the fact is that my father died in very suspicious circumstances, and I was led to believe the Mademoiselle was cognizant of the truth.”
The other man frowned slightly.
“And so you went there with the purpose of getting the truth from her?” he remarked, with a grunt.
Hugh nodded in the affirmative.
“What did she tell you?”
“Nothing. She was about to tell me something when the shot was fired by someone on the veranda outside.”
“H’m! Then the natural surmise would be that you, suspecting that woman of causing your father’s death, shot her because she refused to tell you anything?”
“I repeat she was about to disclose the circumstances—to divulge her secret, when she was struck down.”
“You have no suspicion of anyone? You don’t think that her manservant—I forget the fellow’s name—fired the shot? Remember, he was not in the room at the time!”
“I feel confident that he did not. He was far too distressed at the terrible affair,” said Hugh. “The outrage must have been committed by someone to whom the preservation of the secret of my father’s end was of most vital importance.”
“Agreed,” replied the man with the black glove. “The problem we have to solve is who was responsible for your father’s death.”
“Yes,” said Hugh. “If that shot had not been fired I should have known the truth.”
“You think, then, that Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo would have told you the truth?” asked the bristly-haired man with a mysterious smile.
“Yes. She would.”
“Well, Mr. Henfrey, I think I am not of your opinion.”
“You think possibly she would have implicated herself if she had told me the truth?”
“I do. But the chief reason I asked you to call and see me to-night is to learn for what reason you have been induced to go on a visit to this Mrs. Bond.”
“Because Benton suggested it. He told me that Scotland Yard knew of my presence in Kensington, making further residence there dangerous.”
“H’m!” And the man with the black glove paused again.
“You don’t like Benton, do you?”
“I have no real reason to dislike him. He has always been very friendly towards me—as he was to my late father. The only thing which causes me to hold aloof from him as much as I can is the strange clause in my father’s will.”
“Strange clause?” echoed the old man. “What clause?”
“My father, in his will, cut me off every benefit he could unless I married Benton’s adopted daughter, Louise. If I marry her, then I obtain a quarter of a million. I at first thought of disputing the will, but Mr. Charman, our family solicitor, says that it is perfectly in order. The will was made in Paris two years before his death. He went over there on some financial business.”
“Was Benton with him?” asked Mr. Peters.
“No. Benton went to New York about two months before.”
“H’m! And how soon after your father’s return did he come home?”
“I think it was about three months. He was in America five months altogether, I believe.”
The old man, still curled in his chair, smoked his cigar in silence. Apparently he was thinking deeply.
“So Benton has induced you to go down to Shapley in order that you may be near his adopted daughter, in the hope that you will marry her! In the meantime you are deeply in love with Lady Ranscomb’s daughter. I know her—a truly charming girl. I congratulate you,” he added, as though speaking to himself. “But the situation is indeed a very complicated one.”
“For me it is terrible. I am living under a cloud, and in constant fear of arrest. What can be done?”
“I fear nothing much can be done at present,” said the old man, shaking his head gravely. “I quite realize that you are victim of certain enemies who intend to get hold of your father’s fortune. It is for us to combat them—if we can.”
“Then you will continue to help me?” asked Hugh eagerly, looking into the mysterious face of the old fellow who wore the black glove.
“I promise you my aid,” he replied, putting out his gloved hand as pledge.
Then, as Hugh took it, he looked straight into those keen eyes, and asked:
“You have asked me many questions, sir, and I have replied to them all. May I ask one of you—my friend?”
“Certainly,” replied the older man.
“Then am I correct in assuming that you are actually the person of whom I have heard so much up and down Europe—the man of whom certain men and women speak with admiration, and with bated breath—the man known in certain circles as—asIl Passero?”
The countenance of the little man with the bristly white hair and the black glove relaxed into a smile, as, still holding Hugh’s hand in friendship, he replied:
“Yes. It is true. Some know me as ‘The Sparrow!’”
Hugh Henfrey was at last face to face with the most notorious criminal in Europe!
The black-gloved hand of the wizened, bristly-haired old man was the hand that controlled a great organization spread all over Europe—an organization which only knew Il Passero by repute, but had never seen him in the flesh.
Yet there he was, a discreet, rather petulant old gentleman, who lived at ease in an exclusive West End street, and was entirely unsuspected!
When “Mr. Peters” admitted his identity, Hugh drew a long breath. He was staggered. He was profuse in his thanks, but “The Sparrow” merely smiled, saying:
“It is true that I and certain of my friends make war upon Society—and more especially upon those who have profiteered upon those brave fellows who laid down their lives for us in the war. Whatever you have heard concerning me I hope you will forgive, Mr. Henfrey. At least I am the friend of those who are in distress, or who are wrongly judged—as you are to-day.”
“I have heard many strange things concerning you from those who have never met you,” Hugh said frankly. “But nothing to your detriment. Everyone speaks of you, sir, as a gallant sportsman, possessed of an almost uncanny cleverness in outwitting the authorities.”
“Oh, well!” laughed the shrewd old man. “By the exercise of a little wit, and the possession of a little knowledge of thepersonnelof the police, one can usually outwit them. Curious as you may think it, a very high official at Scotland Yard dined with me here only last night. As I am known as a student of criminology, and reputed to be the author of a book upon that subject, he discussed with me the latest crime problem with which he had been called upon to deal—the mysterious murder of a young girl upon the beach on the north-east coast. His frankness rather amused me. It was, indeed, a quaint situation,” he laughed.
“But does he not recognize you, or suspect?” asked Hugh.
“Why should he? I have never been through the hands of the police in my life. Hence I have never been photographed, nor have my finger prints been taken. I merely organize—that is all.”
“Your organization is most wonderful, Mr.—er—Mr. Peters,” declared the young man. “Since my flight I have had opportunity of learning something concerning it. And frankly, I am utterly astounded.”
The old man’s face again relaxed into a sphinx-like smile.
“When I order, I am obeyed,” he said in a curious tone. “I ordered your rescue from that ugly situation in Monte Carlo. You and Miss Ranscomb no doubt believed the tall man who went to the ball at Nice as a cavalier to be myself. He did not tell you anything to the contrary, because I only reveal my identity to persons whom I can trust, and then only in cases of extreme necessity.”
“Then I take it, sir, that you trust me, and that my case is one of extreme necessity?”
“It is,” was The Sparrow’s reply. “At present I can see no solution of the problem. It will be best, perhaps, for you to remain where you are for the present,” he added. He did not tell the young man of his knowledge of Benton and his hostess.
“But I am very desirous of seeing Miss Ranscomb,” Hugh said. “Is there any way possible by which I can meet her without running too great a risk?”
The Sparrow reflected in silence for some moments.
“To-day is Wednesday,” he remarked slowly at last. “Miss Ranscomb is in London. That I happen to know. Well, go to the Bush Hotel, in Farnham, on Friday afternoon and have tea. She will probably motor there and take tea with you.”
“Will she?” cried Hugh eagerly. “Will you arrange it? You are, indeed, a good Samaritan!”
The little old man smiled.
“I quite understand that this enforced parting under such circumstances is most unfortunate for you both,” he said. “But I have done, and will continue to do, all I can in your interest.”
“I can’t quite make you out, Mr. Peters,” said the young man. “Why should you evince such a paternal interest in me?”
The Sparrow did not at once reply. A strange expression played about his lips.
“Have I not already answered that question twice?” he asked. “Rest assured, Mr. Henfrey, that I have your interests very much at heart.”
“You have some reason for that, I’m sure.”
“Well—yes, I have a reason—a reason which is my own affair.” And he rose to wish his visitor “good-night.”
“I’ll not forget to let Miss Ranscomb know that you will be at Farnham. She will, no doubt, manage to get her mother’s car for the afternoon,” he said. “Good-night!” and with his gloved fingers he took the young man’s outstretched hand.
The instant he heard the front door close he crossed to the telephone, and asking for a number, told the person who answered it to come round and see him without a moment’s delay.
Thus, while Hugh Henfrey was seated beside Mead as Mrs. Bond’s car went swiftly towards Kensington, a thin, rather wiry-looking man of middle age entered The Sparrow’s room.
The latter sprang to his feet quickly at sight of his visitor.
“Ah! Howell! I’m glad you’ve come. Benton and Molly Maxwell are deceiving us. They mean mischief!”
The man he addressed as Howell looked aghast.
“Mischief?” he echoed. “In what way?”
“I’ve not yet arrived at a full conclusion. But we must be on the alert and ready to act whenever the time is ripe. You know what they did over that little affair in Marseilles not so very long ago? They’ll repeat, if we’re not very careful. That girl of Benton’s they are using as a decoy—and she’s a dangerous one.”
“For whom?”
“For old Henfrey’s son.”
The Sparrow’s visitor gave vent to a low whistle.
“They intend to get old Henfrey’s money?”
“Yes—and they will if we are not very wary,” declared the little, bristly-haired old gentleman known as The Sparrow. “The boy has been entirely entrapped. They made onefaux pas, and it is upon that we may—if we are careful—get the better of them. I don’t like the situation at all. They have a distinctly evil design against the boy.”
“Benton and Molly are a combination pretty hard to beat,” remarked Mr. Howell. “But I thought they were friends of ours.”
“True. They were. But after the little affair in Marseilles I don’t trust them,” replied The Sparrow. “When anyone makes a slip, either by design or sheer carelessness, or perhaps by reason of inordinate avarice, then I always have to safeguard myself. I suspect—and my suspicion usually proves correct.”
His midnight visitor drew a long breath.
“What we all say of you is that The Sparrow is gifted with an extra sense,” he said.
The little old man with the gloved hand smiled contentedly.
“I really don’t know why,” he said. “But I scent danger long before others have any suspicion of it. If I did not, you would, many of you who are my friends, have been in prison long ago.”
“But you have such a marvellous memory.”
“Memory!” he echoed. “Quite wrong. I keep everything filed. I work yonder at my desk all day. See this old wardrobe,” and he crossed to a long, genuine Jacobean wardrobe which stood in a corner and, unlocking it, opened the carved doors. “There you see all my plans arranged and docketed. I can tell you what has been attempted to-night. Whether the coup is successful I do not yet know.”
Within were shelves containing many bundles of papers, each tied with pink tape in legal fashion. He took out a small, black-covered index book and, after consulting it, drew out a file of papers from the second shelf.
These he brought to his table, and opened.
“Ah, yes!” he said, knitting his brows as he read a document beneath the green-shaded electric lamp. “You know Franklyn, don’t you?”
“Harold Franklyn?”
“Yes. Well, he’s in the Tatra, in Hungary. He and Matthews are with three Austrian friends of ours, and to-night they are at the Castle of Szombat, belonging to Count Zsolcza, the millionaire banker of Vienna. The Countess has some very valuable jewels, which were indicated to me several months ago by her discharged lady’s maid—through another channel, of course. I hope that before dawn the jewels will be no longer at Szombat, for the Count is an old scoundrel who cornered the people’s food in Austria just before the Armistice and is directly responsible for an enormous amount of suffering. The Countess was a cafe singer in Budapest. Her name was Anna Torna.”
Mr. Howell sat open-mouthed. He was a crook and the bosom friend of the great Passero. Like all others who knew him, he held the master criminal in awe and admiration. The Sparrow, whatever he was, never did a mean action and never took advantage of youth or inexperience. To his finger-tips he was a sportsman, whose chief delight in life was to outwit and puzzle the police of Europe. In the underworld he was believed to be fabulously wealthy, as no doubt he was. To the outside world he was a very rich old gentleman, who contributed generously to charities, kept two fine cars, and, as well as his town house, had a pretty place down in Gloucestershire, and usually rented a grouse moor in Scotland, where he entertained Mr. Howell and several other of his intimate friends who were in the same profitable profession as himself, and in whose “business” he held a controlling interest.
In Paris, Rome, Madrid, or Brussels, he was well known as an idler who stayed at the best hotels and patronized the most expensive restaurants, while his villa on the Riviera he had purchased from a Roumanian prince who had ruined himself by gambling. His gloved hand—gloved because of a natural deformity—was the hand which controlled most of the greater robberies, for his war upon society was constantly far-reaching.
“Is Franklyn coming straight back?” asked Howell.
“That is the plan. He should leave Vienna to-morrow night,” said The Sparrow, again consulting the papers. “And he comes home with all speed. But first he travels to Brussels, and afterwards to The Hague, where he will hand over Anna Torna’s jewels to old Van Ort, and they’ll be cut out of all recognition by the following day. Franklyn will then cross from the Hook to Harwich. He will wire me his departure from Vienna. He’s bought a car for the job, and will have to abandon it somewhere outside of Vienna, for, as in most of our games, time is the essence of the contract,” and the old fellow laughed oddly.
“I thought Franklyn worked with Molly,” said Mr. Howell.
“So he does. I want him back, for I’ve a delicate mission for him,” replied the sphinx-like man known as The Sparrow.
Mr. Howell, at the invitation of the arch-criminal, helped himself to a drink. Then The Sparrow said:
“You are due to leave London the day after to-morrow on that little business in Madrid. You must remain in town. I may want you.”
“Very well. But Tresham is already there. I had a letter from him from the Palace Hotel yesterday.”
“I will recall him by wire to-morrow. Our plans are complete. The Marquis’s picture will still hang in his house until we are ready for it. It is the best specimen of Antonio del Rincon, and will fetch a big price in New York—when we have time to go and get it,” he laughed.
“Is Franklyn to help the Maxwell woman again?” asked Mr. Howell, who was known as an expert valuer of antiques and articles of worth, and who had an office in St. James’s. He only dealt in collectors’ pieces, and in the trade bore an unblemished reputation, on account of his expert knowledge and his sound financial condition. He bought old masters and pieces of antique silver now and then, but none suspected that the genuine purchases at big prices were only made in order to blind his friends as to the actual nature of his business.
Indeed, to his office came many an art gem stolen from its owner on the Continent and smuggled over by devious ways known only to The Sparrow and his associates. And just as ingeniously the stolen property was sent across to America, so well camouflaged that the United States Customs officers were deceived. With pictures it was their usual method to coat the genuine picture with a certain varnish, over which one of the organization, an old artist living in Chelsea, would paint a modern and quite passable picture and add a new canvas back.
Then, on its arrival in America, the new picture was easily cleaned off, the back removed, and lo! it was an old master once more ready for purchase at a high price by American collectors.
Truly, the gloved hand of The Sparrow was a master hand. He had brought well-financed and well-organized theft to a fine art. His “indicators,” both male and female, were everywhere, and cosmopolitan as he was himself, and a wealthy man, he was able to direct—and finance—all sorts of coups, from a barefaced jewel theft to the forgery of American banknotes.
And yet, so strange and mysterious a personality was he that not twenty persons in the whole criminal world had ever met him in the flesh. The tall, good-looking man whom Dorise knew as the White Cavalier was one of four other men who posed in his stead when occasion arose.
Scotland Yard, the Surete in Paris, the Pubblica Sicurezza in Rome, and the Detective Department of the New York police knew, quite naturally, of the existence of the elusive Sparrow, but none of them had been able to trace him.
Why? Because he was only the brains of the great, widespread criminal organization. He remained in smug respectability, while others beneath his hand carried out his orders—they were the servants, well-paid too, and he was the master.
No more widespread nor more wonderful criminal combine had ever been organized than that headed by The Sparrow, the little old man whom Londoners believed to be Cockney, yet Italians believed to be pure-bred Tuscan, while in Paris he was a true Parisian who could speak the argot of the Montmartre without a trace of English accent.
As a politician, as a City man, as a professional man, The Sparrow, whose real name was as obscure as his personality, would have made his mark. If a lawyer, he would have secured the honour of a knighthood—or of a baronetcy, and more than probable he would have entered Parliament.
The Sparrow was a philosopher, and a thorough-going Englishman to boot. Though none knew it, he was able by his unique knowledge of the underworld of Europe to give information—as he did anonymously to the War Office—of certain trusted persons who were, at the moment of the outbreak of war, betraying Britain’s secrets.
The Department of Military Operations was, by means of the anonymous information, able to quash a gigantic German plot against us; but they had been unable to discover either the true source of their information or the identity of their informant.
“I’d better be off. It’s late!” said Mr. Howell, after they had been in close conversation for nearly half an hour.
“Yes; I suppose you must go,” The Sparrow remarked, rising. “I must get Franklyn back. He must get to the bottom of this curious affair. I fell that I am being bamboozled by Benton and Molly Maxwell. The boy is innocent—he is their victim,” he added; “but if I can save him, by gad! I will! Yet it will be difficult. There is much trouble ahead, I anticipate, and it is up to us, Howell, to combat it!”
“Perhaps Franklyn can assist us?”
“Perhaps. I shall not, however, know before he gets back here from his adventures in Hungary. But I tell you, Howell, I am greatly concerned about the lad. He has fallen into the hands of a bad crowd—a very bad crowd indeed.”
Late on Thursday night Dorise and her mother were driving home from Lady Strathbayne’s, in Grosvenor Square, where they had been dining. It was a bright starlight night, and the myriad lamps of the London traffic flashed past the windows as Dorise sat back in silence.
She was tired. The dinner had been followed by a small dance, and she had greatly enjoyed it. For once, George Sherrard, her mother’s friend, had not accompanied them. As a matter of fact, Lady Strathbayne disliked the man, hence he had not been invited.
Suddenly Lady Ranscomb exclaimed:
“I heard about Hugh Henfrey this evening.”
“From whom?” asked her daughter, instantly aroused.
“From that man who took me in to dinner. I think his name was Bowden.”
“Oh! That stout, red-faced man. I don’t know him.”
“Neither do I. He was, however, very pleasant, and seems to have travelled a lot,” replied her mother. “He told me that your precious friend, Henfrey, is back, and is staying down in Surrey as guest of some woman named Bond.”
Dorise sat staggered. Then her lover’s secret was out! If his whereabouts were known in Society, then the police would quickly get upon his track! She felt she must warn him instantly of his peril.
“How did he know, I wonder?” she asked anxiously.
“Oh! I suppose he’s heard. He seemed to know all about the fellow. It appears that at last he’s become engaged.”
“Engaged? Hugh engaged?”
“Yes, to a girl named Louise Lambert. She’s the adopted daughter of a man named Benton, who was, by the way, a great friend of old Mr. Henfrey.”
Hugh engaged to Louise Lambert! Dorise sat bewildered.
“I—I don’t believe it!” she blurted forth at last.
“Ah, my dear. You mean you don’t want to believe it—because you are in love with him!” said her mother as the car rushed homeward. “Now put all this silly girlish nonsense aside. The fellow is under a cloud, and no good. I tell you frankly I will never have him as my son-in-law. How he has escaped the police is a marvel; but if the man Bowden knows where he is, Scotland Yard will, no doubt, soon hear.”
The girl remained silent. Could it be possible that, after all, Hugh had asked Louise Lambert to be his wife? She had known of her, and had met her with Hugh, but he had always assured her that they were merely friends. Yet it appeared that he was now living in concealment under the same roof as she!
Lady Ranscomb, clever woman of the world as she was, watched her daughter’s face in the fleeting lights as they sped homeward, and saw what a crushing blow the announcement had dealt her.
“I don’t believe it,” the girl cried.
She had received word in secret—presumably from the White Cavalier—to meet Hugh at the Bush Hotel at Farnham on the following afternoon, but this secret news held her in doubt and despair.
Lady Ranscomb dropped the subject, and began to speak of other things—of a visit to the flying-ground at Hendon on the following day, and of an invitation they had received to spend the following week with a friend at Cowes.
On arrival home Dorise went at once to her room, where her maid awaited her.
After the distracted girl had thrown off her cloak, her maid unhooked her dress, whereupon Dorise dismissed her to bed.
“I want to read, so go to bed,” she said in a petulant voice which rather surprised the neat muslin-aproned maid.
“Very well, miss. Good-night,” the latter replied meekly.
But as soon as the door was closed Dorise flung herself upon the chintz-covered couch and wept bitterly as though her heart would break.
She had met Louise Lambert—it was Hugh who had introduced them. George Sherrard had several times told her of the friendship between the pair, and one night at the Haymarket Theatre she had seen them together in a box. On another occasion she had met them at Ciro’s, and they had been together at the Embassy, at Ranelagh, and yet again she had seen them lunching together one Sunday at the Metropole at Brighton.
All this had aroused suspicion and jealousy in her mind. It was all very well for Hugh to disclaim anything further than pure friendship, but now that Gossip was casting her hydra-headed venom upon their affairs, it was surely time to act.
Hugh would be awaiting her at Farnham next afternoon.
She crossed to the window and looked at the bright stars. In war time she used to see the long beams of searchlights playing to and fro. But now all was peace in London, and the world-war half forgotten.
Within herself arose a great struggle. Hugh was accused of a crime—an accusation of which he could not clear himself. He had been hunted across Europe by the police and had, up to the present, been successful in slipping through their fingers.
But why did he visit that notorious woman at that hour of the night? What could have been the secret bond between them?
The woman had narrowly escaped death presumably on account of his murderous attack upon her, while he had cleverly evaded arrest, until, at the present moment, his whereabouts was known only to a dinner-table gossip, and he was staying in the same house as the girl, love for whom he had always so vehemently disclaimed.
Poor Dorise spent a sleepless night. She lay awake thinking—and yet thinking!
At breakfast her mother looked at her and, with satisfaction, saw that she had gained a point nearer her object.
Dorise went into Bond Street shopping at eleven o’clock, still undecided whether to face Hugh or not. The shopping was a fiasco. She bought only a bunch of flowers.
But in her walk she made a resolve not to make further excuse. She would not ask her mother for the car, and Hugh, by waiting alone, should be left guessing.
On returning home, her mother told her of George’s acceptance of an invitation to lunch.
“There’s a matinee at the Lyric, and he’s taking us there,” she added. “But, dear,” she went on, “you look ever so pale! What is worrying you? I hope you are not fretting over that good-for-nothing waster, Henfrey! Personally, I’m glad to be rid of a fellow who is wanted by the police for a very serious crime. Do brighten up, dear. This is not like you!”
“I—well, mother, I—I don’t know what to do,” the girl confessed.
“Do! Take my advice, darling. Think no more of the fellow. He’s no use to you—or to me.”
“But, mother dear—”
“No, Dorise, no more need be said!” interrupted Lady Ranscomb severely. “You surely would not be so idiotic as to throw in your lot with a man who is certainly a criminal.”
“A criminal! Why do you denounce him, mother?”
“Well, he stands self-condemned. He has been in hiding ever since that night at Monte Carlo. If he were innocent, he would surely, for your sake, come forward and clear himself. Are you mad, Dorise—or are you blind?”
The girl remained silent. Her mother’s argument was certainly a very sound one. Had Hugh deceived her?
Her lover’s attitude was certainly that of a guilty man. She could not disguise from herself the fact that he was fleeing from justice, and that he was unable to give an explanation why he went to the house of Mademoiselle at all.
Yvonne Ferad, the only person who could tell the truth, was a hopeless idiot because of the murderous attack. Hence, the onus of clearing himself rested upon Hugh.
She loved him, but could she really trust him in face of the fact that he was concealed comfortably beneath the same roof as Louise Lambert?
She recalled that once, when they had met at Newquay in Cornwall over a tete-a-tete lunch, he had said, in reply to her banter, that Louise was a darling! That he was awfully fond of her, that she had the most wonderful eyes, and that she was always alert and full of a keen sense of humour.
Such a compliment Hugh had never paid to her. The recollection of it stung her.
She wondered what sort of woman was the person named Bond. Then she decided that she had acted wisely in not going to Farnham. Why should she? If Hugh was with the girl he admired, then he might return with her.
Her only fear was lest he should be arrested. If his place of concealment were spoken of over a West End dinner-table, then it could not be long before detectives arrested him for the affair at the Villa Amette.
On that afternoon Hugh had borrowed Mrs. Bond’s car upon a rather lame pretext, and had pulled up in the square, inartistic yard before the Bush—the old coaching house, popular before the new road over the Hog’s Back was made, and when the coaches had to ascend that steep hill out of Guildford, now known as The Mount. For miles the old road is now grass-grown and forms a most delightful walk, with magnificent views from the Thames Valley to the South Downs. The days of the coaches have, alas! passed, and the new road, with its tangle of telegraph wires, is beloved by every motorist and motor-cyclist who spins westward in Surrey.
Hugh waited anxiously in the little lounge which overlooks the courtyard. He went into the garden, and afterwards stood in impatience beneath the archway from which the street is approached. Later, he strolled along the road over which he knew Dorise must come. But all to no avail.
There was no sign of her.
Until six o’clock he waited, when, in blank despair, he mounted beside Mead again and drove back to Shapley Manor. It was curious that Dorise had not come to meet him, but he attributed it to The Sparrow’s inability to convey a message to her. She might have gone out of town with her mother, he thought. Or, perhaps, at the last moment, she had been unable to get away.
On his return to Shapley he found Louise and Mrs. Bond sitting together in the charming, old-world drawing-room. A log fire was burning brightly.
“Did you have a nice run, Hugh?” asked the girl, clasping her hands behind her head and looking up at him as he stood upon the pale-blue hearthrug.
“Quite,” he replied. “I went around Hindhead down to Frensham Ponds and back through Farnham—quite a pleasant run.”
“Mr. Benton has had to go to town,” said his hostess. “Almost as soon as you had gone he was rung up, and he had to get a taxi out from Guildford. He’ll be back to-morrow.”
“Oh, yes—and, by the way, Hugh,” exclaimed Louise, “there was a call for you about a quarter of an hour afterwards. I thought nobody knew you were down here.”
“For me!” gasped Henfrey, instantly alarmed.
“Yes, I answered the ‘phone. It was a girl’s voice!”
“A girl! Who?”
“I don’t know who she was. She wouldn’t give her name,” Louise replied. “She asked if we were Shapley, and I replied. Then she asked for you. I told her that you were out in the car and asked her name. But she said it didn’t matter at all, and rang off.”
“I wonder who she was?” remarked Hugh, much puzzled and, at the same time, greatly alarmed. He scented danger. The fact in itself showed that somebody knew the secret of his hiding-place, and, if they did, then the police were bound to discover him sooner or later.
Half an hour afterwards he took Mrs. Bond aside, and pointed out the peril in which he was placed. His hostess, on her part, grew alarmed, for though Hugh was unaware of it, she had no desire to meet the police. That little affair in Paris was by no means forgotten.
“It is certainly rather curious,” the woman admitted. “Evidently it is known by somebody that you are staying with me. Don’t you think it would be wiser to leave?”
Hugh hesitated. He wished to take Benton’s advice, and told his hostess so. With this she agreed, yet she was inwardly highly nervous at the situation. Any police inquiry at Shapley would certainly be most unwelcome to her, and she blamed herself for agreeing to Benton’s proposal that Hugh should stay there.
“Benton will be back to-morrow,” Hugh said. “Do you think it safe for me to remain here till then?” he added anxiously.
“I hardly know what to think,” replied the woman. She herself had a haunting dread of recognition as Molly Maxwell. She had crossed and recrossed the Atlantic, carefully covering her tracks, and she did not intend to be cornered at last.
After dinner, Hugh, still greatly perturbed at the mysterious telephone call, played billiards with Louise. About a quarter to eleven, however, Mrs. Bond was called to the telephone and, closing the door, listened to an urgent message.
It was from Benton, who spoke from London—a few quick, cryptic, but reassuring words—and when the woman left the room three minutes later all her anxiety as to the police had apparently passed.
She joined the young couple and watched their game. Louise handled her cue well, and very nearly beat her opponent. Afterwards, when Louise went out, Mrs. Bond closed the door swiftly, and said:
“I’ve been thinking over that little matter, Mr. Henfrey. I really don’t think there is much cause for alarm. Charles will be back to-morrow, and we can consult him.”
Hugh shrugged his shoulders. He was much puzzled.
“The fact is, Mrs. Bond, I’m tired of being hunted like this!” he said. “This eternal fear of arrest has got upon my nerves to such an extent that I feel if they want to bring me for trial—well, they can. I’m innocent—therefore, how can they prove me guilty?”
“Oh! you mustn’t let it obsess you,” the woman urged. “Mr. Benton has told me all about the unfortunate affair, and I greatly sympathize with you. Of course, to court the publicity of a trial would be fatal. What would your poor father think, I wonder, if he were still alive?”
“He’s dead,” said the young man in a low, hoarse voice; “but Mademoiselle Ferad knows the secret of his death.”
“He died suddenly—did he not?”
“Yes. He was murdered, Mrs. Bond. I’m certain of it. My father was murdered!”
“Murdered?” she echoed. “What did the doctors say?”
“They arrived at no definite conclusion,” was Hugh’s response. “He left home and went up to London on some secret and mysterious errand. Later, he was found lying upon the pavement in a dying condition. He never recovered consciousness, but sank a few hours afterwards. His death is one of the many unsolved mysteries of London.”
“The police believe that you went to the Villa Amette and murdered Mademoiselle out of revenge.”
“Let them prove it!” said the young fellow defiantly. “Let them prove it!”
“Prove what?” asked Louise, as she suddenly reopened the door, greatly to the woman’s consternation.
“Oh! Only somebody—that Spicer woman over at Godalming—has been saying some wicked and nasty things about Mr. Henfrey,” replied Mrs. Bond. “Personally, I should be annoyed. Really those gossiping people are simply intolerable.”
“What have they been saying, Hugh?” asked the girl.
“Oh, it’s really nothing,” laughed Henfrey. “I apologize. I was put out a moment ago, but I now see the absurdity of it. Forgive me, Louise.”
The girl looked from Mrs. Bond to her guest in amazement.
“What is there to forgive?” she asked.
“The fact that I was in the very act of losing my temper. That’s all.”
Presently, when Louise was ascending the stairs with Mrs. Bond, the girl asked:
“Why was Hugh so put out? What has Mrs. Spicer been saying about him?”
“Only that he was a shirker during the war. And, naturally, he is highly indignant.”
“He has a right to be. He did splendidly. His record shows that,” declared the girl.
“I urged him to take no notice of the insults. The Spicer woman has a very venomous tongue, my dear! She is a vicar’s widow!”
And then they separated to their respective rooms.
Half an hour later Hugh Henfrey retired, but he found sleep impossible; so he got up and sat at the open window, gazing across to the dim outlines of the Surrey hills, picturesque and undulating beneath the stars.
Who could have called him on the telephone? It was a woman, but the voice might have been that of a female telephone operator. Or yet—it might have been that of Dorise! She knew that he was at Shapley and looked it up in the telephone directory. If that were the explanation, then she certainly would not give away the secret of his hiding-place.
Still he was haunted by a great dread the whole of that night. The Sparrow had told him he had acted foolishly in leaving his place of concealment in Kensington. The Sparrow was his firm friend, and in future he intended to obey the little old man’s orders implicitly—as so many others did.
Next morning he came down to breakfast before the ladies, and beside his plate he found a letter—addressed to him openly. He had not received one addressed in his real name for many months. Sight of it caused his heart to bound in anxiety, but when he read it he stood rooted to the spot.
Those lines which he read staggered him; the room seemed to revolve, and he re-read them, scarce believing his own eyes.
He realized in that instant that a great blow had fallen upon him, and that all was now hopeless. The sunshine of his life, had in that single instant, been blotted out!