CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIII

HERON’S CLUB had been temporarily closed by order of the police, but now was allowed to open its doors again. Ray invariably lunched at Heron’s unless he was taking the meal with Lola, who preferred a brighter atmosphere than the club offered at midday.

Only a few tables were occupied when he arrived. The stigma of the police raid lay upon Heron’s, and its more cautious clients had not yet begun to drift back. It was fairly well known that something had happened to Hagn, the manager, for the man had not appeared since the night of the raid. There were unconfirmed rumours of his arrest. Ray had not troubled to call for letters as he passed through the hall, for very little correspondence came to him at the club. He was therefore surprised when the waiter, having taken his order, returned, accompanied by the clerk carrying in his hand two letters, one heavily sealed and weighty, the other smaller.

He opened the big envelope first, and was putting in his fingers to extract the contents when he realized that the envelope contained nothing but money. He did not care to draw out the contents, even before the limited public. Peeping, he was gratified to observe the number and denomination of the bills. There was no message, but the other letter was addressed in the same handwriting. He tore this open. It was innocent of address or date, and the typewritten message ran:

“On Friday morning you will assume a dress which will be sent to you, and you will make your way towards Nottingham by road. You will take the name of Jim Carter, and papers of identification in that name will be found in the pockets of the clothes which will reach you by special messenger to-morrow. From now onward you are not to appear in public, you are not to shave, receive visitors or pay visits. Your business at Nottingham will be communicated to you. Remember that you are to travel by road, sleeping in such lodging-houses, casual wards or Salvation Army shelters as tramps usually patronize. At Barnet, on the Great North Road, near the ninth milestone, you will meet another whom you know, and will accompany him for the remainder of the journey. At Nottingham you will receive further orders. It is very likely that you will not be required, and certainly, the work you will be asked to do will not compromise you in any way. Remember your name is Carter. Remember you are not to shave. Remember also the ninth milestone on Friday morning. When these facts are impressed upon you, take this letter, the envelope, and the envelope containing the money, to the club fireplace, and burn them. I shall see you.”

“On Friday morning you will assume a dress which will be sent to you, and you will make your way towards Nottingham by road. You will take the name of Jim Carter, and papers of identification in that name will be found in the pockets of the clothes which will reach you by special messenger to-morrow. From now onward you are not to appear in public, you are not to shave, receive visitors or pay visits. Your business at Nottingham will be communicated to you. Remember that you are to travel by road, sleeping in such lodging-houses, casual wards or Salvation Army shelters as tramps usually patronize. At Barnet, on the Great North Road, near the ninth milestone, you will meet another whom you know, and will accompany him for the remainder of the journey. At Nottingham you will receive further orders. It is very likely that you will not be required, and certainly, the work you will be asked to do will not compromise you in any way. Remember your name is Carter. Remember you are not to shave. Remember also the ninth milestone on Friday morning. When these facts are impressed upon you, take this letter, the envelope, and the envelope containing the money, to the club fireplace, and burn them. I shall see you.”

The letter was signed “Frog.”

So the hour had come when the Frogs had need of him. He had dreaded the day, and yet in a way had looked forward to it as one who wished to know the worst.

He faithfully carried out the instructions, and, under the curious eyes of the guests, carried the letter and the envelopes to the empty brick fireplace, lit a match and burnt them, putting his foot upon the ashes.

His pulse beat a little quicker, the thump of his heart was a little more pronounced, as he went back to his untouched lunch. So the Frog would see him—was here! He looked round the sparsely filled tables, and presently he met the gaze of a man whose eyes had been fixed upon him ever since he had sat down. The face was familiar, and yet unfamiliar. He beckoned the waiter.

“Don’t look immediately,” he said in a low voice, “but tell me who is that gentleman sitting in the second alcove.”

The waiter looked carelessly round.

“That is Mr. Joshua Broad, sir,” he said.

Almost as the waiter spoke, Joshua Broad rose from his seat, walked across the room to where Ray was sitting.

“Good morning, Mr. Bennett. I don’t think we have met before, though we are fellow-members of Heron’s and I’ve seen you a lot of times here. My name is Broad.”

“Won’t you sit down?” Ray had some difficulty in controlling his voice. “Glad to meet you, Mr. Broad. Have you finished your lunch? If not, perhaps you’ll take it with me.”

“No,” he said, “I’ve finished lunch. I eat very little. But if it doesn’t annoy you, I’ll smoke a cigarette.”

Ray offered his case.

“I’m a neighbour of a friend of yours,” said Broad, choosing a cigarette, “Miss Lola Bassano. She has an apartment facing mine in Caverley House—I guess that’s where I’ve seen you most often.”

Now Ray remembered. This was the strange American who lived opposite to Lola, and about whose business he had so often heard Lola and Lew Brady speculate.

“And I think we have a mutual friend in—Captain Gordon,” suggested the other, his keen eyes fixed upon the boy.

“Captain Gordon is not a friend of mine,” said Ray quickly. “I’m not particularly keen on police folk as friends.”

“They can be mighty interesting,” said Broad, “but I can quite understand your feeling in the matter. Have you known Brady long?”

“Lew? No, I can’t say that I have. He’s a very nice fellow,” said Ray unenthusiastically. “He’s not exactly the kind of friend I’d have chosen, but it happens that he is a particularly close friend of a friend of mine.”

“Of Miss Bassano,” said Broad. “You used to be at Maitlands?”

“I was there once,” said Ray indifferently, and from his tone one might have imagined that he had merely been a visitor attracted by morbid curiosity to that establishment.

“Queer cuss, old Maitland.”

“I know very little of him,” said Ray.

“A very queer fellow. He’s got a smart secretary, though.”

“You mean Johnson?” Ray smiled. “Poor old philosopher, he’s lost his job!”

“You don’t say? When did this happen?” Mr. Broad’s voice was urgent, eager.

“The other day—I don’t know when. I met Johnson this morning and he told me. I don’t know how the old boy will get on without Philo.”

“I was wondering the same thing,” said Broad softly. “You surprise me. I wonder he has the nerve, though I don’t think he’s lacking in that quality.”

“The nerve?” said the puzzled Ray. “I don’t think it requires much nerve to fire a secretary.”

A fleeting smile played on the hard face of the American.

“By that I meant that it requires nerve for a man of Maitland’s character to dismiss a man who must share a fair number of his secrets. Not that I should imagine there would be any great confidence between these two. What is Johnson doing?”

“He’s looking for a job, I think,” said Ray. He was getting a little irritated by the persistence of the stranger’s questions. He had a feeling that he was being “pumped.” Possibly Mr. Broad sensed this suspicion, for he dropped his flow of interrogations and switched to the police raid, a prolific source of discussion amongst the members of Heron’s.

Ray looked after him as he walked out a little later and was puzzled. Why was he so keen on knowing all these things? Was he testing him? He was glad to be alone to consider this extraordinary commission which had come to him. The adventure of it, the disguise of it, all were particularly appealing to a romantic young man; and Ray Bennett lacked nothing in the matter of romance. There was a certain delightful suggestion of danger, a hint almost as thrilling of lawlessness, in these instructions. What might be the end of the adventure, he did not trouble to consider. It was well for his peace of mind that he was no seer; for, if he had been, he would have flown that very moment, seeking for some desolate place, some hole in the ground where he could lie and shiver and hide.

CHAPTER XXIV

ELLA BENNETT was cooking the dinner when her father came in, depositing his heavy camera on the floor of the sitting-room, but carrying, as was usual, his grip to the bedroom. She heard the closing of the cupboard door and the turning of the lock, but had long ceased to wonder why he invariably kept his bag locked in that cupboard. He was looking very tired and old; there were deeper lines under his eyes, and the pallor of his cheeks was even more pronounced.

“Did you have a good time, father?” she asked. It was the invariable question, and invariably John Bennett made no other reply than a nod.

“I nearly lost my camera this morning—forgot it,” he said. “It was quite a success—taking the camera away with me—but I must get used to remembering that I have it. I found a stretch of country full of wild fowl, and got some really good pictures. Round about Horsham my opportunities are limited, and I think I shall take the machine with me wherever I go.”

He seated himself in the old chair by the fireplace and was filling his pipe slowly.

“I saw Elk on the platform at King’s Cross,” he said. “I suppose he was looking for somebody.”

“What time did you leave where you were?” she asked.

“Last night,” he replied briefly, but did not volunteer any further information about his movements.

She was in and out of the kitchen, laying the table, and she did not speak to him on the matter which was near her heart, until he had drawn up his chair, and then:

“I had a letter from Ray this morning, father,” she said. It was the first time she had mentioned the boy’s name since that night of horrible memories at Heron’s Club.

“Yes?” he answered, without looking up from his plate.

“He wanted to know if you had his letter.”

“Yes, I had his letter,” said John Bennett, “but I didn’t answer it. If Ray wants to see me, he knows where I am. Did you hear from anybody else?” he asked, with surprising calm.

She had been dreading what might follow the mention of Ray’s name.

“I heard from Mr. Johnson. He has left Maitlands.”

Bennett finished his glass of water and set it down before he replied.

“He had a good job, too. I’m sorry. I suppose he couldn’t get on with the old man.”

Should she tell him? she wondered again. She had been debating the advisability of taking her father into her confidence ever since——

“Father, I’ve met Mr. Maitland,” she said.

“I know. You saw him at his office; you told me.”

“I’ve met him since. You remember the morning I was out, when Captain Gordon came—the morning I went to the wood? I went to see Mr. Maitland.”

He put down his knife and fork and stared at her incredulously.

“But why on earth did you see him at that hour of the morning? Had you made arrangements to meet him?”

She shook her head.

“I hadn’t any idea that I was going to see him,” she said, “but that night I was wakened by somebody throwing a stone at the window. I thought it was Ray, who had come back late. That was his habit; I never told you, but sometimes he was very late indeed, and he used to wake me that way. It was just dawn, and when I looked out, to my astonishment, I saw Mr. Maitland. He asked me to come down in that queerly abrupt way of his, and, thinking it had something to do with Ray, I dressed and went out into the garden, not daring to wake you. We walked up the road to where his car was. It was the queerest interview you could imagine, because he said—nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Well, he asked me if I’d be his friend. If it had been anybody else but Mr. Maitland, I should have been frightened. But he was so pathetic, so very old, so appealing. He kept saying ‘I’ll tell you something, miss,’ but every time he spoke he looked round with a frightened air. ‘Let’s go where we can’t be seen,’ he said, and begged me to step into the car. Of course I refused, until I discovered that the chauffeur was a woman—a very old woman, his sister. It was a most extraordinary experience. I think she must be nearly seventy, but during the war she learnt to drive a motor-car, and apparently she was wearing one of the chauffeur’s coats, and a more ludicrous sight you could not imagine, once you realized that she was a woman.

“I let him drive me down to the wood, and then: ‘Is it about Ray?’ I asked. But it wasn’t about Ray at all that he wanted to speak. He was so incoherent, so strange, that I really did get nervous. And then, when he had begun to compose himself and had even made a few connected remarks, you came along in Mr. Elk’s car. He was terrified and was shaking from head to foot! He begged me to go away, and almost went on his knees to implore me not to say that I had seen him.”

“Phew!” John Bennett pushed back his chair. “And you learnt nothing?”

She shook her head.

“He came again last night,” she said, “but this time I did not go out, and he refused to come in. He struck me as a man who was expecting to be trapped.”

“Did he give you any idea of what he wanted to say?”

“No, but it was something which was vitally important to him, I think. I couldn’t understand half that he said. He spoke in loud whispers, and I’ve told you how harsh his voice is.”

Bennett relit his pipe, and sat for a while with downcast eyes, revolving the matter in his mind.

“The next time he comes you’d better let me see him,” he said.

“I don’t think so, daddy,” she answered quietly. “If he has anything very important to say, I think I ought to know what it is. I have a feeling that he is asking for help.”

John Bennett looked up.

“A millionaire asking for help? Ella, that sounds queer to me.”

“And itisqueer,” she insisted. “He didn’t seem half so terrible as he appeared when I first saw him. There was something tragic about him, something very sad. He will come to-night, and I’ve promised to see him. May I?”

Her father considered.

“Yes, you may see him, provided you do not go outside this garden. I promise that I will not appear, but I shall be on hand. Do you think it is about Ray—that Ray has committed some act of folly that he wants to tell you about?” he asked with a note of anxiety.

“I don’t think so, daddy. Maitland was quite indifferent to Ray or what becomes of him. I’ve been wondering whether I ought to tell somebody.”

“Captain Gordon or Mr. Elk,” suggested her father dryly, and the girl flushed. “You like that young man, Ella? No, I’m not referring to Elk, who is anything but young; I mean Dick Gordon.”

“Yes,” she said after a pause, “I like him very much.”

“I hope you aren’t going to like him too much, darling,” said John Bennett, and their eyes met.

“Why not, daddy?” It almost hurt her to ask.

“Because”—he seemed at a loss as to how he should proceed—“because it’s not desirable. He occupies a different position from ourselves, but that isn’t the only reason. I don’t want you to have a heartache, and I say this, knowing that, if that heartache comes, I shall be the cause.”

He saw her face change, and then:

“What do you wish me to do?” she asked.

He rose slowly, and, walking to her, put his arm about her shoulder.

“Do whatever you like, Ella,” he said gently. “There is a curse upon me, and you must suffer for my sin. Perhaps he will never know—but I am tired of expecting miracles.”

“Father, what do you mean?” she asked anxiously.

“I don’t know what I mean,” he said as he patted her shoulder. “Things may work out as they do in stories. Perhaps . . .” He ruminated for a while. “Those pictures I took yesterday may be the making of me, Ella. But I’ve thought that of so many things. Always there seems to be a great possibility opening out, and always I have been disappointed. But I’m getting the knack of this picture taking. The apparatus is working splendidly, and the man who buys them—he has a shop in Wardour Street—told me that the quality of the films is improving with every new ‘shot.’ I took a mother duck on the nest, just as the youngsters were hatching out. I’m not quite sure how the picture will develop, because I had to be at some distance from the nest. As it was, I nearly scared the poor lady when I fixed the camera.”

Very wisely she did not pursue a subject which was painful to her.

That afternoon she saw a strange man standing in the roadway opposite the gate, looking toward the house. He was a gentleman, well dressed, and he was smoking a long cigar. She thought, by his shell glasses, that he might be an American, and when he spoke to her, his New England accent left no doubt. He came toward the gate, hat in hand.

“Am I right in thinking that I’m speaking to Miss Bennett?” he asked, and when she nodded: “My name is Broad. I was just taking a look round, and I seemed to remember that you lived somewhere in the neighbourhood. In fact, I think your brother told me to-day.”

“Are you a friend of Ray?” she asked.

“Why, no,” said Broad with a smile. “I can’t say that I’m a friend of Mr. Bennett; I’m what you might call a club acquaintance.”

He made no attempt to approach her any closer, and apparently he did not expect to be invited into the house on the strength of his acquaintance with Ray Bennett. Presently, with a commonplace remark about the weather (he had caught the English habit perfectly) he moved off, and from the gate she saw him walking up towards the wood road. That longcul-de-sacwas a favourite parking place of motorists who came to the neighbourhood, and she was not surprised when, a few minutes later, she saw the car come out. Mr. Broad raised his hat as he passed, and waved a little greeting to some person who was invisible to her. Her curiosity whetted, she opened the gate and walked on to the road. A little way down, a man was sitting on a tree trunk, reading a newspaper and smoking a large-bowled pipe. An hour later, when she came out, he was still there, but this time he was standing; a tall, soldier-like-looking man, who turned his head away when she looked in his direction. A detective, she thought, in dismay.

Her instinct was not at fault: of that she was sure. For some reason or other, Maytree Cottage was under observation. At first she was frightened, then indignant. She had half a mind to go into the village and telephone to Elk, to demand an explanation. Somehow it never occurred to her to be angry with Dick, though he was solely responsible for placing the men who were guarding her day and night.

She went to bed early, setting her alarm for three o’clock. She woke before the bell roused her, and, dressing quickly, went down to make some coffee. As she passed her father’s door, he called her.

“I’m up, if you want me, Ella.”

“Thank you, daddy,” she said gratefully. She was glad to know that he was around. It gave her a feeling of confidence which she had never before possessed in the presence of this old man.

The first light was showing in the sky when she saw the silhouette of Mr. Maitland against the dawn, and heard the soft click of the latch as he opened the garden gate. She had not heard the car nor seen it. This time Maitland had alighted some distance short of the house.

He was, as usual, nervous and for the time being speechless. A heavy overcoat, which had seen its best days, was buttoned up to his neck, and a big cap covered his hairless head.

“That you, miss?” he asked in a husky whisper.

“Yes, Mr. Maitland.”

“You coming along for a little walk? . . . Got something to tell you. . . . Very important, miss.”

“We will walk in the garden,” she said, lowering her voice.

He demurred.

“Suppose anybody sees us, eh? That’d be a fine lookout for me! Just a little way up the road, miss,” he pleaded. “Nobody will hear us.”

“We can go on to the lawn. There are some chairs there.”

“Is everybody asleep? All your servant gels?”

“We have no servant girls,” she smiled.

He shook his head.

“I don’t blame you. I hate ’um. Got six fellows in uniform at my house. They frighten me stiff!”

She led him across the lawn, carrying a cushion, and, settling him in a chair, waited. The beginnings of these interviews had always seemed as promising, but after a while Mr. Maitland had a trick of rambling off at a tangent into depths which she could not plumb.

“You’re a nice gel,” said Maitland huskily. “I thought so the first time I saw you . . . you wouldn’t do a poor old man any ’arm, would you, miss?”

“Why, of course not, Mr. Maitland.”

“I know you wouldn’t. I told Matilda you wouldn’t. She says you’re all right. . . . Ever been in the workhouse, miss?”

“In the poorhouse?” she said, smiling in spite of herself. “Why, no, I’ve never been in a poorhouse.”

He looked round fearfully from side to side, peering under his white eyebrows at a clump of bushes which might conceal an eavesdropper.

“Ever been in quod?”

She did not recognize the word.

“I have,” he went on. “Quod’s prison, miss. Naturally you wouldn’t understand them words.”

Again he looked round.

“Suppose you was me. . . . It all comes to that question—suppose you was me!”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand, Mr. Maitland.”

She watched his frightened scrutiny of the grounds, and then he bent over toward her.

“Them fellows will get me,” he said slowly and impressively. “They’ll get me,andMatilda. And I’ve left all my money to a certain person. That’s the joke. That’s the whole joke of it, miss.” He chuckled wheezily. “And then they’ll get him.”

He slapped his knee, convulsed with silent laughter, and the girl honestly thought he was mad and edged away from him.

“But I’ve got a great idea—got it when I saw you. It’s one of the greatest ideas I’ve ever had, miss. Are you a typewriter?”

“A typist?” she smiled. “No, I can type, but I’m not a very good typist.”

His voice sank until it was almost unintelligible.

“You come up to my office one day, and we’ll have a great joke. Wouldn’t think I was a joker, would you? Eighty-seven I am, miss. You come up to my office and I’ll make you laugh!”

Suddenly he became more serious.

“They’ll get me—I know it. I haven’t told Matilda, because she’d start screaming. ButIknow.Andthe baby!”

This seemed to afford the saturnine old man the greatest possible enjoyment. He rocked from side to side with mirth, until a fit of coughing attacked him.

“That’s all, miss. You come up to my office. Old Johnson isn’t there. You come up and see me. Never had a letter from me, have you?” he suddenly asked, as he rose.

“No, Mr. Maitland,” she said in surprise.

“There was one wrote,” said he. “Maybe I didn’t post it. Maybe I thought better. I dunno.”

He started and drew back as a figure appeared before the house.

“Who’s that?” he asked, and she felt a hand on her arm that trembled.

“That is my father, Mr. Maitland,” she said. “I expect he got a little nervous about my being out.”

“Your father, eh?” He was more relieved than resentful. “Mr. John Bennett, his name is, by all accounts. Don’t tell him I’ve been in the workhouse,” he urged, “or in quod. And I have been in quod, miss. Met all the big men, every one of ’um. And met a few of ’um out, too. I bet I’m the only man in this country that’s ever seen Saul Morris, the grandest feller in the business. Only met him once, but I shall never forget him.”

John Bennett saw them pacing toward him, and stood undecided as to whether he should join them or whether Ella would be embarrassed by such a move. Maitland decided the matter by hobbling over to him.

“Morning, mister,” he said. “Just having a talk to your gel. Rather early in the morning, eh? Hope you don’t mind, Mr. Bennett.”

“I don’t mind,” said John Bennett. “Won’t you come inside, Mr. Maitland?”

“No, no, no,” said the other fearfully. “I’ve got to get on. Matilda will be waiting for me. Don’t forget, miss: come up to my office and have that joke!”

He did not offer to shake hands, nor did he take off his hat. In fact, his manners were deplorable. A curt nod to the girl, and then:

“Well, so long, mister——” he began, and at that moment John Bennett moved out from the shadow of the house.

“Good-bye, Mr. Maitland,” he said.

Maitland did not speak. His eyes were open wide with terror, his face blanched to the colour of death.

“You . . . you!” he croaked. “Oh, my God!”

He seemed to totter, and the girl sprang to catch him, but he recovered himself, and, turning, ran down the path with an agility which was surprising in one of his age, tore open the gate and flew along the road. They heard his dry sobs coming back to them.

“Father,” whispered the girl in fear, “did he know you? Did he recognize you?”

“I wonder,” said John Bennett of Horsham.

CHAPTER XXV

DICK GORDON ’phoned across to headquarters, and Elk reported immediately.

“I’ve discovered six good get-away bags, and each one is equipped as completely and exactly as the one we found at King’s Cross.”

“No clue as to the gentleman who deposited them?”

“No, sir, not so much as a clue. We’ve tested them all for finger-prints, and we’ve got a few results; but as they have been handled by half a dozen attendants, I don’t think we shall get much out of it. Still, we can but try.”

“Elk, I would give a few years of my life to get to the inside of this Frog mystery. I’m having Lola shadowed, though I shouldn’t think she’d be in that lot. I know of nobody who looks less like a tramp than Lola Bassano! Lew has disappeared, and when I sent a man round this morning to discover what had happened to that young man about town, Mr. Raymond Bennett, he was not visible. He refused to see the caller on the plea that he was ill, and is staying in his room all day. Elk, who’s the Frog?”

Elk paced up and down the apartment, his hands in his pockets, his steel-rimmed spectacles sliding lower and lower down his long nose.

“There are only two possibilities,” he said. “One is Harry Lyme—an ex-convict who was supposed to have been drowned in theChannel Queensome years ago. I put him amongst them, because all the records we have of him show that he was a brilliant organizer, a super-crook, and one of the two men capable of opening Lord Farmley’s safe and slipping that patent catch on Johnson’s window. And believe me, Captain Gordon, it was an artist who burgled Johnson!”

“The other man?” said Dick.

“He’s also comfortably dead,” said Elk grimly. “Saul Morris, the cleverest of all. He’s got Lyme skinned to death—an expression I picked up in my recent travels, Captain. And Morris is American; and although I’m as patriotic as any man in this country, I hand it to the Americans when it comes to smashing safes. I’ve examined two thousand records of known criminals, and I’ve fined it down to these two fellows—and they’re both dead! They say that dead men leave no trails, and if Frog is Morris or Lyme, they’re about right. Lyme’s dead—drowned. Morris was killed in a railway accident in the United States. The question is, which of the ghosts we can charge.”

Dick Gordon pulled open the drawer of his desk and took out an envelope that bore the inscription of the Western Union. He threw it across the table.

“What’s this. Captain Gordon?”

“It’s an answer to a question. You mentioned Saul Morris before, and I have been making inquiries in New York. Here’s the reply.”

The cablegram was from the Chief of Police, New York City.

“Answering your inquiry. Saul Morris is alive, and is believed to be in England at this moment. No charges pending against him here, but generally supposed to be the man who cleared out strong room of ss.Mantania, February 17, 1898, Southampton, England, and got away with 55,000,000 francs. Acknowledge.”

“Answering your inquiry. Saul Morris is alive, and is believed to be in England at this moment. No charges pending against him here, but generally supposed to be the man who cleared out strong room of ss.Mantania, February 17, 1898, Southampton, England, and got away with 55,000,000 francs. Acknowledge.”

Elk read and re-read the cablegram, then he folded it carefully, put it back in its envelope and passed it across the table.

“Saul Morris is in England,” he said mechanically. “That seems to explain a whole lot.”

The search which detectives had conducted at the railway termini had produced nine bags, all of which contained identical outfits. In every case there was a spare suit, a clean shirt, two collars, one tie, a Browning pistol with cartridges, a forged passport without photograph, the Annatio and money. Only in one respect did the grips differ. At Paddington the police had recovered one which was a little larger than its fellows, all of which were of the same pattern and size. This held the same outfit as the remainder, with the exception that, in addition, there was a thick pad of cheque forms, every cheque representing a different branch of a different bank. There were cheques upon the Credit Lyonnais, upon the Ninth National Bank of New York, upon the Burrowstown Trust, upon the Bank of Spain, the Banks of Italy and Roumania, in addition to about fifty branches of the five principal banks of England. Occupied as he had been, Elk had not had time to make a very close inspection, but in the morning he determined to deal seriously with the cheques. He was satisfied that inquiries made at the banks and branches would reveal different depositors; but the numbers might enable him to bring the ownership home to one man or one group of men.

As the bags were brought in, they had been examined superficially and placed in Elk’s safe, and to accommodate them, the ordinary contents of the safe had been taken out and placed in other repositories. Each bag had been numbered and labelled with the name of the station from whence it was taken, the name of the officer who had brought it in, and particulars of its contents. These facts are important, as having a bearing upon what subsequently happened.

Elk arrived at his office soon after ten o’clock, having enjoyed the first full night’s sleep he had had for weeks. He had, as his assistants, Balder and a detective-sergeant named Fayre, a promising young man, in whom Elk placed considerable trust. Dick Gordon arrived almost simultaneously with the detective chief, and they went into the building together.

“There isn’t the ghost of a chance that we shall be rewarded for the trouble we’ve taken to trace these cheques,” said Elk, “and I am inclined to place more hope upon the possibility of the handbags yielding a few items which were not apparent at first examination. All these bags are lined, and there is a possibility that they have false bottoms. I am going to cut them up thoroughly, and if there’s anything left after I’m through, the Frogs are welcome to their secret.”

In the office, Balder and the detective-sergeant were waiting, and Elk searched for his key. The production of the key of the safe was invariably something of a ritual where Elk was concerned. He gave Dick Gordon the impression that he was preparing to disrobe, for the key reposed in some mysterious region which involved the loosening of coat, waistcoat, and the diving into a pocket where no pocket should be. Presently the ceremony was through, Elk solemnly inserted the key and swung back the door.

The safe was so packed with bags that they began to slide toward him, when the restraining pressure of the door was removed. One by one he handed them out, and Fayre put them on the table.

“We’ll take that Paddington one first,” said Elk, pointing to the largest of the bags. “And get me that other knife, Balder.”

The two men walked out into the passage, leaving Fayre alone.

“Can you see the end of this, Captain Gordon?” asked Elk.

“The end of the Frogs? Why, yes, I think I can. I could almost say I was sure.”

They had reached the door of the clerk’s office and found Balder holding a murderous looking weapon in his hand.

“Here it is——” he began, and the next instant Dick was flung violently to the floor, with Elk on top of him.

There was the shrill shriek of smashed glass, a pressure of wind, and, through all this violence, the deafening thunder of an explosion.

Elk was first to his feet and flew back to his room. The door hung on its hinges; every pane of glass was gone, and the sashes with them. From his room poured a dense volume of smoke, into which he plunged. He had hardly taken a step before he tripped on the prostrate figure of Fayre, and, stooping, he half-lifted and half-dragged him into the corridor. One glance was sufficient to show that, if the man was not dead, there seemed little hope of his recovery. The fire-bells were ringing throughout the building. A swift rush of feet on the stairs, and the fire squad came pelting down the corridor, dragging their hose behind them.

What fire there was, was soon extinguished, but Elk’s office was a wreck. Even the door of the safe had been blown from its hinges. There was not a single article of furniture left, and a big hole gaped in the floor.

“Save those bags,” said Elk and went back to look after the injured man, and not until he had seen his assistant placed in the ambulance did he return to a contemplation of the ruin which the bomb had made.

“Oh, yes, it was a bomb, sir,” said Elk.

A group of senior officers stood in the corridor, looking at the havoc.

“And something particularly heavy in the shape of bombs. The wonder is that Captain Gordon and I were not there. I told Fayre to open the bag, but I thought he’d wait until we returned with the knife—we intended examining the lining. Fayre must have opened the bag and the bomb exploded.”

“But weren’t the bags examined before?” asked the Commissioner wrathfully.

Elk nodded.

“They were examined by me yesterday—every one. The Paddington bag was turned inside out, every article it contained was placed on my table, and catalogued. I myself returned them. There was no bomb.”

“But how could they be got at?” asked the other.

Elk shook his head.

“I don’t know, sir. The only other person who has a key to this safe is the Assistant Commissioner of my department, Colonel McClintock, who is on his holidays. We might all have been killed.”

“What was the explosive?”

“Dynamite,” said Elk promptly. “It blew down.” He pointed to the hole in the floor. “Nitro-glycerine blows up and sideways,” he sniffed. “There’s no doubt about it being dynamite.”

In his search of the office he found a twisted coil of thin steel, later the blackened and crumpled face of a cheap alarm dock.

“Both time and contact,” he said. “Those Frogs are taking no chances.”

He shifted such of his belongings as he could discover into Balder’s office.

There was little chance that this outrage would be kept from the newspapers. The explosion had blown out the window and a portion of the brickwork and had attracted a crowd on the Embankment outside. Indeed, when Elk left headquarters, he was confronted by newspaper bills telling of the event.

His first call was at the near-by hospital, to where the unfortunate Fayre had been taken, and the news he received was encouraging. The doctors thought that, with any kind of luck, they would not only save the man’s life, but also save him from any serious mutilation.

“He may lose a finger or two, and he’s had a most amazing escape,” said the house surgeon. “I can’t understand why he wasn’t blown to pieces.”

“What I can’t understand,” said Elk emphatically, “is whyIwasn’t blown to pieces.”

The surgeon nodded.

“These high explosives play curious tricks,” said the surgeon. “I understand that the force of the explosion blew off the door of the safe, and yet this paper, which must also have been within range, is scarcely singed.”

He took a square of paper out of his pocket; the edges were blackened; one corner had been burnt off.

“I found this in his clothing. It must have been driven there when the bomb detonated,” said the surgeon.

Elk smoothed out the paper and read:

“With the compliments of Number Seven.”

Carefully he folded the paper.

“I’ll take this,” he said, and put it tenderly away in the interior of his spectacle case. “Do you believe in hunches, doctor?”

“Do you mean premonitions?” smiled the surgeon. “To an extent I do.”

Elk nodded.

“I have a hunch that I’m going to meet Number Seven—very shortly,” he said.

CHAPTER XXVI

AWEEK had passed, and the explosion at headquarters was ancient history. The injured detective was making fair progress toward recovery, and in some respects the situation was stagnant.

Elk apparently accepted failure as an inevitability, and seemed, even to his greatest admirer, to be hypnotized into a fatalistic acceptance of the situation. His attitude was a little deceptive. On the sixth day following the explosion, headquarters made a raid upon the cloak-rooms, and again, as Elk had expected, produced from every single terminus parcels office, a brand-new bag with exactly the same equipment as the others had had, except that the Paddington find differed from none of its fellows.

The bags were opened by an Inspector of Explosives, after very careful preliminary tests; but they contained nothing more deadly than the Belgian pistols and the self-same passports, this time made out in the name of “Clarence Fielding.”

“These fellows are certainly thorough,” said Elk with reluctant admiration, surveying his haul.

“Are you keeping the bags in your office?” asked Dick, but Elk shook his melancholy head.

“I think not,” said he.

He had had the bags immediately emptied, their contents sent to the Research Department; the bags themselves were now stripped of leather and steel frames, for they had been scientifically sliced, inch by inch.

“My own opinion,” said Balder oracularly, “is that there’s somebody at police headquarters who is working against us. I’ve been considering it for a long time, and after consulting my wife——”

“You haven’t consulted your children, too, have you?” asked Elk unpleasantly. “The less you talk about headquarters’ affairs in your domestic circle, the better will be your chance of promotion.”

Mr. Balder sniffed.

“There’s no fear of that, anyway,” he said sourly. “I’ve got myself in their bad books. And I did think there was a chance for me—it all comes of your putting me in with Hagn.”

“You’re an ungrateful devil,” said Elk.

“Who’s this Number Seven, sir?” asked Balder. “Thinking the matter over, and having discussed it with my wife, I’ve come to the conclusion that he’s one of the most important Frogs, and if we could only get him, we’d be a long way towards catching the big fellow.”

Elk put down his pen—he was writing his report at the time—and favoured his subordinate with a patient and weary smile.

“You ought to have gone into politics,” he said, and waved his subordinate from the room with the end of his penholder.

He had finished his report and was reading it over with a critical eye, when the service ’phone announced a visitor.

“Send him up,” said Elk when he had heard the name. He rang his bell for Balder. “This report goes to Captain Gordon to initial,” he said, and as he put down the envelope, Joshua Broad stood in the doorway.

“Good morning, Mr. Elk.” He nodded to Balder, although he had never met him. “Good morning,” he said.

“Good morning,” said Elk. “Come right in and sit down, Mr. Broad. To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?—excuse my politeness, but in the early morning I’m that way. All right, Balder, you can go.”

Broad offered his cigar-case to the detective. “I’ve come on a curious errand,” he said.

“Nobody ever comes to headquarters on any other,” replied Elk.

“It concerns a neighbour of mine.”

“Lola Bassano?”

“Her husband,” said the other, “Lew Brady.”

Elk pushed up his spectacles.

“You don’t tell me that she’s properly married to Lew Brady?” he asked in surprise.

“I don’t think there’s any doubt about that,” said Broad, “though I’m perfectly certain that her young friend Bennett is not aware of the fact. Brady has been staying at Caverley House for a week, and during that time he has not gone out of doors. What is more, the boy hasn’t called; I don’t think there’s a quarrel—I have a notion there’s something much deeper than that. I saw Brady by accident as I was coming out of my door. Bassano’s door also happened to be open: the maid was taking in the milk: and I caught a glimpse of him. He has the finest crop of whiskers I’ve seen on a retired pugilist and their ambitions do not as a rule run to hair! That made me pretty curious,” he said, carefully knocking the ash of his cigar into a tray that was on the table, “and I wondered if there was any connection between this sudden defiance of the barber and Ray Bennett’s actions. I made a call on him—I met him the other day at the club and had, as an excuse, the fact that I have also managed to meet Miss Ella Bennett. His servant—he has a man in by the day to brush his clothes and tidy up the place—told me that he was not well and was not visible.”

Mr. Broad blew out a ring of smoke and watched it thoughtfully.

“If you want a servant to be faithful, he must live on the premises,” he said. “These occasional men aren’t with you long enough to get trustworthy. It cost me, at the present rate of exchange, two dollars and thirty-five cents to discover that Mr. Ray Bennett is also in the hair-restoring business. If there were an election on, these two fellows might be political cranks who had vowed a vow that they wouldn’t touch their razors until their party was returned to power. And if Lew Brady were a real sportsman, I should guess that they were doing this for a bet. As it is, I’m rather intrigued.”

Elk rolled his cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other.

“I’m not well acquainted with the Statute Book,” he said, “but I’m under the impression there is no law preventing people from cultivating undergrowth. The—what’s the word?—psych——”

“Psychology,” suggested Mr. Broad.

“That’s it. The psychology of whiskers has never quite reached me. You’re American, aren’t you, Mr. Broad?”

“I have the distinction,” said the other with that half-smile that came so readily to his eyes.

“Ah!” said Elk absently, as he stared through the window. “Ever heard of a man called Saul Morris?”

He brought his eyes back to the other’s face. Mr. Joshua Broad was frowning in an effort of thought.

“I seem to remember the name. He was a criminal of sorts, wasn’t he—an American criminal, if I remember rightly? Yes, I’ve heard of him. I seem to remember that he was killed a few years ago.”

Elk scratched his chin irritably.

“I’d like to meet somebody who was at his funeral,” he said, “somebody I could believe on oath.”

“You’re not suggesting that Lew Brady——”

“No. I’m not suggesting anything about Lew Brady, except that he’s a very poor boxer. I’ll look into this distressing whisker competition, Mr. Broad, and thank you for telling me.”

He wasn’t especially interested in the eccentric toilet of Ray Bennett. At five o’clock Balder came to him and asked if he might go home.

“I promised my wife——” he began.

“Keep it,” said Elk.

After his subordinate’s departure there came an official letter to Inspector Elk, and, reading its contents, Mr. Elk beamed. It was a letter from the Superintendent who controlled the official careers of police officers at headquarters.

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