At the moment he had read the letter Mrs. Bond entered the room.
“Hallo! You’re down early,” she remarked. “And already had your letters, I see! They don’t generally come so early. The postman has to walk over from Puttenham.”
Then she took up her own and carelessly placed them aside. They consisted mostly of circulars and the accounts of Guildford tradesmen.
“Yes,” he said, “I was down early. Lately I’ve acquired the habit of early rising.”
“An excellent habit in a young man,” she laughed. “All men who achieve success are early risers—so a Cabinet Minister said the other day. And really, I believe it.”
“An hour in the early morning is worth three after dinner. That is why Cabinet Ministers entertain people at breakfast nowadays instead of at dinner. In the morning the brain is fresh and active—a fact recently discovered in our post-war days,” Hugh said.
Then, as his hostess turned to the hot-plate upon the sideboard, lifting the covers to see what her cook had provided, he re-scanned the letter which had been openly addressed to him. It was from Dorise:
“I refuse to be deceived any longer, I have discovered that you are now a fellow-guest with the girl Louise, to whom you introduced me. And yet you arranged to meet me at Farnham, believing that I was not aware of your close friendship with her! I have believed in you up to the present, but the scales have now fallen from my eyes. I thought you loved me too well to deceive me—as you are doing. Hard things are being said about you—but you can rest content that I shall reveal nothing that I happen to know. What I do know, however, has changed my thoughts concerning you. I believed you to be the victim of circumstance. Now I know you have deceived me, and that I, myself, am the victim. I need only add that someone else—whom I know not—knows of your hiding-place, for, by a roundabout way, I heard of it, and hence, I address this letter to you.—DORISE.”
Hugh Henfrey stood staggered. There was no mistaking the meaning of that letter now that he had read it a second time.
Dorise doubted him! And what answer could he give her? Any explanation must, to her, be but a lame excuse.
Hugh ate his breakfast sullenly. To Louise, who put in a late appearance, and helped herself off the hot-plate, he said cheerfully:
“How lazy you are!”
“It’s not laziness, Hugh,” replied the girl. “The maid was so late with my tea—and—well, to tell the truth, I upset a whole new box of powder on my dressing-table and had to clean up the mess.”
“More haste—less speed,” laughed Hugh. “It is always the same in the morning—eh?”
When the girl sat down at the table Hugh had brightened up. Still the load upon his shoulders was a heavy one. He was ever obsessed by the mystery of his father’s death, combined with that extraordinary will by which it was decreed that if he married Louise he would acquire his father’s fortune.
Louise was certainly very good-looking, and quite charming. He admitted that as he gazed across at her fresh figure on the opposite side of the table. He, of course, was in ignorance of the fact that Benton, who had adopted her, was a clever and unscrupulous adventurer, whose accomplice was the handsome woman who was his hostess.
Naturally, he never dreamed that that quiet and respectable house, high on the beautiful Surrey hills, was the abode of a woman for whom the police of Europe were everywhere searching.
His thoughts all through breakfast were of The Sparrow—the great criminal, who was his friend. Hence, after they rose, he strolled into the morning-room with his hostess, and said:
“I’ll have to go to town again this morning. I have an urgent letter. Can Mead take me?”
“Certainly,” was the woman’s reply. “I have to make a call at Worplesdon this afternoon, and Louise is going with me. But Mead can be back before then to take us.”
So half an hour later Hugh was driving up the steep High Street of Guildford on his way to London.
He alighted in Piccadilly, at the end of Half Moon Street, soon after eleven, and, dismissing Mead, made his way to Ellerston Street to the house of Mr. George Peters.
He rang the bell at the old-fashioned mansion, and a few moments later the door was opened by the manservant he had previously seen.
In an instant the servant recognized the visitor.
“Mr. Peters will not be in for a quarter of an hour,” he said. “Would you care to wait, sir?”
“Yes,” Hugh replied. “I want to see him very urgently.”
“Will you come in? Mr. Peters has left instructions that you might probably call; Mr. Henfrey, is it not?”
“Yes,” replied Hugh. The man seemed to possess a memory like that of a club hall-porter.
Young Henfrey was ushered into a small but cosy little room, which, in the light of day, he saw was well-furnished and upholstered. The door closed, and he waited.
A few moments after he distinctly heard a man’s voice, which he at once recognized as that of The Sparrow.
The servant had told him that Mr. Peters was absent, yet he recognized his voice—a rather high-pitched, musical one.
“Mr. Henfrey is waiting,” he heard the servant say.
“Right! I hope you told him I was out,” The Sparrow replied.
Then there was silence.
Hugh stood there very much puzzled. The room was cosy and well-furnished, but the light was somewhat dim, while the atmosphere was decidedly murky, as it is in any house in Mayfair. One cannot obtain brightness and light in a West End house, where one’s vista is bounded by bricks and mortar. The dukes in their great town mansions are no better off for light and air than the hard-working and worthy wage-earners of Walworth, Deptford, or Peckham. The air in the working-class districts of London is not one whit worse than it is in Mayfair or in Belgravia.
Hugh stood before an old coloured print representing the hobby-horse school—the days of the “bone-shakers”—and studied it. He awaited Il Passero and the advice which he had promised to give.
His ears were strained. That house was curiously quiet and forbidding. The White Cavalier, whom he had believed to be the notorious Sparrow, had been proved to be one of his assistants. He had now met the real, elusive adventurer, who controlled half the criminal adventurers in Europe, and had found in him a most genial friend. He was there to seek his advice and to act upon it.
As he reflected, he realized that without the aid of The Sparrow he would have long ago been in the hands of the police. So widespread was the organization which The Sparrow controlled that it mattered not in what capital he might be, the paternal hand of protection was placed upon him—in Genoa, in Brussels, in London—anywhere.
It seemed that when The Sparrow protected any criminal the fugitive was safe. He had been sent to Mrs. Mason in Kensington, and he had left her room against The Sparrow’s will.
Hence his peril of arrest. It was that point which he wished to discuss with the great arch-criminal of Europe.
That house was one of mystery. The servant had told him that he was expected. Why? What did The Sparrow suspect?
The whole atmosphere of that old-fashioned place was mysterious and apprehensive. And yet its owner had succeeded in extricating him from that very perilous position at Monte Carlo!
Suddenly, as he stood there, he heard voices again. They were raised in discussion.
One voice he recognized as that of The Sparrow.
“Well, I tell you my view is still the same,” he exclaimed. “What you have told me does not alter it, however much you may ridicule me!”
“Then you know the truth—eh?”
“I really didn’t say so, my dear Howell. But I have my suspicions—strong suspicions.”
“Which you will, in due course, impart to young Henfrey, I suppose?”
“I shall do nothing of the sort,” was The Sparrow’s reply. “The lad is in serious peril. I happen to know that.”
“Then why don’t you warn him at once?”
“That’s my affair!” snapped the gentleman known in Mayfair as Mr. Peters.
“IF Henfrey is here, then I’d like to meet him,” Howell said.
It seemed as though the pair were in a room on the opposite side of the passage, and yet, though Hugh stood at some distance away, he could hear the words quite distinctly. At this he was much surprised. He did not, however, know that in that house in Ellerston Street there had been constructed a curious system of ventilation of the rooms by which a conversation taking place in a distant apartment could be heard in certain other rooms.
The fact was that The Sparrow received a good many queer visitors, and some of their whispered conversations while they awaited him were often full of interest.
The house was, in more than one way, a curiosity. It had a secret exit through a mews at the rear—now converted into a garage—and several other mysterious contrivances which were unsuspected by visitors.
“It would hardly do for him to know what we know, Mr. Peters—eh?” Hugh heard Howell say a moment later. It was the habit of The Sparrow’s accomplices to address their great director—the brain of criminal Europe—by the name under which they inquired for him. The Sparrow had twenty names—one for every city in which he had a cosypied-a-terre. In Paris, Lisbon, Madrid, Marseilles, Vienna, Hamburg, Budapest, Stockholm and on the Riviera, he was, in all the cities, known by a different name. Yet each was so distinct, and each individuality so well kept up, that he snapped his fingers at the police and pitied them their red tape, ignorance, and lack of initiative.
Truly, Il Passero, the cosmopolitan of many names and half a dozen nationalities, had brought criminality to a fine art.
Hugh, standing there breathless, listened to every word. Who was this man Howell?
“Hush!” cried The Sparrow suddenly. “What a fool I am! I quite forgot to close the ventilator in the room to which the young fellow has been shown! I hope he hasn’t overheard! I had Evans and Janson in there an hour ago, and they were discussing me, as I expected they would! It was a good job that I took the precaution of opening the ventilator, because I learned a good deal that I had never suspected. It has placed me on my guard. I’ll go and get young Henfrey. But,” he added, “be extremely careful. Disclose nothing you know concerning the affair.”
“I shall be discreet, never fear,” replied his visitor.
A moment later The Sparrow entered the room where Henfrey was, and greeted him warmly. Then he ushered him down the passage to the room wherein stood his mysterious visitor.
The room was such a distance away that Hugh was surprised that he could have heard so distinctly. But, after all, it was an uncanny experience to be associated with that man of mystery, whose very name was uttered by his accomplices with bated breath.
“My friend, Mr. George Howell,” said The Sparrow, introducing the slim, wiry-looking, middle-aged man, who was alert and clean-shaven, and plainly but well dressed—a man whom the casual acquaintance would take to be a solicitor of a fair practice. He bore the stamp of suburbia all over him, and his accent was peculiarly that of London.
His bearing was that of high respectability. The diamond scarf-pin was his only ornament—a fine one, which sparkled even in that dull London light. He was a square-shouldered man, with peculiarly shrewd, rather narrow eyes, and dark, bushy eyebrows.
“Glad to meet you, Mr. Henfrey,” he replied, with a gay, rather nonchalant air. “My friend Mr. Peters has been speaking about you. Had a rather anxious time, I hear.”
Henfrey looked at the stranger inquisitively, and then glanced at The Sparrow.
“Mr. Howell is quite safe,” declared the man with the gloved hand. “He is one of Us. So you may speak without fear.”
“Well,” replied the young man, “the fact is, I’ve had a very apprehensive time. I’m here to seek Mr. Peters’ kind advice, for without him I’m sure I’d have been arrested and perhaps convicted long ago.”
“Oh! A bit of bad luck—eh? Nearly found out, have you been? Ah! All of us have our narrow escapes. I’ve had many in my time,” and he grinned.
“So have all of us,” laughed the bristly-haired man. “But tell me, Henfrey, why have you come to see me so quickly?”
“Because they know where I’m in hiding!”
“They know? Who knows?”
“Miss Ranscomb knows my whereabouts and has written to me in my real name and addressed the letter to Shapley.”
“Well, what of that?” he asked. “I told her.”
“She tells me that my present hiding-place is known!”
“Not known to the police?Impossible!” gasped the black-gloved man.
“I take it that such is a fact.”
“Why, Molly is there!” cried the man Howell. “If the police suspect that Henfrey is at Shapley, then they’ll visit the place and have a decided haul.”
“Why?” asked Hugh in ignorance.
“Nothing. I never discuss other people’s private affairs, Mr. Henfrey,” Howell answered very quietly.
Hugh was surprised at the familiar mention of “Molly,” and the declaration that if the Manor were searched the police would have “a decided haul.”
“This is very interesting,” declared The Sparrow. “What did Miss Ranscomb say in her letter?”
For a second Hugh hesitated; then, drawing it from his pocket, he gave it to the gloved man to read.
Hugh knew that The Sparrow was withholding certain truths from him, yet had he not already proved himself his best and only friend? Brock was a good friend, but unable to assist him.
The Sparrow’s strongly marked face changed as he read Dorise’s angry letter.
“H’m!” he grunted. “I will see her. We must discover why she has sent you this warning. Come back again this evening. But be very careful where you go in the meantime.”
Thus dismissed, Hugh walked along Ellerston Street into Curzon Street towards Piccadilly, not knowing where to go to spend the intervening hours.
The instant he had gone, however, The Sparrow turned to his companion, who said:
“I wonder if Lisette has revealed anything?”
“By Jove!” remarked The Sparrow, for once suddenly perturbed.“I never thought of that!”
“Well—recollect how much the girl knows!” Howell remarked as he stood before The Sparrow in the latter’s room.
“I have not forgotten,” said the other. “The whole circumstances of old Henfrey’s death are not known to me. That it was an unfortunate affair has long ago been proved.”
“Yvonne was the culprit, of course,” said Howell. “That was apparent from the first.”
“I suppose she was,” remarked The Sparrow reflectively. “But that attempt upon her life puzzles me.”
“Who could have greater motive in killing her out of revenge than the dead man’s son?”
“Agreed. But I am convinced that the lad is innocent. Therefore I gave him our protection.”
“I was travelling abroad at the time, you recollect. When I learnt of the affair through Franklyn about a week afterwards I was amazed. The loss of Yvonne to us is a serious one.”
“Very—I agree. She had done some excellent work—the affair in the Rue Royale, for instance.”
“And the clever ruse by which she got those emeralds of the Roumanian princess. The Vienna police are still searching for her—after three years,” laughed the companion of the chief of the international organization, whose word was law in the criminal underworld of Europe.
“Knowing what you did regarding the knowledge of old Mr. Henfrey’s death possessed by Lisette, I have been surprised that you placed her beneath your protection.”
“If she had been arrested she might have told some very unpleasant truths, in order to save herself,” The Sparrow remarked, “so I chose the latter evil.”
“Young Henfrey met her. I wonder whether she told him anything?”
“No. I questioned her. She was discreet, it seems. Or at least, she declares that she was.”
“That’s a good feature. But, speaking frankly, have you any idea of the identity of the person—man or woman—who attempted to kill Yvonne?” asked Howell.
“I have a suspicion—a pretty shrewd suspicion,” replied the little bristly-haired man.
His companion was silent.
“And you don’t offer to confide in me your suspicions—eh?”
“It is wiser to obtain proof before making any allegations,” answered The Sparrow, smiling.
“You will still protect Lisette?” Howell asked. “I agree that, like Yvonne, she has been of great use to us in many ways. Beauty and wit are always assets in our rather ticklish branch of commerce. Where is Lisette now?”
“At the moment, she’s in Madrid,” The Sparrow replied. “There is a little affair there—the jewels of a Belgian’s wife—a fellow who, successfully posing as a German during the occupation of Brussels, made a big fortune by profiteering in leather. They are in Madrid for six months, in order to escape unwelcome inquiries by the Government in Brussels. They have a villa just outside the city, and I have sent Lisette there with certain instructions.”
“Who is with her?”
“Nobody yet. Franklyn will go in due course.”
Howell’s thin lips relaxed into a curious smile.
“Franklyn is in love with Lisette,” he remarked.
“That is why I am sending them together to execute the little mission,” The Sparrow said. “Lisette was here a fortnight ago, and I mapped out for her a plan. I went myself to Madrid not long ago, in order to survey the situation.”
“The game is worth the candle, I suppose—eh?”
“Yes. If we get the lot Van Groot, in Amsterdam, will give at least fifteen thousand for them. Moulaert bought most of them from old Leplae in the Rue de la Paix. There are some beautiful rubies among them. I saw Madame wearing some of the jewels at the Palace Hotel, in Madrid, while they were staying there before their villa was ready. Moulaert, with his wife and two friends from the Belgian Legation, dined at a table next to mine, little dreaming with what purpose I ate my meal alone.”
Truly, the intuition and cleverness of The Sparrow were wonderful. He never moved without fully considering every phase of the consequences. Unlike most adventurers, he drank hardly anything. Half a glass of dry sherry at eleven in the morning, the same at luncheon, and one glass of claret for his dinner.
Yet often at restaurants he would order champagne, choice vintage clarets, and liqueurs—when occasion demanded. He would offer them to his friends, but just sip them himself, having previously arranged with the waiter to miss filling his glass.
Of the peril of drink “Mr. Peters” was constantly lecturing the great circle of his friends.
Each year—on the 26th of February to be exact—there was held a dinner at a well-known restaurant in the West End—the annual dinner of a club known as “The Wonder Wizards.” It was supposed to be a circle of professional conjurers.
This dinner was usually attended by fifty guests of both sexes, all well-dressed and prosperous, and of several nationalities. It was presided over by a Mr. Charles Williams.
Now, to tell the truth, the guests believed him to be The Sparrow; but in reality Mr. Williams was the tall White Cavalier whom Hugh had believed to be the great leader, until he had gone to Mayfair and met the impelling personality whom the police had for so long failed to arrest.
The situation was indeed humorous. It was The Sparrow’s fancy to hold the reunion at a public restaurant instead of at a private house. Under the very nose of Scotland Yard the deputy of the notorious Sparrow entertained the chiefs of the great criminal octopus. There were speeches, but from them the waiters learned nothing. It was simply a club of conjurers. None suspected that the guests were those who conjured fortunes out of the pockets of the unsuspecting. And while the chairman—believed by those who attended to be The Sparrow himself—sat there, the bristly-haired, rather insignificant-looking little man occupied a seat in a far-off corner, from where he scrutinized his guests very closely, and smiled at the excellent manner in which his deputy performed the duties of chairman.
Because it was a club of conjurers, and because the conjurers displayed their new tricks and illusions, after an excellent dinner the waiters were excluded and the doors locked after the coffee.
It was then that the bogus Sparrow addressed those present, and gave certain instructions which were later on carried into every corner of Europe. Each member had his speciality, and each group its district and its sanctuary, in case of a hue-and-cry. Every crime that could be committed was committed by them—everything save murder.
The tall, thin man whom everyone believed to be The Sparrow never failed to impress upon his hearers, after the doors were carefully locked, that however they might attack and rob the rich, human life was sacred.
It was the real Sparrow’s order. He abominated the thought of taking human life, hence when old Mr. Henfrey had been foully done to death in the West End he had at once set to work to discover the actual criminal. This he had failed to do. And afterwards there had followed the attempted assassination of Yvonne Ferad, known as Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo.
The two men stood discussing the young French girl, Lisette, whom Hugh had met when in hiding in the Via della Maddalena in Genoa.
“I only hope; that she has not told young Henfrey anything,” Howell said, with distinct apprehension.
“No,” laughed The Sparrow. “She came to me and told me how she had met him in Genoa and discovered to her amazement that he was old Henfrey’s son.”
“How curious that the pair should meet by accident,” remarked Howell. “I tell you that Benton is not playing a straight game. That iniquitous will which the old man left he surely must have signed under some misapprehension. Perhaps he thought he was applying for a life policy—or something of that short. Signatures to wills have been procured under many pretexts by scoundrelly relatives and unscrupulous lawyers.”
“I know. And the witnesses have placed their signatures afterward,” remarked The Sparrow thoughtfully. “But in this case all seems above board—at least so far as the will is concerned. Benton was old Henfrey’s bosom friend. Henfrey was very taken with Louise, and I know that he was desirous Hugh should marry her.”
“And if he did, Hugh would acquire the old man’s fortune, and Benton would step in and seize it—as is his intention.”
“Undoubtedly. All we can do is to keep Hugh and Louise apart. The latter is in entire ignorance of the true profession of her adopted father, and she’d be horrified if she knew that Molly was simply a clever adventuress, who is very much wanted in Paris and in Brussels,” said the gloved man.
“A good job that she knows nothing,” said Howell. “But it would be a revelation to her if the police descended upon Shapley Manor—wouldn’t it?”
“Yes. That is why I must see Dorise Ranscomb and ascertain from her exactly what she has heard. I know the police tracked Hugh to London, and for that reason he went with Benton down into Surrey—out of the frying-pan into the fire.”
“Well, before we can go farther, it seems that we should ascertain who shot Yvonne,” Howell suggested. “It was a most dastardly thing, and whoever did it ought to be punished.”
“He ought. But I’m as much in the dark as you are, Howell; but, as I have already said, I entertain strong suspicions.”
“I’ll suggest one name—Benton?”
The Sparrow shook his head.
“The manservant, Giulio Cataldi?” Howell ventured. “I never liked that sly old Italian.”
“What motive could the old fellow have had?”
“Robbery, probably. We have no idea what were Yvonne’s winnings that night—or of the money she had in her bag.”
“Yes, we do know,” was The Sparrow’s reply. “According to the police report, Yvonne, on her return home, went to her room, carrying her bag, which she placed upon her dressing-table. Then, after removing her cloak and hat, she went downstairs again and out on to the veranda. A few minutes later the young man was announced. High words were heard by old Cataldi, and then a shot.”
“And Yvonne’s bag?”
“It was found where she had left it. In it were three thousand eight hundred francs, all in notes.”
“Yet Franklyn told me that he had heard how Yvonne won quite a large sum that night.”
“She might have done so—and have lost the greater part of it,” The Sparrow replied.
“On the other hand, what more feasible than that the old manservant, watching her place it there, abstracted the bulk of the money—a large sum, no doubt—and afterwards, in order to conceal his crime, shot his mistress in such circumstances as to place the onus of the crime upon her midnight visitor?”
“That the affair was very cleverly planned there is no doubt,” said The Sparrow. “There is a distinct intention to fasten the guilt upon young Henfrey, because he alone would have a motive for revenge for the death of his father. Of that fact the man or woman who fired the shot was most certainly aware. How could Cataldi have known of it?”
“I certainly believe the Italian robbed his mistress and afterwards attempted to murder her,” Howell insisted.
“He might rob his mistress, certainly. He might even have robbed her of considerable sums systematically,” The Sparrow assented. “The maids told the police that Mademoiselle’s habit was to leave her bag with her winnings upon the dressing-table while she went downstairs and took a glass of wine.”
“Exactly. She did so every evening. Her habits were regular. Yet she never knew the extent of her winnings at the tables before she counted them. And she never did so until the following morning. That is what Franklyn told me in Venice when we met a month afterwards.”
“He learnt that from me,” The Sparrow said with a smile. “No,” he went on; “though old Cataldi could well have robbed his mistress, just as the maids could have done, and Yvonne would have been none the wiser, yet I do not think he would attempt to conceal his crime by shooting her, because by so doing he cut off all future supplies. If he were a thief he would not be such a fool. Therefore you may rest assured, Howell, that the hand that fired the shot was that of some person who desired to close Yvonne’s mouth.”
“She might have held some secret concerning old Cataldi. Or, on his part, he might have cherished some grievance against her. Italians are usually very vindictive,” replied the visitor. “On the other hand, it would be to Benton’s advantage that the truth concerning old Henfrey’s death was suppressed. Yvonne was about to tell the young man something—perhaps confess the truth, who knows?—when the shot was fired.”
“Well, my dear Howell, you have your opinion and I have mine,” laughed The Sparrow. “The latter I shall keep to myself—until my theory is disproved.”
Thereupon Howell took a cigar that his host offered him, and while he slowly lit it, The Sparrow crossed to the telephone.
He quickly found Lady Ranscomb’s number in the directory, and a few moments later was talking to the butler, of whom he inquired for Miss Dorise.
“Tell her,” he added, “that a friend of Mr. Henfrey’s wishes to speak to her.”
In a few moments The Sparrow heard the girl’s voice.
“Yes?” she inquired. “Who is speaking?”
“A friend of Mr. Henfrey,” was the reply of the man with the gloved hand. “You will probably guess who it is.”
He heard a little nervous laugh, and then:
“Oh, yes. I—I have an idea, but I can’t talk to you over the ‘phone. I’ve got somebody who’s just called. Mother is out—and——” Then she lowered her voice, evidently not desirous of being heard in the adjoining room. “Well, I don’t know what to do.”
“What do you mean? Does it concern Mr. Henfrey?”
“Yes. It does. There’s a man here to see me from Scotland Yard! What shall I do?”
The Sparrow gasped at the girl’s announcement.
Next second he recovered himself.
“A man from Scotland Yard!” he echoed. “Why has he called?”
“He knows that Mr. Henfrey is living at Shapley, in Surrey. And he has been asking whether I am acquainted with you.”
A fortnight had gone by.
Ten o’clock in the morning in the Puerta del Sol, that great plaza in Madrid—the fine square which, like the similarly-named gates at Toledo and Segovia, commands a view of the rising sun, as does the ancient Temple of Abu Simbel on the Nile.
Hugh Henfrey—a smart, lithe figure in blue serge—had been lounging for ten minutes before the long facade of the Ministerio de la Gobernacion (or Ministry of the Interior) smoking a cigarette and looking eagerly across the great square. The two soldiers on sentry at the door, suspicious of all foreigners in the days of Bolshevism and revolution, had eyed him narrowly. But he appeared to be inoffensive, so they had passed him by as a harmless lounger.
Five minutes later a smartly-dressed girl, with short skirt, silk stockings, and a pretty hat, came along the pavement, and Hugh sprang forward to greet her.
It was Lisette, the girl whom he had met when in hiding in that back street in Genoa.
“Well?” he exclaimed. “So here we are! The Sparrow sent me to you.”
“Yes. I had a telegram from him four days ago ordering me to meet you. Strange things are happening—it seems!”
“How?” asked the young Englishman, in ignorance of the great conspiracy or of what was taking place. “Since I saw you last, mademoiselle, I have been moving about rapidly, and always in danger of arrest.”
“So have I. But I am here at The Sparrow’s orders—on a little business which I hope to bring off successfully on any evening. I have an English friend with me—a Mr. Franklyn.”
“I left London suddenly. I saw The Sparrow in the evening, and next morning, at eleven o’clock, without even a bag, I left London for Madrid with a very useful passport.”
“You are here because Madrid is safer for you than London, I suppose?” said the girl in broken English.
“That is so. A certain Mr. Howell, a friend of The Sparrow’s suggested that I should come here,” Hugh explained. “Ever since we met in Italy I have been in close hiding until, by some means, my whereabouts became known, and I had to fly.”
The smartly-dressed girl walked slowly at his side and, for some moments, remained silent.
“Ah! So you have met Hamilton Shaw—alias Howell?” she remarked at last in a changed voice. “He certainly is not your friend.”
“Not my friend! Why? I’ve only met him lately.”
“You say that the police knew of your hiding-place,” said mademoiselle, speaking in French, as it was easier for her. “Would you be surprised if Howell had revealed your secret?”
“Howell!” gasped Hugh. “Yes, I certainly would. He is a close friend of The Sparrow!”
“That may be. But that does not prove that he is any friend of yours. If you came here at Howell’s suggestion—then, Mr. Henfrey, I should advise you to leave Madrid at once. I say this because I have a suspicion that he intends both of us to fall into a trap!”
“But why? I don’t understand.”
“I can give you no explanation,” said the girl. “Now I know that Hamilton Shaw sent you here, I can, I think, discern his motive. I myself will see Mr. Franklyn at once, and shall leave Madrid as soon as possible. And I advise you, Mr. Henfrey, to do the same.”
“Surely you don’t suspect that it was this Mr. Howell who gave me away to Scotland Yard!” exclaimed Hugh, surprised, but at the same time recollecting that The Sparrow had been alarmed at the detective’s visit to Dorise. He knew that Benton and Mrs. Bond had suddenly disappeared from Shapley, but the reason he could only guess. He had, of course, no proof that Benton and Molly were members of the great criminal organization. He only knew that Benton had been his late father’s closest friend.
He discussed the situation with the girl jewel-thief as they walked along the busy Carrera de San Jeronimo wherein are the best shops in Madrid, to the great Plaza de Canovas in the leafy Prado.
Again he tried to extract from her what she knew concerning his father’s death. But she would tell him nothing.
“I am not permitted to say anything, Mr. Henfrey. I can only regret it,” she said quietly. “Mr. Franklyn is at the Ritz opposite. I should like you to meet him.”
And she took him across to the elegant hotel opposite the Neptune fountain, where, in a private sitting-room on the second floor, she introduced him to a rather elderly, aristocratic-looking Englishman, whom none would take to be one of the most expert jewel-thieves in Europe.
When the door was closed and they were alone, mademoiselle suddenly revealed to her friend what Hugh had said concerning Howell’s suggestion that he should travel to Madrid.
Franklyn’s face changed. He was instantly apprehensive.
“Then we certainly are not safe here any longer. Howell probably intends to play us false! We shall know from The Sparrow the reason we are here, and, for aught we know, the police are watching and will arrest us red-handed. No,” he added, “we must leave this place—all three of us—as soon as possible. You, Lisette, had better go to Paris and explain matters to The Sparrow, while I shall fade away to Switzerland. And you, Mr. Henfrey? Where will you go?”
“To France,” was Hugh’s reply, on the spur of the moment. “I can get to Marseilles.”
“Yes. Go by way of Barcelona. It is quickest,” said the Englishman. “The express leaves just after three o’clock.”
Then, after he had thanked Hugh for his timely warning, the latter walked out more than ever mystified at the attitude of The Sparrow’s accomplices.
It did not seem possible that Howell should have told Scotland Yard that he was hiding at Shapley; yet it was quite evident that both mademoiselle and her companion were equally in fear of the man Howell, whose real name was Hamilton Shaw. The theory seemed to him a thin one, for Howell was The Sparrow’s intimate friend.
Yet, mademoiselle, while they had been discussing the situation, had denounced him as their enemy, declaring that The Sparrow himself should be warned of him.
That afternoon Hugh, having only been in Madrid twelve hours, left again on the long, dusty railway journey across Spain to Zaragoza and down the valley of the Ebro to the Mediterranean. After crossing the French frontier, he broke the journey at the old-world town of Nimes for a couple of days, and then went on to Marseilles, where he took up his quarters in the big Louvre et Paix Hotel, still utterly mystified, and still not daring to write to Dorise.
It was as well that he left Madrid, for, just as Lisette and Franklyn had suspected, the police called at his hotel—an obscure one near the station—only two hours after his departure. Then, finding him gone, they sought both mademoiselle and Franklyn, only to find that they also had fled.
Someone had given away their secret!
On arrival at Marseilles in the evening Hugh ate his dinner alone in the hotel, and then strolled up the well-lit Cannebiere, with its many smart shops and gay cafes—that street which, to many thousands on their way to the Near or Far East, is their last glimpse of European life. He was entirely at a loose end.
Unnoticed behind him there walked an undersized little Frenchman, an alert, business-like man of about forty-five, who had awaited him outside his hotel, and who leisurely followed him up the broad, main street of that busy city.
He was well-dressed, possessing a pair of shrewd, searching eyes, and a moustache carefully trimmed. His appearance was that of a prosperous French tradesman—one of thousands one meets in the city of Marseilles.
As Hugh idled along, gazing into some of the shop windows as he lazily smoked his cigarette, the under-sized stranger kept very careful watch upon his movements. He evidently intended that he should not escape observation. Hugh paused at a tobacconist’s and bought some stamps, but as he came out of the shop, the watcher drew back suddenly and in such a manner as to reveal to anyone who might have observed him that he was no tyro in the art of surveillance.
Walking a little farther along, Hugh came to the corner of the broad Rue de Rome, where he entered a crowded cafe in which an orchestra was playing.
He had taken a corner seat in the window, had ordered his coffee, and was glancing at thePetit Parisien, which he had taken from his pocket, when another man entered, gazed around in search of a seat and, noticing one at Hugh’s table, crossed, lifted his hat, and took the vacant chair.
He was the stranger who had followed him from the Louvre et Paix.
The young Englishman, all unsuspecting, glanced at the newcomer, and then resumed his paper, while the keen-eyed little man took a long, thin cigar which the waiter brought, lit it carefully, and sipped his coffee, his interest apparently centred in the music.
Suddenly a tall, dark-haired woman, who had been sitting near by with a man who seemed to be her husband, rose and left. A moment before she had exchanged glances with the watcher, who, apparently at her bidding, rose and followed her.
All this seemed quite unnoticed by Hugh, immersed as he was in his newspaper.
Outside the man and woman met. They held hurried consultation. The woman told him something which evidently caused him sudden surprise.
“I will call on you at eleven to-morrow morning, madame,” he said.
“No. I will meet you at the Reserve. I will lunch there at twelve. You will lunch with me?”
“Very well,” he answered. “Au revoir,” and he returned to his seat in the cafe, while she disappeared without returning to her companion.
The mysterious watcher resumed his coffee, for he had only been absent for a few moments, and the waiter had not cleared it away.
Hugh took out his cigarette-case and, suddenly finding himself without a match, made the opportunity for which the mysterious stranger had been waiting.
He struck one and handed it to hisvis-a-vis, bowing with his foreign grace.
Then they naturally dropped into conversation.
“Ah! m’sieur is English!” exclaimed the shrewd-eyed little man. “Here, in Marseilles, we have many English who pass to and fro from the boats. I suppose, m’sieur is going East?” he suggested affably.
“No,” replied Hugh, speaking in French, “I have some business here—that is all.” He was highly suspicious of all strangers, and the more so of anyone who endeavoured to get into conversation with him.
“You know Marseilles—of course?” asked the stranger, sharply scrutinizing him.
“I have been here several times before. I find the city always gay and bright.”
“Not so bright as before the war,” declared the little man, smoking at his ease. “There have been many changes lately.”
Hugh Henfrey could not make the fellow out. Yet many times before he had been addressed by strangers who seemed to question him out of curiosity, and for no apparent reason. This man was one of them, no doubt.
The man, who had accompanied the woman whom the stranger had followed out, rose, exchanged a significant glance with the little man, and walked out. That the three were in accord seemed quite apparent, though Hugh was still unsuspicious.
He chatted merrily with the stranger for nearly half an hour, and then rose and left the cafe. When quite close to the hotel the stranger overtook him, and halting, asked in a low voice, in very good English:
“I believe you are Mr. Henfrey—are you not?”
“Why do you ask that?” inquired Hugh, much surprised. “My name is Jordan—William Jordan.”
“Yes,” laughed the man. “That is, I know, the name you have given at the hotel. But your real name is Henfrey.”
Hugh started. The stranger, noticing his alarm, hastened to reassure him.