CHAPTER IX

JOHN BENNETT was working in his garden in the early morning when Elk called, and the inspector came straight to the point.

“There was a burglary committed at the residence of Lord Farmley on Saturday night and Sunday morning. Probably between midnight and three o’clock. The safe was blown and important documents stolen. I’m asking you to account for your movements on Saturday night and Sunday morning.”

Bennett looked the detective straight in the eyes.

“I was on the London road—I walked from town. At two o’clock I was speaking with a policeman in Dorking. At midnight I was in Kingbridge, and again I spoke to a policeman. Both these men know me because I frequently walk to Dorking and Kingbridge. The man at Dorking is an amateur photographer like myself.”

Elk considered.

“I’ve a car here; suppose you come along and see these policemen?” he suggested, and to his surprise Bennett agreed at once.

At Dorking they discovered their man; he was just going off duty.

“Yes, Inspector, I remember Mr. Bennett speaking to me. We were discussing animal photography.”

“You’re sure of the time?”

“Absolutely. At two o’clock the patrol sergeant visits me, and he came up whilst we were talking.”

The patrol sergeant, wakened from his morning sleep, confirmed this statement. The result of the Kingbridge inquiries produced the same results.

Elk ordered the driver of his car to return to Horsham.

“I’m not going to apologize to you, Bennett,” he said, “and you know enough about my work to appreciate my position.”

“I’m not complaining,” said Bennett gruffly. “Duty is duty. But I’m entitled to know why you suspect me of all men in the world.”

Elk tapped the window of the car and it stopped.

“Walk along the road: I can talk better,” he said.

They got out and went some distance without speaking.

“Bennett, you’re under suspicion for two reasons. You’re a mystery man in the sense that nobody knows how you get a living. You haven’t an income of your own. You haven’t an occupation, and at odd intervals you disappear from home and nobody knows where you go. If you were a younger man I’d suspect a double life in the usual sense. But you’re not that kind. That is suspicious circumstance Number One. Here is Number Two. Every time you disappear there’s a big burglary somewhere. And I’ve an idea it’s a Frog steal. I’ll give you my theory. These Frogs are mostly dirt. There isn’t enough brain in the whole outfit to fill an average nut—I’m talking about the mass of ’em. There are clever men higher up, I grant. But they don’t include the regular fellows who make a living from crime. These boys haven’t any time for such nonsense. They plan a job and pull it off, or they get pinched. If they make a getaway, they divide up the stuff and sit around in cafés with girls till all the stuff is gone, and then they go out for some more. But the Frogs are willing to pay good men who are outside the organization for extra work.”

“And you suggest that I may be one of the ‘good men’?” said Bennett.

“That’s just what I am suggesting. This Frog job at Lord Farmley’s was done by an expert—it looks like Saul Morris.”

His keen eyes were focused upon Bennett’s face, but not by so much as a flicker of an eyelash did he betray his thoughts.

“I remember Saul Morris,” said Bennett slowly. “I’ve never seen him, but I’ve heard of his work. Was he—anything like me?”

Elk pursed his lips, his chin went nearer to his chest, and his gaze became more and more intensified.

“If you know anything about Saul Morris,” he said slowly, “you also know that he was never in the hands of the police, that nobody except his own gang ever saw him, so as to be able to recognize him again.”

Another silence.

“I wasn’t aware of that,” said Bennett.

On the way back to the car, Bennett spoke again.

“I bear no malice. My movements are suspicious, but there is a good reason. As to the burglaries—I know nothing about them. I should say that in any case, whether I knew or not. I ask you not to mention this matter to my daughter, because—well, you don’t want me to tell you why.”

Ella was standing at the garden gate when the car came up, and at the sight of Elk the smile left her face. Elk knew instinctively that the thought of her brother, and the possibility of his being in trouble, were the causes of her apprehension.

“Mr. Elk came down to ask me a few questions about the attack on Mr. Gordon,” said her father briefly.

Whatever else he was, thought Elk, he was a poor and unconvincing liar. That the girl was not convinced, he was sure. When they were alone she asked:

“Is anything wrong, Mr. Elk?”

“Nothing, miss. Just come down to refresh my memory—which was never a good one, especially in the matter of dates. The only date I really remember is the landing of William the Conqueror—1140 or thereabouts. Brother gone back to town?”

“He went last night,” she said, and then, almost defiantly: “He is in a good position now, Mr. Elk.”

“So they tell me,” said Elk. “I wish he wasn’t working in the same shop as the bunch who are with him. I’m not letting him out of my sight. Miss Bennett,” he said in a kinder tone. “Perhaps I’ll be able to slip in the right word one of these days. He wouldn’t listen now if I said ‘get!’—he’s naturally in the condition of mind when he’s making up press cuttings about himself. And in a way he’s right. If you don’t know it all at twenty-one you never will. What’s that word that begins with a ‘z’?—‘zenith,’ that’s it. He’s at the zenith of his sure-and-certainness. From now on he’ll start unloading his cargo of dreams an’ take in ballast. But he’ll hate to hear the derricks at work.”

“You talk like a sailor,” she smiled in spite of her trouble.

“I was that once,” said Elk, “the same as old man Maitland—though I’ve never sailed with him—I guess he left the sea years before I was born. Like him?”

“Mr. Maitland? No!” she shivered. “I think he is a terrible man.”

Elk did not disagree.

To Dick Gordon that morning he confessed his error.

“I don’t know why I jumped at Bennett,” he said. “I’m getting young! I see the evening newspapers have got the burglary.”

“But they do not know what was stolen,” said Dick in a low voice. “That must be kept secret.”

They were in the inner bureau, which Dick occupied temporarily. Two men were at work in his larger office replacing a panel which had been shattered by the bullet which had been fired at him on the morning Elk came into the case, and it was symptomatic of the effect that the Frogs had had upon headquarters that both men had almost mechanically scrutinized the left arms of the workmen. The sight of the damaged panel switched Elk’s thoughts to a matter which he had intended raising before—the identity of the tramp Carlo. In spite of the precautions Gordon had taken, and although the man was under observation, Carlo had vanished, and the combined efforts of headquarters and the country offices had failed to locate him. It was a sore point with Gordon, as Elk had reason to know.

For Carlo was the reputable “Number Seven,” the most important man in the organization after the Frog himself.

“I’d like to see this Carlo,” he said thoughtfully. “There’s not much use in putting another man out on the road to follow up Genter’s work. That system doesn’t work twice. I wonder how much Lola knows?”

“Of the Frogs? They wouldn’t trust a woman,” said Dick. “She may work for them, but, as you said, it is likely they bring in outsiders for special jobs and pay them well.”

Elk did not carry the matter any further, and spent the rest of the day in making fruitless inquiries. Returning to his room at headquarters that night, he sat for a long time hunched up in his chair, his hands thrust into his trousers pockets, staring down at the blotting-pad. Then he pressed a bell, and his clerk, Balder, came.

“Go to Records, get me all that is known about every safe-breaker known in this country. You needn’t worry about the German and French, but there’s a Swede or two who are mighty clever with the lamp, and of course there are the Americans.”

They came after a long interval—a considerable pile of papers, photographs and finger-prints.

“You can go, Balder—the night man can take them back.” He settled himself down to an enjoyable night’s reading.

He was nearing the end of the pile when he came to the portrait of a young man with a drooping moustache and a bush of curly hair. It was one of those sharp positives that unromantic police officials take, and showed whatever imperfections of skin there were. Beneath the photograph was the name, carefully printed: “Henry John Lyme, R.V.”

“R.V.” was the prison code. Every year from 1874 to 1899 was indicated by a capital letter in the alphabet. Thereafter ran the small letters. The “R” meant that Henry J. Lyme had been sentenced to penal servitude in 1891. The “V” that he had suffered a further term of convict imprisonment in 1895.

Elk read the short and terrible record. Born in Guernsey in 1873, the man had been six times convicted before he was twenty (the minor convictions are not designated by letters in the code). In the space at the foot of the blank in which particulars were given of his crime, were the words:

“Dangerous; carries firearms.” In another hand, and in the red ink which is used to close a criminal career, was written: “Died at sea.Channel Queen. Black Rock. Feb. 1, 1898.”

Elk remembered the wreck of the Guernsey mail packet on the Black Rocks.

He turned back the page to read particulars of the dead man’s crimes, and the comments of those who from time to time had been brought into official contact with him. In these scraps of description was the real biography. “Works alone,” was one comment, and another; “No women clue—women never seen with him.” A third scrawl was difficult to decipher, but when Elk mastered the evil writing, he half rose from the chair in his excitement. It was:

“Add to body marks in general D.C.P. 14 frog tattooed left wrist. New. J. J. M.”

The date against which this was written was the date of the man’s last conviction. Elk turned up the printed blank “D.C.P.14” and found it to be a form headed “Description of Convicted Person.” The number was the classification. There was no mention of tattooed frogs: somebody had been careless. Word by word he read the description:

“Henry John Lyme,a.Young Harry,a.Thomas Martin,a.Boy Peace,a.Boy Harry (there were five lines of aliases). Burglar (dangerous; carries firearms). Height 5 ft. 6 in. Chest 38. Complexion fresh, eyes grey, teeth good, mouth regular, dimple in chin. Nose straight. Hair brown, wavy, worn long. Face round. Moustache drooping; wears side-whiskers. Feet and hands normal. Little toe left foot amputated first joint owing to accident, H.M. Prison, Portland. Speaks well, writes good hand. Hobbies none. Smokes cigarettes. Poses as public official, tax collector, sanitary inspector, gas or water man. Speaks French and Italian fluently. Never drinks; plays cards but no gambler. Favourite hiding place, Rome or Milan. No conviction abroad. No relations. Excellent organizer. Immediately after crime, look for him at good hotel in Midlands or working to Hull for the Dutch or Scandinavian boats. Has been known to visit Guernsey. . . .”

Here followed the Bertillon measurements and body marks—this was in the days before the introduction of the finger-print system. But there was no mention of the Frog on the left wrist. Elk dropped his pen in the ink and wrote in the missing data. Underneath he added:

“This man may still be alive,” and signed his initials.

CHAPTER X

SO writing, the telephone buzzed, and in his unflurried way he finished his entry and blotted it before he took up the instrument.

“Captain Gordon wishes you to take the first taxi you can find and come to his house—the matter is very urgent,” said a voice. “I am speaking from Harley Terrace.”

“All right.” Elk found his hat and umbrella, stopped long enough to return the records to their home, and went out into the dark courtyard.

There are two entrances to Scotland Yard: one that opens into Whitehall and was by far the best route for him, since Whitehall is filled with cabs; the other on to the Thames Embankment, which, in addition to offering the longest way round, would bring him to a thoroughfare where, at this hour of the night, taxis would be few and far between. So engrossed was Elk with his thoughts that he was on the Embankment before he realized where he was going. He turned toward the Houses of Parliament into Bridge Street, found an ancient cab and gave the address. The driver was elderly and probably a little fuddled, for, instead of stopping at No. 273, he overshot the mark by a dozen houses, and only stopped at all on the vitriolic representations of his fare.

“What’s the matter with you, Noah?—this ain’t Mount Ararat!” snapped Elk as he descended. “You’re boozed, you poor fish.”

“Wish I was,” murmured the driver, holding out his hand for the fare.

Elk would have argued the matter but for the urgency of the summons. Whilst he was waiting for the driver to unbutton his many coats to find change, he glanced back along the street. A car was standing near the door of Dick Gordon’s house, its headlights dimmed to the least possible degree. That in itself was not remarkable. The two men who waited on the pavement were. They stood with their backs to the railings, one (as he guessed) on either side of the door. To him came the soft purring of the motor-car’s engine. He took a step back and brought the opposite pavement into his range of vision. There were two other men, also lounging idly, and they were exactly opposite 273.

Elk looked round. The cab had stopped before a doctor’s house, and the detective did not take a long time to make up his mind.

“Wait till I come out.”

“Don’t be long,” pleaded the aged driver. “The bars will be shut in a quarter of an hour.”

“Wait, Batchus,” said Elk, who had a nodding acquaintance with ancient mythology, but only a hazy idea of pronunciation. Bacchus growled, but waited.

Fortunately, the doctor was at home, and to him Elk revealed his identity. In a few seconds he was connected with Mary Lane Police Station.

“Elk, Central Office, speaking,” he said rapidly, and gave his code number. “Send every man you can put your hand on, to close Harley Terrace north and south of 273. Stop all cars from the moment you get my signal—two long two short flashes. How soon can your men be in place?”

“In five minutes, Mr. Elk. The night reliefs are parading, and I have a couple of motor-trucks here—just pinched the drivers for being drunk.”

He replaced the receiver and went into the hall.

“Anything wrong?” asked the startled doctor as Elk slid back the jacket of his automatic and pushed the safety catch into place.

“I hope so, sir,” said Elk truthfully. “If I’ve turned out the division because a few innocent fellows are leaning against the railings of Harley Terrace, I’m going to get myself into trouble.”

He waited five minutes, then opened the door and went out. The men were still in their positions, and as he stood there two motor-trucks drove into the thoroughfare from either end, turned broadside in the middle of the road and stopped.

Elk’s pocket lamp flashed to left and right, and he jumped for the pavement.

And now he saw that his suspicions were justified. The men on the opposite pavement came across the road at the double, and leapt to the running-board of the car with the dim lights as it moved. Simultaneously the two who had been guarding the entrance of 273 sprang into the machine. But the fugitives were too late. The car swerved to avoid the blocking motor-truck, but even as it turned, the truck ran backwards. There was a crash, a sound of splintering glass, and by the time Elk arrived, the five occupants of the car were in the hands of the uniformed policemen who swarmed at the end of the street.

The prisoners accepted their capture without resistance. One (the chauffeur) who tried to throw away a revolver unobtrusively, was detected in the act and handcuffed, but the remainder gave no trouble.

At the police-station Elk had a view of his prisoners. Four very fine specimens of the genus tramp, wearing their new ready-to-wear suits awkwardly. The fifth, who gave a Russian name, and was obviously the driver, a little man with small, sharp eyes that glanced uneasily from face to face.

Two of the prisoners carried loaded revolvers; in the car they found four walking-sticks heavily weighted.

“Take off your coats and roll up your sleeves,” commanded the inspector.

“You needn’t trouble, Elk.” It was the little chauffeur speaking. “All us boys are good Frogs.”

“There ain’t any good Frogs,” said Elk. “There’s only bad Frogs and worse Frogs and the worst Frog of all. But we won’t argue. Let these men into their cells, sergeant, and keep them separate. I’ll take Litnov to headquarters.”

The chauffeur looked uneasily from Elk to the station sergeant.

“What’s the great idea?” he asked. “You’re not allowed to use the third degree in England.”

“The law has been altered,” said Elk ominously, and re-snapped the handcuffs on the man’s wrists.

The law had not been altered, but this the little Russian did not know. Throughout the journey to headquarters he communed with himself, and when he was pushed into Elk’s bare-looking room, he was prepared to talk. . . .

Dick was waiting for the detective when he came back to Harley Terrace, and heard the story.

“I never dreamt that it was a plant until I spotted the lads waiting for me,” said Elk. “Of course you didn’t telephone; they caught me napping there. Thorough! The Frogs are all that! They expected me to leave headquarters by the Whitehall entrance, and had a taxi waiting to pick me up, but in case they missed me that way, they told off a party to meet me in Harley Terrace. Thorough!”

“Who gave them their orders?”

Elk shrugged.

“Mr. Nobody. Litnov had his by post. It was signed ‘Seven,’ and gave him the rendezvous, and that was all. He says he has never seen a Frog since he was initiated. Where he was sworn in he doesn’t remember. The car belongs to Frogs, and he receives so much a week for looking after it. Ordinarily he is employed by Heron’s Club—drives a truck for them. He tells me that there are twenty other cars cached in London somewhere, just standing in their garages, and each has its own driver, who goes once a week to give it a clean up.”

“Heron’s Club—that is the dance club which Lola and Lew Brady are interested in!” said Dick thoughtfully, and Elk considered.

“I never thought of that. Of course, it doesn’t mean that the management of Heron’s know anything about Litnov’s evening work. I’ll look up that club.”

He was saved the trouble, for the next morning, when he reached the office, he found a man waiting to see him.

“I’m Mr. Hagn, the manager of the Heron’s Club,” he introduced himself. “I understand one of my men has been in trouble.”

Hagn was a tall, good-looking Swede who spoke without any trace of a foreign accent.

“How have you heard that, Mr. Hagn?” asked Elk suspiciously. “The man has been under lock and key since last night, and he hasn’t held any communication with anybody.”

Mr. Hagn smiled.

“You can’t arrest people and take them to a police-station without somebody knowing all about it,” he said with truth. “One of my waiters saw Litnov being taken to Mary Lane handcuffed, and as Litnov hasn’t reported for duty this morning, there was only one conclusion to be drawn. What is the trouble, Mr. Elk?”

Elk shook his head.

“I can’t give you any information on the matter,” he said.

“Can I see him?”

“You can’t even see him,” said Elk. “He has slept well, and sends his love to all kind friends.”

Mr. Hagn seemed distressed.

“Is it possible to discover where he put the key of the coal cellar?” he urged. “This is rather important to me. This man usually keeps it.”

The detective hesitated.

“I can find out,” he said, and, leaving Mr. Hagn under the watchful eyes of his secretary, he crossed the yard to the cells where the Russian was held.

Litnov rose from his plank bed as the cell door opened.

“Friend of yours called,” said Elk. “Wants to know where you put the key of the coal cellar.”

It was only the merest flicker of light and understanding that came to the little man’s eyes, but Elk saw it.

“Tell him I believe I left it with the Wandsworth man,” he said.

“Um!” said Elk, and went back to the waiting Hagn.

“He said he left it in the Pentonville Road,” said Elk untruthfully, but Mr. Hagn seemed satisfied.

Returning to the cells, Elk saw the gaoler.

“Has this man asked you where he was to be taken from here?”

“Yes, sir,” said the officer. “I told him he was going to Wandsworth Prison—we usually tell prisoners where they are going on remand, in case they wish to let their relatives know.”

Elk had guessed right. The inquiry about the key was prearranged. A telephone message to Mary Lane, where the remainder of the gang were held, produced the curious information that a woman, reputedly the wife of one of the men, had called that morning, and, on being refused an interview, begged for news about the missing key of the coal cellar, and had been told that it was in the possession of “the Brixton man.”

“The men are to be remitted to Wormwood Scrubbs Prison, and they are not to be told where they are going,” ordered Elk.

That afternoon a horse-driven prison-van drew out of Cannon Row and rumbled along Whitehall. At the juncture of St. Martin’s Lane and Shaftesbury Avenue, a carelessly-driven motor lorry smashed into its side, slicing off the near wheel. Instantly there came from nowhere a crowd of remarkable appearance. It seemed as if all the tramps in the world had been lying in wait to crowd about the crippled van. The door was wrenched open, and the gaoler on duty hauled forth. Before he could be handled, the van disgorged twenty Central Office men, and from the side streets came a score of mounted policemen, clubs in hand. The riot lasted less then three minutes. Some of the wild-looking men succeeded in making their escape, but the majority, chained in twos, went, meekly enough, between their mounted escorts.

Dick Gordon, who was also something of an organizer, watched the fight from the top of an omnibus, which, laden with policemen, had shadowed the van. He joined Elk after the excitement had subsided.

“Have you arrested anybody of importance?” he asked.

“It’s too early to say,” said Elk. “They look like ordinary tadpoles to me. I guess Litnov is in Wandsworth by now—I sent him in a closed police car before the van left.”

Arrived at Scotland Yard, he paraded the Frogs in two open ranks, watched, at a distance, by the curious crowd which packed both entrances. One by one he examined their wrists, and in every case the tattoo mark was present.

He finished his scrutiny at last, and his captives were herded into an inner yard under an armed guard.

“One man wants to speak to you, sir.”

The last file had disappeared when the officer in charge reported, and Elk exchanged a glance with his chief.

“See him,” said Dick. “We can’t afford to miss any information.”

A policeman brought the Frog to them—a tall man with a week’s growth of beard, poorly dressed and grimy. His battered hat was pulled down over his eyes, his powerful wrists visible beneath the sleeves of a jacket that was made for a smaller man.

“Well, Frog?” said Elk, glowering at him. “What’s your croak?”

“Croak is a good word,” said the man, and at the sound of his voice Elk stared. “You don’t think that old police car of yours is going to reach Wandsworth, do you?”

“Who are you?” asked Elk, peering forward.

“They want Litnov badly,” said the Frog. “They want to settle with him, and if the poor fish thinks it’s brotherly love that makes old man Frog go to all this trouble, he’s reserved a big jar for himself.”

“Broad! What . . . !”

The American licked his finger and wiped away the frog from his wrist.

“I’ll explain after, Mr. Elk, but take a friend’s advice and call up Wandsworth.”

Elk’s telephone was buzzing furiously when he reached his office.

It was Wandsworth station calling.

“Your police car was held up on the Common, two of your men were wounded, and the prisoner was shot dead,” was the report.

“Thank you!” said Elk bitterly.

CHAPTER XI

DETAINED under police supervision, Mr. Broad did not seem in any way surprised or disconcerted. Dick Gordon and his assistant reached Wandsworth Common ten minutes after the news came through, and found the wreckage of the police car surrounded by a large crowd, kept at a distance by police.

The dead prisoner had been taken into the prison, together with one of the attackers, who had been captured by a party of warders, returning to the gaol after their luncheon hour.

A brief examination of Litnov told them no more than they knew. He had been shot through the heart, and death, must have been instantaneous.

The prisoner, brought from a cell, was a man of thirty and better educated than the average run of Frogs. No weapon had been found upon him and he protested his innocence of any complicity in the plot. According to his story, he was an out-of-work clerk who had been strolling across the Common when the ambush occurred. He had seen the fight, seen the second motor-car which carried the attackers away, and had been arrested whilst running in pursuit of the murderers.

His captors told a different story. The warder responsible for his arrest said that the man was on the point of boarding the car when the officer had thrown his truncheon at him and brought him down. The car was moving at the time, and the remainder of the party had not dared to stop and pick up their comrade. Most damning evidence of all was the tattoo mark on his wrist.

“Frog, you’re a dead man,” said Elk in his most sepulchral voice. “Where did you live when you were alive?”

The captive confessed that his home was in North London.

“North Londoners don’t come to Wandsworth to walk on the Common,” said Elk.

He had a conference with the chief warder, and, taking the prisoner into the courtyard, Elk spoke his mind.

“What happens to you if you spill the beans, Frog?” he asked.

The man showed his teeth in an unpleasant smile.

“The beans aren’t grown that I can spill,” he said.

Elk looked around. The courtyard was a small, stone-paved quadrangle, surrounded by high, discoloured walls. Against one of these was a little shed with grey sliding doors.

“Come here,” said Elk.

He took the key that the chief warder had given him, unlocked the doors and slid them back. They were looking into a bare, clean apartment with whitewashed walls. Across the ceiling ran two stout oak beams, and between them three stubby steel bars.

The prisoner frowned as Elk walked to a long steel lever near one of the walls.

“Watch, Frog!” he said.

He pulled at the lever, and the centre of the floor divided and fell with a crash, revealing a deep, brick-lined pit.

“See that trap . . . see that ‘T’ mark in chalk? That’s where a man puts his feet when the hangman straps his legs. The rope hangs from that beam, Frog!”

The man’s face was livid as he shrank back.

“You . . . can’t . . . hang—me,” he breathed. “I’ve done nothing!”

“You’ve killed a man,” said Elk as he pulled the doors to and locked them. “You’re the only fellow we’ve got, and you’ll have to suffer for the lot. Are them beans growin’?”

The prisoner raised his shaking hand to his lips.

“I’ll tell you all I know,” he said huskily.

Elk led him back to his cell.

An hour later, Dick was speeding back to his headquarters with considerable information. His first act was to send for Joshua Broad, and the eagle-faced “tramp” came cheerfully.

“Now, Mr. Broad, I’ll have your story,” said Dick, and motioned the other to be seated.

Joshua seated himself slowly.

“There’s nothing much to tell,” he said. “For a week I’ve been getting acquainted with the Frogs. I guessed that it was unlikely that the bulk of them would be unknown to one another, and I just froze on to the first I found. Met him in a Deptford lodging-house. Then I heard there was a hurry-up call for a big job to-day and joined. The Frogs knew that the real attack might be somewhere else, and on the way to Scotland Yard I heard that a party had been told off to watch for Litnov at Wandsworth.”

“Did you see any of the big men?”

Broad shook his head.

“They looked all alike, but undoubtedly there were two or three section leaders in charge. There was never any question of rescuing. They were out to kill. They knew that Litnov had told all that he knew, and he was doomed—they got him, I suppose?”

“Yes—they got him!” said Dick, and then: “What is your interest in the Frogs?”

“Purely adventitious,” replied the other lazily. “I’m a rich man with a whole lot of time on my hands, and I have a big interest in criminology. A few years ago I heard about the Frogs, and they seized on my imagination. Since then I’ve been trailing them.”

His gaze did not waver under Dick Gordon’s scrutiny.

“Now will you tell me,” said Dick quietly, “how you became a rich man? In the latter days of the war you arrived in this country on a cattle-boat—with about twenty dollars in your pocket. You told Elk you had arrived by that method, and you spoke the truth. I’ve been almost as much interested in you as you have been in the Frogs,” he said with a half-smile, “and I have been putting through a few inquiries. You came to England 1917 and deserted your ship. In May, 1917, you negotiated for the hire of an old tumbledown shack near Eastleigh, Hampshire. There you lived, patching up this crazy cottage and living, so far as I can discover, on the few dollars you brought from the ship. Then suddenly you disappeared, and were next seen in Paris on Christmas Eve of that year. You were conspicuous in rescuing a family that had been buried in a house bombed in an air raid, and your name was taken by the police with the idea of giving you some reward. The French police report is that you were ‘very poorly dressed’—they thought you might be a deserter from the American Army. Yet in February you were staying at the Hôtel de Paris in Monte Carlo, with plenty of money and an extensive wardrobe!”

Joshua Broad sat through the recital unmoved, except for the ghost of a smile which showed at the corner of his unshaven mouth.

“Surely, Captain, Monte Carlo is the place where a manwouldhave money?”

“If he brought it there,” said Dick, and went on: “I’m not suggesting that you are a bad character, or that your money came in any other way than honestly. I merely state the facts that your sudden rise from poverty to riches was, to say the least, remarkable.”

“It surely was,” agreed the other; “and, judging by appearances, my change from riches to poverty is as sudden.”

Dick looked at the dirty-looking tramp who sat on the other side of the table and laughed silently.

“You mean, if it is possible for you to masquerade now, it was possible then, and that, even though you were apparently broke in 1917, you might very well have been a rich man?”

“Exactly,” said Mr. Joshua Broad.

Gordon was serious again.

“I would prefer that you remained your more presentable self,” he said. “I hate telling an American that I may have to deport him, because that sounds as if it is a punishment to return to the United States. But I may find myself with no other alternative.”

Joshua Broad rose.

“That, Captain Gordon, is too broad for a hint and too kindly for a threat—henceforth, Joshua Broad is a respectable member of society. Maybe I’ll take the Prince of Caux’s house and entertain bims and be a modern Harun al Raschid. I’ve got to meet them somehow.”

At the mention of that show house that had cost a king’s ransom to build and a queen’s dowry to furnish, Dick smiled.

“It isn’t necessary you should advertise your respectability that way,” he said. But Broad was not smiling.

“The only thing I ask is that you do not advise the police to withdraw my permits,” he said.

Dick’s eyebrows rose.

“Permits?”

“I carry two guns, and the time is coming when two won’t be enough,” said Mr. Broad. “And it is coming soon.”

CHAPTER XII

THERE was a concert that night at the Queen’s Hall, and the spacious auditorium was crowded to hear the summer recital of a great violinist. Dick Gordon, in the midst of an evening’s work, remembered that he had reserved a seat. He felt fagged, baffled, inclined to hopelessness. A note from Lord Farmley had come to him, urging instant action to recover the lost commercial treaty. It was such a letter as a man, himself worried, would write without realizing that in so doing he was passing on his panic to those who it was very necessary should not be stampeded into precipitate action. It was a human letter, but not statesmanlike. Dick decided upon the concert.

He had finished dressing when he remembered that it was more than likely that the omniscient Frogs would know of his reservation. He must take the risk, if risk there was. He ’phoned to the garage where his own machine was housed and hired a closed car, and in ten minutes was one of two thousand people who were listening, entranced, to the master. In the interval he strolled out to the lobby to smoke, and almost the first person he saw was a Central Office man who avoided his eye. Another detective stood by the stairway leading to the bar, a third was smoking on the steps of the hall outside. But the sensation of the evening was not this evidence of Elk’s foresight. The warning bell had sounded, and Dick was in the act of throwing away his cigarette, when a magnificent limousine drew up before the building, a smart footman alighted to open the door, and there stepped heavily to the pavement—Mr. Ezra Maitland!

Dick heard a gasp behind him, and turned his head to see Elk in the one and only dress suit he had ever possessed.

“Mother of Moses!” he said in an awed voice.

And there was reason for his astonishment. Not only was Mr. Maitland’s equipage worthy of a reigning monarch, with its silver fittings, lacquered body and expensively uniformed servants, but the old man was wearing a dress suit of the latest fashion. His beard had been shortened a few inches, and across the spotless white waistcoat was stretched a heavy gold chain. On his hand many rings blazed and flashed in the light of the street standard. There was a camellia in his perfect lapel, and on his head the glossiest of silk hats. Leaning on a stick of ebony and ivory, he strutted across the pavement.

“Silk socks . . . patent leather shoes. My God! Look at hisrings,” hissed Elk.

His profanity was almost excusable. The vision of splendour passed through the doors into the hall.

“He’s gone gay!” said Elk hollowly, and followed like a man in a dream.

From where he was placed, Dick had a good view of the millionaire. He sat throughout the second part of the programme with closed eyes, and so slow was he to start applauding after each item, that Dick was certain that he had been asleep and the clapping had awakened him.

Once he detected the old man stifling a yawn in the very midst of the second movement of Elgar’s violin concerto, which held the audience spellbound by its delicate beauty. With his big hands, now enshrined in white kid gloves, crossed on his stomach, the head of Mr. Maitland nodded and jerked.

When at last the concert was over, he looked round fearfully, as though to make absolutely certain that itwasover, then rose and made his way out of the hall, his silk hat held clumsily in his hand.

A manager came in haste to meet him.

“I hope, Mr. Maitland, you enjoyed yourself?” Dick heard him say.

“Very pooty—very pooty,” replied Maitland hoarsely. “That fiddler ought to play a few toons, though—nothing like a hornpipe on a fiddle.”

The manager looked after him open-mouthed, then hurried out to help the old man into his car.

“Gay—he’s gay!” said Elk, as bewildered as the manager. “Jumping snakes! Who was that?”

He addressed the unnecessary question to the manager, who had returned from his duty.

“That is Maitland, the millionaire, Mr. Elk,” said the other. “First time we’ve had him here, but now that he’s come to live in town——”

“Where is he living?” asked Elk.

“He has taken the Prince of Caux’s house in Berkeley Square,” said the manager.

Elk blinked at him.

“Say that again?”

“He has taken the Prince of Caux’s house,” said the manager. “And what is more, has bought it—the agent told me this afternoon.”

Elk was incapable of comment, and the manager continued his surprising narrative.

“I don’t think he knows much about music, but he has booked seats for every big musical event next season—his secretary came in this afternoon. He seemed a bit dazed.”

Poor Johnson! thought Dick.

“He wanted me to fix dancing lessons for the old boy——”

Elk clapped his hand to his mouth—he had an insane desire to scream.

“And as a matter of fact, I fixed them. He’s a bit old, but Socrates or somebody learnt Greek at eighty, and maybe Mr. Maitland’s regretting the wasted years of his life. I admit it is a bit late to start night clubs——”

Elk laid a chiding hand upon the managerial shoulder.

“You certainly deceived me, brother,” he said. “And here was I, drinking it all in, and you with a face as serious as the dial of a poorhouse clock! You’ve put it all over Elk, and I’m man enough to admit you fooled me.”

“I don’t think our friend is trying to fool you,” said Dick quietly. “You really mean what you say—old Maitland has started dancing and night clubs?”

“Certainly!” said the other. “He hasn’t started dancing, but that is where he has gone to-night—to the Heron’s. I heard him tell the chauffeur.”

It was incredible, but a little amusing—most amusing of all to see Elk’s face.

The detective was frankly dumbfounded by the news.

“Heron’s is my idea of a good finish to a happy evening,” said Elk at last, drawing a long breath. He beckoned one of his escort. “How many man do you want to cover Heron’s Club?” he asked.

“Six,” was the prompt reply. “Ten to raid it, and twenty for a rough house.”

“Get thirty!” said Elk emphatically.

Heron’s from the exterior was an unpretentious building. But once under the curtained doors, and the character of its exterior was forgotten. A luxurious lounge, softly lit and heavily carpeted, led to the large saloon, which was at once restaurant and dance-hall.

Dick stood in the doorway awaiting the arrival of the manager, and admired the richness and subtle suggestion of cosiness which the room conveyed. The tables were set about an oblong square of polished flooring; from a gallery at the far end came the strain of a coloured orchestra; and on the floor itself a dozen couples swayed and glided in rhythm to the staccato melody.

“Gilded vice,” said Elk disparagingly. “A regular haunt of sin and self-indulgence. I wonder what they charge for the food—there’s Mathusalem.”

“Mathusalem” was sitting, a conspicuous figure, at the most prominent table in the room. His polished head glistened in the light from the crystal candelabras, and in the shadow that it cast, his patriarchal beard so melted into the white of his snowy shirt front that for a moment Dick did not recognize him.

Before him was set a large glass mug filled with beer.

“He’s human anyway,” said Elk.

Hagn came at that moment, smiling, affable, willing to oblige.

“This is an unexpected pleasure, Captain,” he said. “You want me to pass you in? Gentlemen, there is no necessity! Every police officer of rank is an honorary member of the club.”

He bustled in, threading his way between the tables, and found them a vacant sofa in one of the alcoves. There were revellers whose faces showed alarm at the arrival of the new guests—one at least stole forth and did not come back.

“We have many notable people here to-night,” said Hagn, rubbing his hands. “There are Lord and Lady Belfin” . . . he mentioned others; “and that gentleman with the beard is the great Maitland . . . his secretary is here somewhere. Poor gentleman, I fear he is not happy. But I invited him myself—it is sometimes desirable that we should elect the . . . what shall I say? . . . higher servants of important people?”

“Johnson?” asked Dick in surprise. “Where?”

Presently he saw that plump and philosophical man. He sat in a remote corner, looking awkward and miserable in his old-fashioned dress clothes. Before him was a glass which, Dick guessed, contained an orange squash.

A solemn, frightened figure he made, sitting on the edge of his chair, his big red hands resting on the table. Dick Gordon laughed softly and whispered to Elk:

“Go and get him!”

Elk, who was never self-conscious, walked through the dancers and reached Mr. Johnson, who looked up startled and shook hands with the vigour of one rescued from a desert island.

“It was good of you to ask me to come over,” said Johnson, as he greeted Dick. “This is new to me, and I’m feeling about as much at home as a chicken in a pie.”

“Your first visit?”

“And my last,” said Johnson emphatically. “This isn’t the kind of life that I care for. It interferes with my reading, and it—well, it’s sad.”

His eyes were fixed on a noisy little party in the opposite alcove. Gordon had seen them almost as soon as he had sat down. Ray, in his most hectic mood, Lola Bassano, beautifully and daringly gowned, and the heavy-looking ex-pugilist, Lew Brady.

Presently, with a sigh, Johnson’s eyes roved toward the old man and remained fixed on him, fascinated.

“Isn’t it a miracle?” he asked in a hushed voice. “He changes his habits in a day! Bought the house in Berkeley Square, called in an army of tailors, sent me rushing round to fix theatre seats, bought jewellery . . .”

He shook his head.

“I can’t understand it,” he confessed, “because it has made no difference to him in the office. He’s the same old hog. He wanted me to become his resident secretary, but I struck at that. I must have some sort of life worth living. What scares me is that he may fire me if I don’t agree. He’s been very unpleasant this week. I wonder if Ray has seen him?”

Ray Bennett had not seen his late employer. He was too completely engrossed in the joy of being with Lola, too inspired and stimulated from more material sources, to take an interest in anything but himself and the immediate object of his affections.

“You are making a fool of yourself, Ray. Everybody is looking at you,” warned Lola.

He glanced round, and for the first time began to notice who was in the room. Presently his eyes fell upon the shining pate of Mr. Maitland, and his jaw dropped. He could not believe the evidence of his vision, and, rising, walked unsteadily across the floor, shouldering the other guests, stumbling against chairs and tables, until he stood by the table of his late employer.

“Gosh!” he gasped. “Itisyou!”

The old man raised his eyes slowly from the cloth which he had been contemplating steadily for ten minutes, and his steely eyes met the gaze steadily.

“You hoary old sinner!” breathed Ray.

“Go away,” snarled Mr. Maitland.

“ ‘Go away,’ is it? I’m going to talk to you and give you a few words of advice and warning, Moses!”

Ray sat down suddenly in a chair, and faced his glaring victim with drunken solemnity. His words of warning remained unuttered. Somebody gripped his arm and jerked him to his feet, and he looked into the dark face of Lew Brady.

“Here, what——” he began. But Brady led him and pushed him back to his own table.

“You fool!” he hissed. “Why do you want to advertise yourself in this way? You’re a hell of a Secret Service man!”

“I don’t want any of that stuff from you,” said Ray roughly as he jerked his arm free.

“Sit down, Ray,” said Lola in a low voice. “Half Scotland Yard is in the club, watching you.”

He followed the direction of her eyes and saw Dick Gordon regarding him gravely, and the sight and knowledge of that surveillance maddened him. Leaping to his feet, he crossed the room to where they sat.

“Looking for me?” he asked loudly. “Want me for anything?”

Dick shook his head.

“You damned police spy!” stormed the youth, white with unreasoning passion. “Bringing your bloodhounds after me! What are you doing with this gang, Johnson? Are you turned policeman too?”

“My dear Ray,” murmured Johnson.

“My dear Ray!” sneered the other. “You’re jealous, you poor worm—jealous because I’ve got away from the bloodsucker’s clutches! As to you”—he waved a threatening finger in Dick’s face—“you leave me alone—see? You’ve got a whole lot of work to do without carrying tales to my sister.”

“I think you had better go back to your friends,” said Dick coolly. “Or, better still, go home and sleep.”

All this had occurred between the dances, and now the band struck up, but if the attention of the crowded clubroom was in no wise relaxed, there was this change, that Ray’s high voice now did not rise above the efforts of the trap drummer.

Dick looked round for the watchful Hagn. He knew that the manager, or one of the officials of the club, would interfere instantly. It was not Hagn, but a head waiter, who came up and pushed the young man back.

So intent was everybody on that little scene that followed, in the spectacle of that flushed youth struggling against the steady pressure which the head waiter and his fellows asserted, that nobody saw the man who for a while stood in the doorway surveying the scene, before pushing aside the attendants he strode into the centre of the room.

Ray, looking round, was almost sobered by the sight of his father.

The rugged, grey-haired man, in his worn, tweed suit, made a striking contrast to that gaily-dressed throng. He stood, his hands behind him, his face white and set, surveying his son, and the boy’s eyes dropped before him.

“I want you, Ray,” he said simply.

The floor was deserted; the music ceased, as though the leader of the orchestra had been signalled that something was wrong.

“Come back with me to Horsham, boy.”

“I’m not going,” said Ray sullenly.

“He is not with you, Mr. Gordon?”

Dick shook his head, and at this intervention the fury of Ray Bennett flamed again.

“With him!” he said scornfully. “Would I be with a sneaking policeman?”

“Go with your father, Ray.” It was Johnson’s urgent advice, and his hand lay for a second on the boy’s shoulder.

Ray shook him off.

“I’ll stay here,” he said, and his voice was loud and defiant. “I’m not a baby, that I can’t be trusted out alone. You’ve no right to come here, making me look a fool.” He glowered at his father. “You’ve kept me down all these years, denied me money that I ought to have had—and who are you that you should pretend to be shocked because I’m in a decent club, wearing decent clothes? I’m straight: can you say the same? If I wasn’t straight, could you blame me? You’re not going to put any of that kind father stuff over——”

“Come away.” John Bennett’s voice was hoarse.

“I’m staying here,” said Ray violently. “And in future you can leave me alone. The break had to come some time, and it might as well come now.”

They stood facing one another, father and son, and in the tired eyes of John Bennett was a look of infinite sadness.

“You’re a silly boy, Ray. Perhaps I haven’t done all I could——”

“Perhaps!” sneered the other. “Why, you know it! You get out!”

And then, as he turned his head, he saw the suppressed smiles on the face of the audience, and the hurt to his vanity drove him mad.

“Come,” said John gently, and laid his hand on the boy’s arm.

With a roar of fury Ray broke loose . . . in a second the thing was done. The blow that struck John Bennett staggered him, but he did not fall.

And then, through the guests who thronged about the two, came Ella. She realized instantly what had happened. Elk had slipped from his seat and was standing behind the boy, ready to pin him if he raised his hand again. But Ray Bennett stood, frozen with horror, speechless, incapable of movement.

“Father!” The white-faced girl whispered the word.

The head of John Bennett dropped, and he suffered himself to be led away.

Dick Gordon wanted to follow and comfort, but he saw Johnson going after them and went back to his table. Again the music started, and they took Ray Bennett back to his table, where he sat, head on hand, till Lola signalled a waiter to bring more wine.

“There are times,” said Elk, “when the prodigal son and the fatted calf look so like one another that you can’t tell ’em apart.”

Dick said nothing, but his heart bled for the mystery man of Horsham. For he had seen in John Bennett’s face the agony of the damned.

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