CHAPTER XIII

JOHNSON did not come back, and in many respects the two men were glad. Elk had been on the point of telling the secretary to clear, and he hoped that Mr. Maitland would follow his example. As if reading his thoughts, the old man rose soon after the room had quietened down. He had sat through the scene which had followed Ray’s meeting with his father, and had apparently displayed not the slightest interest in the proceedings. It was as though his mind were so far away that he could not bring himself to a realization of actualities.

“He’s going, and he hasn’t paid his bill,” whispered Elk.

In spite of his remissness, the aged millionaire was escorted to the door by the three chief waiters, his top-coat, silk hat and walking-stick were brought to him, and he was out of Dick Gordon’s sight before the bowing servants had straightened themselves.

Elk looked at his watch: it wanted five minutes of one. Hagn had not returned—a circumstance which irritated the detective and was a source of uneasiness to Dick Gordon. The merriment again worked up to its highest point, when the two men rose from the table and strolled toward the door. A waiter came after them hurriedly.

“Monsieur has not paid his bill.”

“We will pay that later,” said Dick, and at that moment the hands of the clock pointed to the hour.

Precisely five minutes later the club was in the hands of the police. By 1.15 it was empty, save for the thirty raiding detectives and the staff.

“Where is Hagn?” Dick asked the chief waiter.

“He has gone home, monsieur,” said the man sullenly. “He always goes home early.”

“That’s a lie,” said Elk. “Show me to his room.”

Hagn’s office was in the basement, a part of the old mission hall that had remained untouched. They were shown to a large, windowless cubicle, comfortably furnished, which was Hagn’s private bureau, but the man had disappeared. Whilst his subordinates were searching for the books and examining, sheet by sheet, the documents in the clerk’s office, Elk made an examination of the room. In one corner was a small safe, upon which he put the police seal; and lying on a sofa in some disorder was a suit of clothes, evidently discarded in a hurry. Elk looked at them, carried them under the ceiling light, and examined them. It was the suit Hagn had been wearing when he had shown them to their seats.

“Bring in that head waiter,” said Elk.

The head waiter either wouldn’t or couldn’t give information.

“Mr. Hagn always changes his clothes before he goes home,” he said.

“Why did he go before the club was closed?”

The man shrugged his shoulders.

“I don’t know anything about his private affairs,” he said, and Elk dismissed him.

Against the wall was a dressing-table and a mirror, and on each side of the mirror stood a small table-lamp, which differed from other table-lamps in that it was not shaded. Elk turned the switch, and in the glaring light scrutinized the table. Presently he found two wisps of hair, and held them against the sleeve of his black coat. In the drawer he found a small bottle of spirit gum, and examined the brush. Then he picked up a little wastepaper basket and turned its contents upon the table. He found a few torn bills, business letters, a tradesman’s advertisement, three charred cigarette ends, and some odd scraps of paper. One of these was covered with gum and stuck together.

“I reckon he wiped the brush on this,” said Elk, and with some difficulty pulled the folded slip apart.

It was typewritten, and consisted of three lines:

“Urgent. See Seven at E.S.2. No raid. Get M.’s statement. Urgent. F.1.”

Dick took the paper from his subordinate’s hand and read it.

“He’s wrong about the no raid,” he said. “E. S., of course, is Eldor Street, and two is either the number two or two o’clock.”

“Who’s ‘M.’?” asked Elk, frowning.

“Obviously Mills—the man we caught at Wandsworth. He made a written statement, didn’t he?”

“He has signed one,” said Elk thoughtfully.

He turned the papers over, and after a while found what he was looking for—a small envelope. It was addressed in typewritten characters to “G. V. Hagn,” and bore on the back the stamp of the District Messenger service.

The staff were still held by the police, and Elk sent for the doorkeeper.

“What time was this delivered?” he asked.

The man was an ex-soldier, the only one of the prisoners who seemed to feel his position.

“It came at about nine o’clock, sir,” he said readily, and produced the letter-book in confirmation. “It was brought by a District Messenger boy,” he explained unnecessarily.

“Does Mr. Hagn get many notes by District Messenger?”

“Very few, sir,” said the doorkeeper, and added an anxious inquiry as to his own fate.

“You can go,” said Elk. “Under escort,” he added, “to your own home. You’re not to communicate with anybody, or tell any of the servants here that I have made inquiries about this letter. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

To make assurance doubly sure, Elk had called up exchange and placed a ban upon all ’phone communications. It was now a quarter to two, and, leaving half-a-dozen detectives in charge of the club, he got the remainder on to the car that had brought them, and, accompanied by Dick, went full speed for Tottenham.

Within a hundred yards of Eldor Street the car stopped and unloaded. The first essential was that whoever was meeting No. 7 in Eldor Street should not be warned of their approach. It was more than possible that Frog scouts would be watching at each end of the street.

“I don’t know why they should,” said Elk, when Dick put this possibility forward.

“I can give you one very excellent reason,” said Dick quietly. “It is this: that the Frogs know all about your previous visit to Maitland’s slum residence.”

“What makes you think that?” asked Elk in surprise, but Dick did not enlighten him.

Sending the men round by circuitous routes, he went forward with Elk, and at the very corner of Eldor Street, Elk found that his chief’s surmise was well founded. Under a lamp-post Elk saw the dim figure of a man standing, and instantly began an animated and raucous conversation concerning a mythical Mr. Brown. Realizing that this was intended for the watcher, Gordon joined in. The man under the lamp-post hesitated just a little too long. As they came abreast of him, Elk turned.

“Have you got a match?” he asked.

“No,” growled the other, and the next instant was on the ground, with Elk’s knee on his chest and the detective’s bony hand around his throat.

“Shout, Frog, and I’ll throttle you,” hissed the detective ferociously.

There was no scuffle, no sound. The thing was done so quickly that, if there were other watchers in the street, they could not have known what had happened, or have received any warning from their comrade’s fate. The man was in the hands of the following detective, gagged and handcuffed, and on his way to the police car, before he knew exactly what tornado had struck him.

“Do you mind if I sing?” said Elk as they turned into the street on the opposite side to that where Mr. Maitland’s late residence was situated.

Without waiting permission Elk broke into song. His voice was thin and flat. As a singer, he was a miserable failure, and Dick Gordon had never in his life listened with so much patience to sounds more hideous. But there would be watchers at each end of the street, he thought, and soon saw that Elk’s precautions were necessary.

Again it was in the shadow of a street-lamp that the sentinel stood—a tall, thickset man, more conscientious in the discharge of his duties than his friend, for Dick saw something glittering in his mouth, and knew that it was a whistle.

“Give me the woild for a wishing well,” wailed Elk, staggering slightly, “Say that my dre-em will come true . . .”

And as he sang he made appropriate gestures. His outflung hand caught the whistle and knocked it from the man’s mouth, and in a second the two sprang at him and flung him face downward on the pavement. Elk pulled his prisoner’s cap over his mouth; something black and shiny flashed before the sentry’s eyes, and a cold, circular instrument was thrust against the back of his ear.

“If you make a sound, you’re a dead Frog,” said Elk; and that portion of his party which had made the circuit coming up at that moment, he handed his prisoner over and replaced his fountain-pen in his pocket.

“Everything now depends upon whether the gentleman who is patrolling the passage between the gardens has witnessed this disgusting fracas,” said Elk, dusting himself. “If he was standing at the entrance to the passage he has seen it, and there’s going to be trouble.”

Apparently the patrol was in the alleyway itself and had heard no sound. Creeping to the entrance, Elk listened and presently heard the soft pad of footsteps. He signalled to Dick to remain where he was, and slipped into the passage, walking softly, but not so softly that the man on guard at the back gate of Mr. Maitland’s house did not hear him.

“Who’s that?” he demanded in a gruff voice.

“It’s me,” whispered Elk. “Don’t make so much noise.”

“You’re not supposed to be here,” said the other in a tone of authority. “I told you to stay under the lamp-post——”

Elk’s eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness, and now he saw his man.

“There are two queer-looking people in the street: I wanted you to see them,” he whispered.

All turned now upon the discipline which the Frogs maintained.

“Who are they?” asked the unknown in a low voice.

“A man and a woman,” whispered Elk.

“I don’t suppose they’re anybody important,” grumbled the other.

In his youth Elk had played football; and, measuring the distance as best he could, he dropped suddenly and tackled low. The man struck the earth with a jerk which knocked all the breath out of his body and made him incapable of any other sound than the involuntary gasp which followed his knock-out. In a second Elk was on him, his bony knee on the man’s throat.

“Pray, Frog,” he whispered in the man’s ear, “but don’t shout!”

The stricken man was incapable of shouting, and was still breathless when willing hands threw him into the patrol wagon.

“We’ll have to go the back way, boys,” said Elk in a whisper.

This time his task was facilitated by the fact that the garden gate was not locked. The door into the scullery was, however, but there was a window, the catch of which Elk forced noiselessly. He had pulled off his boots and was in his stockinged feet, and he sidled along the darkened passage. Apparently none of the dilapidated furniture had been removed from the house, for he felt the small table that had stood in the hall on his last visit. Gently turning the handle of Maitland’s room, he pushed.

The door was open, the room in darkness and empty. Elk came back to the scullery.

“There’s nobody here on the ground floor,” he said. “We’ll try upstairs.”

He was half-way up when he heard the murmur of voices and stopped. Raising his eyes to the level of the floor, he saw a crack of light under the doorway of the front room—the apartment which had been occupied by Maitland’s housekeeper. He listened, but could distinguish no consecutive words. Then, with a bound, he took the remaining stairs in three strides, flew along the landing, and flung himself upon the door. It was locked. At the sound of his footsteps the light inside went out. Twice he threw himself with all his weight at the frail door, and at the third attempt it crashed in.

“Hands up, everybody!” he shouted.

The room was in darkness, and there was a complete silence. Crouching down in the doorway, he flung the gleam of his electric torch into the room. It was empty!

His officers came crowding in at his heels, the lamp on the table was relit—the glass chimney was hot—and a search was made of the room. It was too small to require a great deal of investigation. There was a bed, under which it was possible to hide, but they drew blank in this respect. At one end of the room near the bed was a wardrobe, which was filled with old dresses suspended from hangers.

“Throw out those clothes,” ordered Elk. “There must be a door there into the next house.”

A glance at the window showed him that it was impossible for the inmates of the room to have escaped that way. Presently the clothes were heaped on the floor, and the detectives were attacking the wooden back of the wardrobe, which did, in fact, prove to be a door leading into the next house. Whilst they were so engaged, Dick made a scrutiny of the table, which was littered with papers. He saw something and called Elk.

“What is this, Elk?”

The detective took the four closely-typed sheets of paper from his hand.

“Mills’ confession,” he said in amazement. “There are only two copies, one of which I have, and the other is in the possession of your department, Captain Gordon.”

At this moment the wardrobe backing was smashed in, and the detectives were pouring through to the next house.

And then it was that they made the interesting discovery that, to all intents and purposes, communication was continuous between a block of ten houses that ran to the end of the street. And they were not untenanted. Three typical Frogs occupied the first room into which they burst. They found others on the lower floor; and it soon became clear that the whole of the houses comprising the end block had been turned into a sleeping-place for the recruits of Frogdom. Since any one of these might have been No. 7, they were placed under arrest.

All the communicating doors were now opened. Except in the case of Maitland’s house, no attempt had been made to camouflage the entrances, which in the other houses consisted of oblong apertures, roughly cut through the brick party walls.

“We may have got him, but I doubt it,” said Elk, coming back, breathless and grimy, to where Dick was examining the remainder of the documents which he had found. “I haven’t seen any man who looks like owning brains.”

“Nobody has escaped from the block?”

Elk shook his head.

“My men are in the passage and the street. In addition, the uniformed police are here. Didn’t you hear the whistle?”

Elk’s assistant reported at that moment.

“A man has been found in one of the back yards, sir,” he said. “I’ve taken the liberty of relieving the constable of his prisoner. Would you like to see him?”

“Bring him up,” said Elk, and a few minutes later a handcuffed man was pushed into the room.

He was above medium height; his hair was fair and long, his yellow beard was trimmed to a point.

For a moment Dick looked at him wonderingly, and then:

“Carlo, I think?” he said.

“Hagn, I’m sure!” said Elk. “Get those whiskers off, you Frog, and we’ll talk numbers, beginning with seven!”

Hagn! Even now Dick could not believe his eyes. The wig was so perfectly made, the beard so cunningly fixed, that he could not believe it was the manager of Heron’s Club. But when he heard the voice, he knew that Elk was right.

“Number Seven, eh?” drawled Hagn. “I guess Number Seven will get through your cordon without being challenged, Mr. Elk. He’s friendly with the police. What do you want me for?”

“I want you for the part you played in the murder of Chief Inspector Genter on the night of the fourteenth of May,” said Elk.

Hagn’s lips curled.

“Why don’t you take Broad?—he was there. Perhaps he’ll come as witness for me.”

“When I see him——” began Elk.

“Look out of the window,” interrupted Hagn. “He’s there!”

Dick walked to the window and, throwing up the sash, leant out. A crowd of locals in shawls and overcoats were watching the transference of the prisoners. Dick caught the sheen of a silk hat and the unmistakable voice of Broad hailed him.

“Good morning, Captain Gordon—Frog stock kind of slumped, hasn’t it? By the way, did you see the baby?”

CHAPTER XIV

ELK went out on the street to see the American. Mr. Broad was in faultless evening dress, and the gleaming head-lamps of his car illuminated the mean street.

“You’ve certainly a nose for trouble,” said Elk with respect; “and whilst you’re telling me how you came to know about this raid, which hadn’t been decided on until half-an-hour ago, I’ll do some quiet wondering.”

“I didn’t know there was a raid,” confessed Joshua Broad, “but when I saw twenty Central Office men dash out of Heron’s Club and drive furiously away, I am entitled to guess that their haste doesn’t indicate their anxiety to get to bed before the clock strikes two. I usually call at Heron’s Club in the early hours. In many ways its members are less desirable acquaintances than the general run of Frogs, but they amuse me. And they are mildly instructive. That is my explanation—I saw you leave in a hurry and I followed you. And I repeat my question. Did you see the dear little baby who is learning to spell R-A-T, Rat?”

“No,” said Elk shortly. He had a feeling that the suave and self-possessed American was laughing at him. “Come in and see the chief.”

Broad followed the inspector to the bedroom, where Dick was assembling the papers which in his hurried departure No. 7 had left behind. The capture was the most important that had been made since the campaign against the Frogs was seriously undertaken.

In addition to the copy of the secret report on Mills, there was a bundle of notes, many of them cryptic and unintelligible to the reader. Some, however, were in plain English. They were typewritten, and obviously they corresponded to the General Orders of an army. They were, in fact, the Frog’s own instructions, issued under the name of his chief of staff, for each bore the signature “Seven.”

One ran:

“Raymond Bennett must go faster. L. to tell him that he is a Frog. Whatever is done with him must be carried out with somebody unknown as Frog.”

Another slip:

“Gordon has an engagement to dine American Embassy Thursday. Settle. Elk has fixed new alarm under fourth tread of stairs. Elk goes to Wandsworth 4.15 to-morrow for interview with Mills.”

There were other notes dealing with people of whom Dick had never heard. He was reading again the reference to himself, and smiling over the laconic instruction “settle,” when the American came in.

“Sit down, Mr. Broad—by the sad look on Elk’s face I guess you have explained your presence satisfactorily?”

Broad nodded smilingly.

“And Mr. Elk takes quite a lot of convincing,” he said. His eyes fell upon the papers on the table. “Would it be indiscreet to ask if that is Frog stuff?” he asked.

“Very,” said Dick, “In fact, any reference to the Frogs would be the height of indiscretion, unless you’re prepared to add to the sum of our knowledge.”

“I can tell you, without committing myself, that Frog Seven has made a getaway,” said the American calmly.

“How do you know?”

“I heard the Frogs jubilating as they passed down the street in custody,” said Broad. “Frog Seven’s disguise was perfect—he wore the uniform of a policeman.”

Elk swore softly but savagely.

“That was it!” he said. “He was the ‘policeman’ who was spiriting Hagn away under the pretence of arresting him! And if one of my men had not taken his prisoner from him they would both have escaped. Wait!”

He went in search of the detective who had brought in Hagn.

“I don’t know the constable,” said that officer. “This is a strange division to me. He was a tallish man with a heavy black moustache. If it was a disguise, it was perfect, sir.”

Elk returned to report and question. But again Mr. Broad’s explanation was a simple one.

“I tell you that the Frogs were openly enjoying the joke. I heard one say that the ‘rozzer’ got away—and another refer to the escaped man as a ‘flattie’—both, I believe, are cant terms for policemen?”

Elk nodded.

“What is your interest in the Frogs, Broad?” he asked bluntly. “Forget for the minute that you’re a parlour-criminologist and imagine that you’re writin’ the true story of your life.”

Broad considered for a while, examining the cigar he had been smoking.

“The Frogs mean nothing to me—the Frog everything.” The American puffed a ring of smoke into the air and watched it dissolve.

“I’m mighty curious to know what game he is playing with Ray Bennett,” he said. “That is certainly the most intriguing feature of Frog strategy.”

He rose and took up his hat.

“I envy you your search of this fine old mansion,” he said, and, with a twinkle in his eye: “Don’t forget the kindergarten, Mr. Elk.”

When he had gone, Elk made a close scrutiny of the house. He found two children’s books, both well-thumbed, and an elementary copybook, in which a childish hand had followed, shakily, the excellent copperplate examples. Theabacuswas gone, however. In the cupboard where he had seen the unopened circulars, he made a discovery. It was a complete outfit, as far as he could judge, for a boy of six or seven. Every article was new—not one had been worn. Elk carried his find to where Dick was still puzzling over some of the more obscure notes which “No. 7” had left in his flight.

“What do you make of these?” he asked.

The Prosecutor turned over the articles one by one, then leant back in his chair and stared into vacancy.

“All new,” he said absently, and then a slow smile dawned on his face.

Elk, who saw nothing funny in the little bundle, wondered what was amusing him.

“I think these clothes supply a very valuable clue; does this?” He passed a paper across the table, and Elk read:

“All bulls hear on Wednesday 3.1.A. L.V.M.B. Important.”

“There are twenty-five copies of that simple but moving message,” said Dick; “and as there are no envelopes for any of the instructions, I can only suppose that they are despatched by Hagn either from the club or his home. This is how far I have got in figuring the organization of the Frogs. Frog Number One works through ‘Seven,’ who may or may not be aware of his chief’s identity. Hagn—whose number is thirteen, by the way, and mighty unlucky it will be for him—is the executive chief of Number Seven’s bureau, and actually communicates with the section chiefs. He may or may not know ‘Seven’—probably he does. Seven takes orders from the Frog, but may act without consultation if emergencies arise. There is here,” he tapped the paper, “an apology for employing Mills, which bears this out.”

“No handwriting?”

“None—nor finger-prints.”

Elk took up one of the slips on which the messages were written, and held it to the light.

“Watermark Three Lion Bond,” he read. “Typewriter new, written by somebody who was taught and has a weak little finger of the left hand—the ‘q’ and ‘a’ are faint. That shows he’s a touch typist—uses the same finger every time. Self-taught typists seldom use their little fingers. Especially the little finger of the left hand. I once caught a bank thief through knowing this.” He read the message again.

“ ‘All bulls hear on Wednesday . . .’ Bulls are the big men, the bull frogs, eh? Where do they hear? ‘3.1.A.’? That certainly leaves me guessing, Captain. Why, what do you think?”

Dick was regarding him oddly.

“It doesn’t get me guessing,” he said slowly. “At 3.1 a.m. on Wednesday morning, I shall be listening in for the code signal L.V.M.B.—we are going to hear that great Frog talk!”

“Will he talk about the durned treaty?” growled Elk.

CHAPTER XV

RAY BENNETT woke with a groan. His temples were splitting, his tongue was parched and dry. When he tried to lift his aching head from the pillow he groaned again, but with an effort of will succeeded in dragging himself from the bed and staggering to the window. He pushed open a leaded casement and looked out upon the green of Hyde Park, and all the time his temples throbbed painfully.

Pouring a glass of water from a carafe, he drank greedily, and, sitting down on the edge of the bed, his head between his hands, he tried to think. Only dimly did he recall the events of the night before, but he was conscious that something dreadful had happened. Slowly his mind started to sort out his experiences, and with a sinking heart he remembered he had struck his father! He shuddered at the recollection, and then began a frantic mental search for justification. The vanity of youth does not readily reject excuses for its own excesses, and Ray was no exception. By the time he had had his bath and was in the first stages of dressing, he had come to the conclusion that he had been very badly treated. It was unpardonable in him to strike his father—he must write to him expressing his sorrow and urging his condition as a reason for the act. It would not be a crawling letter (he told himself) but something dignified and a little distant. After all, these quarrels occurred in every family. Parents were temporarily estranged from their children, and were eventually reconciled. Some day he would go to his father a rich man. . . .

He pursed his lips uneasily. A rich man? He was well off now. He had an expensive flat. Every week crisp new banknotes came by registered post. He had the loan of a car—how long would this state of affairs continue?

He was no fool. Not perhaps as clever as he thought he was, but no fool. Why should the Japanese or any other Government pay him for information they could get from any handbook available to all and purchasable for a few shillings at most booksellers?

He dismissed the thought—he had the gift of putting out of his mind those matters which troubled him. Opening the door which led into his dining-room, he stood stock-still, paralysed with astonishment.

Ella was sitting at the open window, her elbow on the ledge, her chin in her hand. She looked pale, and there were heavy shadows under her eyes.

“Why, Ella, what on earth are you doing here?” he asked. “How did you get in?”

“The porter opened the door with his pass-key when I told him I was your sister,” she said listlessly. “I came early this morning. Oh, Ray—aren’t you . . . aren’t you ashamed?”

He scowled.

“Why should I be?” he asked loudly. “Father ought to have known better than tackle me when I was lit up! Of course, it was an awful thing to do, but I wasn’t responsible for my actions at the time. What did he say?” he asked uncomfortably.

“Nothing—he said nothing. I wish he had. Won’t you go to Horsham and see him, Ray?”

“No—let it blow over for a day or two,” he said hastily. He most assuredly had no anxiety to meet his father. “If . . . if he forgives me he’ll only want me to come back and chuck this life. He had no right to make me look little before all those people. I suppose you’ve been to see your friend Gordon?” he sneered.

“No,” she said simply, “I have been nowhere but here. I came up by the workmen’s train. Would it be a dreadful sacrifice, Ray, to give up this?”

He made an impatient gesture.

“It isn’t—this, my dear Ella, if by ‘this’ you mean the flat. It is my work that you and father want me to give up. I have to live up to my position.”

“What is your work?” she asked.

“You wouldn’t understand,” he said loftily, and her lips twitched.

“It would have to be very extraordinary if I could not understand it,” she said. “Is it Secret Service work?”

Ray went red.

“I suppose Gordon has been talking to you,” he complained bitterly. “If that fellow sticks his nose into my affairs he is going to have it pulled!”

“Why shouldn’t he?” she asked.

This was a new tone in her, and one that made him stare at her. Ella had always been the indulgent, approving, excusing sister. The buffer who stood between him and his father’s reproof.

“Why shouldn’t he?” she repeated. “Mr. Gordon should know something of Secret Service work—he himself is an officer of the law. You are either working lawfully, in which case it doesn’t matter what he knows, or unlawfully, and the fact that he knows should make a difference to you.”

He looked at her searchingly.

“Why are you so interested in Gordon—are you in love with him?” he asked.

Her steady eyes did not waver, and only the faintest tinge of pink came to the skin that sleeplessness had paled.

“That is the kind of question that a gentleman does not ask in such a tone,” she said quietly, “not even of his sister. Ray, you are coming back to daddy, aren’t you—to-day?”

He shook his head.

“No. I’m not. I’m going to write to him. I admit I did wrong. I shall tell him so in my letter. I can’t do more than that.”

There came a discreet knock on the door.

“Come in,” growled Ray. It was his servant, a man who came by the day.

“Will you see Miss Bassano and Mr. Brady, sir?” he asked in a hoarse whisper, and glanced significantly at Ella.

“Of course he’ll see me,” said a voice outside. “Why all this formality—oh, I see.”

Lola Bassano’s eyes fell upon the girl seated by the window.

“This is my sister—Ella, this is Miss Bassano and Mr. Brady.”

Ella looked at the petite figure in the doorway, and, looking, could only admire. It was the first time they had met face to face, and she thought Lola was lovely.

“Glad to meet you, Miss Bennett. I suppose you’ve come up to roast this brother of yours for his disgraceful conduct last night. Boy, you were certainly mad! Itwasyour father, Miss Bennett?”

Ella nodded, and heard with gratitude the sympathetic click of Lew Brady’s lips.

“If I’d been near you, Ray, I’d have beaten you. Too bad, Miss Bennett.”

A strange coldness came suddenly to the girl—and a second before she had glowed to their sympathy. It was the suspicion of their insincerity that chilled her. Their kindness was just a little too glib and too ready. Brady’s just a little too overpowering.

“Do you like your brother’s flat?” asked Lola, sitting down and stretching her silk-covered legs to a patch of sunlight.

“It is very—handsome,” said Ella. “He will find Horsham rather dull when he comes back.”

“Will he go back?” Lola flashed a smile at the youth as she asked the question.

“Not much I won’t,” said Ray energetically. “I’ve been trying to make Ella understand that my business is too important to leave.”

Lola nodded, and now the antagonism which Ella in her charity was holding back came with a rush.

“What is the business?” she asked.

He went on to give her a vague and cautious exposition of his work, and she listened without comment.

“So if you think that I’m doing anything crooked, or have friends that aren’t as straight as you and father are, get the idea out of your head. I’m not afraid of Gordon or Elk or any of that lot. Don’t think I am. Nor is Brady, nor Miss Bassano. Gordon is one of those cheap detectives who has got his ideas out of books.”

“That’s perfectly true, Miss Bennett,” said Lew virtuously. “Gordon is just a bit too clever. He’s got the idea that everybody but himself is crook. Why, he sent Elk down to cross-examine your own father! Believe me, I’m not scared of Gordon, or any——”

Tap . . . tap . . . tappity . . . tap.

The taps were on the door, slow, deliberate, unmistakable. The effect on Lew Brady was remarkable. His big body seemed to shrink, his puffed face grew suddenly hollow.

Tap . . . tap . . . tappity . . . tap.

The hand that went up to Brady’s mouth was trembling. Ella looked from the man to Lola, and she saw, to her amazement, that Lola had grown pale under her rouge. Brady stumbled to the door, and the sound of his heavy breathing sounded loud in the silence.

“Come in,” he muttered, and flung the door wide open.

It was Dick Gordon who entered.

He looked from one to the other, laughter in his eyes.

“The old Frog tap seems to frighten some of you,” he said pleasantly.

CHAPTER XVI

LOLA was the quickest to recover.

“What do you mean . . . Frog tap? Got that Frog stuff roaming loose in your head, haven’t you?”

“It is a new accomplishment,” said Dick with mock gravity. “A thirty-third degree Frog taught me. It’s the signal the old Grand Master Frog gives when he enters the presence of his inferiors.”

“Your thirty-third degree Frog is probably lying,” said Lola, her colour returning. “Anyway, Mills——”

“I never mentioned Mills,” said Dick.

“I know it was he. His arrest was in the newspapers.”

“It hasn’t even appeared in the newspapers,” said Dick, “unless it was splashed inThe Frog Gazette—probably on the personality page.”

He inclined his head toward the girl. Ray, for the moment, he would have ignored if the young man had not taken a step toward him.

“Do you want anything, Gordon?” he asked.

“I want a private talk with you, Bennett,” said Dick.

“There’s nothing you can’t say before my friends,” said Ray, his ready temper rising.

“The only person I recognize by that title is your sister,” replied Gordon.

“Let us go, Lew,” said Lola with a shrug, but Ray Bennett stopped them.

“Wait a minute! Is this my house, or isn’t it?” he demanded furiously. “You can clear out, Gordon! I’ve had just about as much of your interference as I want. You push your way in here, you’re offensive to my friends—you practically tell them to get out—I like your nerve! There’s the door—you can go.”

“I’ll go if you feel that way,” said Dick, “but I want to warn you——”

“Pshaw! I’m sick of your warnings.”

“I want to warn you that the Frog has decided that you’ve got to earn your money! That is all.”

There was a dead silence, which Ella broke.

“The Frog?” she repeated, open-eyed. “But . . . but, Mr. Gordon, Ray isn’t . . . with the Frogs?”

“Perhaps it will be news to him—but he is,” said Dick. “These two people are faithful servants of the reptile,” he pointed. “Lola is financed by him—her husband is financed by him——”

“You’re a liar!” screamed Ray. “Lola isn’t married! You’re a sneaking liar—get out before I throw you out! You poor Frog-chaser—you think everything that’s green lives in a pond! Get out and stay out!”

It was Ella’s appealing glance that made Dick Gordon walk to the door. Turning, his cold gaze rested on Lew Brady.

“There is a big question-mark against your name in the Frog-book, Brady. You watch out!”

Lew shrank under the blow, for blow it was. Had he dared, he would have followed Gordon into the corridor and sought further information. But here his moral courage failed him, and he stood, a pathetic figure, looking wistfully at the door that the visitor had closed behind him.

“For God’s sake let us get some air in the room!” snarled Ray, thrusting open the windows. “That fellow is a pestilence! Married! Trying to get me to believe that!”

Ella had taken up her handbag from the sideboard where she had placed it.

“Going, Ella?”

She nodded.

“Tell father . . . I’ll write anyway. Talk to him, Ella, and show him where he was wrong.”

She held out her hand.

“Good-bye, Ray,” she said. “Perhaps one day you will come back to us. Please God this madness will end soon. Oh, Ray, it isn’t true about the Frogs, is it? You aren’t with those people?”

His laugh reassured her for the moment.

“Of course I’m not—it’s about as true as the yarn that Lola is married! Gordon was trying to make a sensation; that’s the worst of these third-rate detectives, they live on sensation.”

She nodded to Lola as he escorted her to the lift. Lew Brady watched her with hungry eyes.

“What did he mean, Lola?” asked Brady as the door closed behind the two. “That fellow knows something! There’s a mark against my name in the Frog-book! That sounds bad to me. Lola, I’m finished with these Frogs! They’re getting on my nerves.”

“You’re a fool,” she said calmly. “Gordon has got just the effect he wanted—he has scared you!”

“Scared?” he answered savagely. “Nothing scares me. You’re not scared because you’ve no imagination. I’m . . . not scared, but worried, because I’m beginning to see that the Frogs are bigger than I dreamt. They killed that Scotsman Maclean the other day, and they’re not going to think twice about settling with me. I’ve talked to these Frogs, Lola—they’d do anything from murder upwards. They look on the Frog as a god—he’s a religion with them! A question-mark against my name! I believe it too—I’ve talked flip about ’em, and they won’t forgive that——”

“Hush!” she warned him in a low voice as the door handle turned and Ray came back.

“Phew!” he said. “Thank God she’s gone! What a morning! Frogs—Frogs—Frogs! The poor fool!”

Lola opened a small jewelled case and took out a cigarette and lit it, extinguishing the match with a snick of her fingers. Then she turned her beautiful eyes upon Ray.

“What is the matter with the Frogs anyway?” she asked coolly. “They pay well and they ask for little.”

Ray gaped at her.

“You’re not working for them, are you?” he asked astonished. “Why, they’re just low tramps who murder people!”

She shook her head.

“Not all of them,” she corrected. “They are only the body—the big Frogs are different. I am one and Lew is one.”

“What the devil are you talking about?” demanded Lew, half in fear, half in wrath.

“He ought to know—and he has got to know sooner or later,” said Lola, unperturbed. “He’s too sensible a boy to imagine that the Japanese or any other embassy is paying his overhead charges. He’s a Frog.”

Ray collapsed into a chair, incapable of speech.

“A Frog?” he repeated mechanically. “What . . . what do you mean?”

Lola laughed.

“I don’t see that it is any worse being a Frog than an agent of another country, selling your own country’s secrets,” she said. “Don’t be silly, Ray! You ought to be pleased and honoured. They chose you from thousands because they wanted the right kind of intelligence . . .”

And so she flattered and soothed him, until his plastic mind, wax in her hands, took another shape.

“I suppose it is all right,” he said at last. “Of course, I wouldn’t do anything really bad, and I don’t approve of all this clubbing, but, as you say, the Frog can’t be responsible for all that his people do. But on one thing I’m firm, Lola! I’ll have no tattooing!”

She laughed and extended her white arm.

“Am I marked?” she asked. “Is Lew marked? No; the big people aren’t marked at all. Boy, you’ve a great future.”

Ray took her hand and fondled it.

“Lola . . . about that story that Gordon told . . . your being married: it isn’t true?”

She laughed again and patted the hand on hers.

“Gordon is jealous,” she said. “I can’t tell you why—now. But he has good reasons.” Suddenly her mood grew gay, and she slipped away. “Listen, I’m going to ’phone for a table for lunch, and you will join us, and we’ll drink to the great little Frog who feeds us!”

The telephone was on the sideboard, and as she lifted the receiver she saw the square black metal box clamped to its base.

“Something new in ’phones, Ray?” she asked.

“They fixed it yesterday. It’s a resistance. The man told me that somebody who was talking into a ’phone during a thunderstorm had a bad shock, so they’re fitting these things as an experiment. It makes the instrument heavier, and it’s ugly, but——”

Slowly she put the receiver down and stooped to look at the attachment.

“It’s a detectaphone,” she said quietly. “And all the time we’ve been talking somebody has been making a note of our conversation.”

She walked to the fireplace, took up a poker and brought it down with a crash on the little box. . . .

Inspector Elk, with a pair of receivers clamped to his head, sat in a tiny office on the Thames Embankment, and put down his pencil with a sigh. Then he took up his telephone and called Headquarters Exchange.

“You can switch off that detectaphone to Knightsbridge 93718,” he said. “I don’t think we shall want it any more.”

“Did I put you through in time, sir?” asked the operator’s voice. “They had only just started talking when I called you.”

“Plenty of time, Angus,” said Elk, “plenty of time.”

He gathered up his notes and went to his desk and placed them tidily by the side of his blotting-pad.

Strolling to the window, he looked out upon the sunlit river, and there was peace and comfort in his heart, for overnight the prisoner Mills had decided to tell all he knew about the Frogs on the promise of a free pardon and a passage to Canada. And Mills knew more than he had, as yet, told.

Back to Index Next