M. Armand was gazing at the cabinet, apparently only half listening.
"Ah, yes, the secret drawer," he said. "Will you show me how it is operated, Mr. Lester? I am most curious about it."
I placed my hand upon the table and pressed the three points which the veiled lady had shown us. The first time, I got the order wrong, but at the second trial, the little handle fell forward with a click, and I pulled the drawer open.
"There it is," I said. "You see how cleverly it is constructed. And how well it is concealed. No one would suspect its existence."
He examined it with much interest; pushed it back into place, and then opened it himself.
"Very clever indeed," he agreed. "I have never seen another so well concealed. And the idea of opening it only by a certain combination is most happy and original. Most secret drawers are secret only in name; a slight search reveals them; but this one…."
He pushed it shut again, and examined the inlay around it.
"My friend and I went over the cabinet very carefully and could not find it," I said.
"Your friend—I think you mentioned his name?"
"Yes—his name is Godfrey."
"A man of the law, like yourself?"
"Oh, no, a newspaper man. But he had been a member of the detective force before that. He is extraordinarily keen, and if anybody could have found that drawer, he could. But that combination was too much for him."
M. Armand snapped the drawer back into place with a little crash.
"I am glad, at any rate, that itwasdiscovered," he said. "I will not conceal from you, Mr. Lester, that it adds not a little to the value of the cabinet."
"What is its value?" I asked. "Mr. Vantine wanted me to buy it for him, and named a most extravagant figure as the limit he was willing to pay."
"Really," M. Armand answered, after an instant's hesitation, "I would not care to name a figure, Mr. Lester, without further consultation with my father. The cabinet is quite unique—the most beautiful, perhaps, that M. Boule ever produced. Did you discover Madame de Montespan's monogram?"
"No. Mr. Vantine said he was sure it existed; but Godfrey and I did not look for it."
M. Armand opened the doors which concealed the central drawers.
"Voilà!" he said, and traced with his finger the arabesque just under the pediment. "See how cunningly it has been blended with the other figures. And here is the emblem of the giver." He pointed to a tiny golden sun with radiating rays on the base of the pediment, just above the monogram. "Le roi soleil!"
"Le roi soleil!" I repeated. "Of course. We were stupid not to have discerned it. That tells the whole story, doesn't it? What is it, Parks?" I added, as that worthy appeared at the door.
"There's a van outside, sir," he said, "and a couple of men are unloading a piece of furniture. Is it all right, sir?"
"Yes," I answered. "Have them bring it in here. And ask the man in charge of the inventory to step over here a minute. Mr. Vantine left his collection of art objects to the Metropolitan Museum," I explained to M. Armand, "and I should like the representative of the museum to be present when the exchange is made."
"Certainly," he assented. "That is very just."
Parks was back in a moment, piloting two men who carried between them an object swathed in burlap, and the Metropolitan man followed them in.
"I am Mr. Lester," I said to him, "Mr. Vantine's executor; and this is M. Félix Armand, of Armand & Son, of Paris. We are correcting an error which was made just before Mr. Vantine died. That cabinet yonder was shipped him by mistake in place of one which he had bought. M. Armand has caused the right one to be sent over, and will take away the one which belongs to him. I have already spoken to the museum's attorney about the matter, but I wished you to be present when the exchange was made."
"I have no doubt it is all right, sir," the museum man hastened to assure me. "You, of course, have personal knowledge of all this?"
"Certainly. Mr. Vantine himself told me the story."
"Very well, sir," but his eyes dwelt lovingly upon the Boule cabinet. "That is a very handsome piece," he added. "I am sorry the museum is not to get it."
"Perhaps you can buy it from M. Armand," I suggested, but the curator laughed and shook his head.
"No," he said, "we couldn't afford it. But Sir Caspar might persuadeMr. Morgan to buy it for us—I'll mention it to him."
The two men, meanwhile, under M. Armand's direction, had been stripping the wrappings from the other cabinet, and it finally stood revealed. It, too, was a beautiful piece of furniture, but even my untrained eye could see how greatly it fell below the other.
"We shall be very pleased to have Mr. Morgan see it," said M. Armand, with a smile. "I will not conceal from you that we had already thought of him—as what dealer does not when he acquires something rare and beautiful? I shall endeavour to secure an appointment with him. Meanwhile…."
"Meanwhile the cabinet is yours," I said.
He made a little deprecating gesture, and then proceeded to have the cabinet very carefully wrapped in the burlap which had been around the other one. I watched it disappear under the rough covering with something like regret, for already my eyes were being opened to its beauty. Besides, I told myself again, with it would disappear the last hope of solving the mystery of Philip Vantine's death. However my reason might protest, some instinct told me that, in some way, the Boule cabinet was connected with that tragedy.
But at last the packing was done, and M. Armand turned to me and held out his hand.
"I shall hope to see you again, Mr. Lester," he said, with a cordiality which flattered me, "and to renew our very pleasant acquaintance. Whenever you are in Paris, I trust you will not fail to honour me by letting me know. I shall count it a very great privilege to display for you some of the beauties of our city not known to every one."
"Thank you," I said. "I shall certainly remember that invitation.And meanwhile, since you are here in New York…."
"You are most kind," he broke in, "and I was myself hoping that we might at least dine together. But I am compelled to proceed to Boston this evening, and from there I shall go on to Quebec. Whether I shall get back to New York I do not know—it will depend somewhat upon Mr. Morgan's attitude; we would scarcely entrust a business so delicate to our dealer. If I do get back, I shall let you know."
"Please do," I urged. "It will be a very great pleasure to me. Besides, I am still hoping that some solution of this mystery may occur to you."
He shook his head with a little smile.
"I fear it is too difficult for a novice like myself," he said. "It is impenetrable to me. If a solution is discovered, I trust you will inform me. It is certain to be most interesting."
"I will," I promised, and we shook hands again.
Then he signed to the two men to take up the cabinet, and himself laid a protecting hand upon it as it was carried through the door and down the steps to the van which was backed up to the curb. It was lifted carefully inside, the two men clambered in beside it, the driver spoke to the horses, and the van rolled slowly away up the Avenue.
M. Armand watched it for a moment, then mounted into the cab which was waiting, waved a last farewell to me, and followed after the van. We watched it until it turned westward at the first cross-street.
"Mr. Godfrey's occupation will be gone," said Parks, with a little laugh. "He has fairly lived with that cabinet for the past three or four days. He was here last night for quite a while."
"Last night?" I echoed, surprised. "I was sure he would be here to-day," I added, reflecting that Godfrey might have decided to have a final look at the cabinet. "He half-promised to be here, but I suppose something more important detained him."
The next instant, I was jumping down the steps two at a time, for a cab in which two men were sitting came down the Avenue, and rolled slowly around the corner in the direction taken by the van.
And just as it disappeared, one of its occupants turned toward me and waved his hand—and I recognised Jim Godfrey.
That my legs, without conscious effort of my own, should carry me up the Avenue and around the corner after the cab in which I had seen Godfrey was a foregone conclusion, and yet it was with a certain vexation of spirit that I found myself racing along, for I realised that Godfrey had not been entirely frank with me. Certainly he had dropped no hint of his intention to follow Armand; but, I told myself, that might very well have been because he deemed such a hint unnecessary. I might have guessed, in spite of his seeming unconcern, that he would not allow the cabinet to pass from his sight; if he had been willing for me to turn it over to Armand, it was only because he expected developments of some sort to follow that transfer.
And it suddenly dawned upon me that even I did not know the cabinet's destination! It had not occurred to me to inquire where M. Armand proposed to take it, and he had volunteered no information.
So, after a moment, I took up the chase more contentedly, telling myself that Godfrey would not have waved to me if he had not wanted me along, and I reached the corner in time to see the van turn northward into Sixth Avenue. As soon as it and the cabs which followed it were out of sight, I sprinted along the sidewalk at top speed, and, on arriving at the corner, had the satisfaction of seeing them only a little way ahead. Here the congestion of traffic was such that the van could proceed but slowly, and I had no difficulty in keeping pace with it, without the necessity of making myself conspicuous by running. Indeed, I rather hung back, burying myself in the crowds on the sidewalk, for fear that Armand might chance to glance around and see me in pursuit.
I saw that Godfrey and Simmonds had the same fear, for the cab in which they were drew up at the curb and waited there until the van had got some distance ahead. At Sixteenth Street, it turned westward again, and then northward into Seventh Avenue.
What could Armand be doing in this part of the town, I asked myself?Did he propose to leave that priceless cabinet in this dingy quarter?And then I paused abruptly and slipped into an area-way, for the vanhad stopped some distance ahead and was backing up to the curb.
Looking out discreetly, I saw the cab containing Armand stop also, and that gentleman alighted and paid the driver. The other cab rattled on at a good pace and disappeared up the Avenue. Then the two porters lifted out the cabinet, and, with Armand showing them the way, carried it into the building before which the van had stopped.
They were gone perhaps five minutes, from which I argued that they were carrying it upstairs; then they reappeared, with Armand accompanying them. He tipped them and went out also to tip the driver of the van. Then the porters climbed aboard and it rattled away out of sight. Armand stood for a moment on the step, looking up and down the Avenue, then disappeared indoors.
An instant later, I saw Godfrey and another man whom I recognised as Simmonds, come out of a shop across the street and dash over to the house into which the cabinet had been taken. They were standing on the door-step when I joined them.
It was a dingy building, entirely typical of the dingy neighbourhood. The ground floor was occupied by a laundry which the sign on the front window declared to be French; and the room which the window lighted extended the whole width of the building except for a door which opened presumably on the stairway leading to the upper stories.
Godfrey's face was flaming with excitement as he turned the knob of this door gently—gently. The door was locked. He stooped and applied an eye to the key-hole.
"The key is in the lock," he whispered.
Simmonds took from his pocket a pair of slender pliers and passed them over.
Godfrey looked up and down the street, saw that for the moment there was no one near, inserted the pliers in the key-hole, grasped the end of the key, and turned it slowly.
"Now!" he said, softly opened the door and slipped inside. I followed, and Simmonds came after me like a shadow, closing the door carefully behind him.
Then we all stopped, and my heart, at least, was in my mouth, for, from somewhere overhead, came the sound of a man's voice talking excitedly.
Even in the semi-darkness, I could see the look of astonishment and alarm on Godfrey's face, as he stood for a moment motionless, listening to that voice. I also stood with ears a-strain, but I could make nothing of what it was saying; then suddenly I realised that it was speaking in French. And yet it was not Armand's voice—of that I was certain.
Fronting us was a narrow stair mounting steeply to the story overhead, and, after that moment's amazed hesitation, Godfrey sat down on the bottom step and removed his shoes, motioning us to do the same. Simmonds obeyed phlegmatically, but my hands were trembling so with excitement that I was in mortal terror lest I drop one of my shoes; but I managed to get them both off without mishap, and to set them softly on the floor at the stair-foot.
When at last I looked up with a sigh of relief, Godfrey and Simmonds were stealing slowly up the stair, revolver in hand. I followed them, but I confess my knees were knocking together, for there was something weird and chilling in that voice going on and on. It sounded like the voice of a madman; there was something about it at once ferocious and triumphant….
Godfrey paused an instant at the stairhead, listening intently; then he moved cautiously forward toward an open door from which the voice seemed to come, motioning us at the same time to stay where we were. And as I knelt, bathed in perspiration, I caught one word, repeated over and over:
"Revanche!—Revanche!—Revanche!"
Then the voice fell to a sort of low growling, as of a dog which worries its prey, and I caught a sound as of ripping cloth.
Godfrey, on hands and knees, was peering into the room. Then he drew back and motioned us forward.
I shall never forget the sight which met my eyes as I peeped cautiously around the corner of the door.
The room into which I was looking was lighted only by the rays which filtered between the slats of a closed shutter. In the middle of the floor stood the Boule cabinet, and before it, with his back to the door, stood a man ripping savagely away the strips of burlap in which it had been wrapped, talking to himself the while in a sort of savage sing-song, and pausing from moment to moment to glance at a huddled bundle lying on the floor against the opposite wall. For a time, I could not make out what this bundle was, then, straining my eyes, I saw that it was the body of a man, wrapped round and round in some web-like fabric.
And as I stared at him, I caught the glitter of his eyes as he watched the man working at the cabinet—a glitter not to be mistaken —the same glitter which had so frightened me once before….
Godfrey drew me back with a firm hand and took my place. As for me, I retreated to the stair, and sat there feverishly mopping my face and trying to understand. Who was this man? What was he doing there against the wall? What was the meaning of this ferocious scene….
Then my heart leaped into my throat, for Godfrey, with a sharp cry of "Halte-là!" sprang to his feet and dashed into the room, Simmonds at his heels.
I suppose two seconds elapsed before I reached the threshold, and I stopped there, staring, clutching at the wall to steady myself.
That scene is so photographed upon my brain that I have only to close my eyes to see it again in every detail.
There was the cabinet with its wrappings torn away; but the figure on the floor had disappeared, and before an open doorway into another room stood a man, a giant of a man, his hands above his head, his face working with fear and rage, while Godfrey, his lips curling into a mocking smile, pressed a pistol against his breast.
Then, as I stood there staring, it seemed to me that there was a sort of flicker in the air above the man's head, and he screamed shrilly.
"La mort!" he shrieked. "La mort!"
For one dreadful instant longer he stood there motionless, his hands still held aloft, his eyes staring horribly; then, with a strangled cry, he pitched forward heavily at Godfrey's feet.
I have a confused remembrance of Godfrey stooping for an instant above the body, staring at it, and then, with a sharp cry, hurling himself through that open doorway. A door slammed somewhere, there was a sound of running feet, and before either Simmonds or myself understood what was happening, Godfrey was back in the room, crossed it at a bound, and dashed to the door opening into the hall, just as it was slammed in his face.
I saw him tear desperately at the knob, then retreat two steps and hurl himself against it. But it held firm, and from the hall outside came a burst of mocking laughter that fairly froze my blood.
"Come here, you fools!" cried Godfrey between clenched teeth. "Don't you see he's getting away!"
Simmonds was quicker than I, and together they threw themselves at the door. It cracked ominously, but still held; again they tried, and this time it split from top to bottom. Godfrey kicked the pieces to either side and slipped between them, Simmonds after him.
Then, in a sort of trance, I staggered to it, and after a moment's aimless fumbling, was out in the hall again. I reached the stairhead in time to see Godfrey try the front door, and then turn along the lower hall leading to the back of the house. An instant later, a chorus of frenzied women's shrieks made my hair stand on end.
How I got down the stair I do not know; but I, too, turned back along the lower hall, expecting any instant to come upon I knew not what horror; I reached an open door, passed through it, and found myself in the laundry, in the midst of a group of excited and indignant women, who greeted my appearance with a fresh series of screams.
Unable to go farther, I sat limply down upon a box and looked at them.
I dare say the figure I made was ridiculous enough, for the screams gave place to subdued giggles; but I was far from thinking of my appearance, or of caring what impression I produced. And I was still sitting there when Godfrey came back, breathing heavily, chagrin and anger in his eyes. The employes of the laundry, conscious that something extraordinary was occurring, crowded about him, but he elbowed his way through them to the desk where the manager sat.
"A crime has been committed upstairs," he said. "This gentleman with me is Mr. Simmonds, of the detective bureau," and at the words Simmonds showed his shield. "We shall have to notify headquarters," Godfrey went on, "and I would advise that you keep your girls at their work. I don't suppose you want to be mixed up in it."
"Sure not," agreed the manager promptly, and while Simmonds went to the 'phone and called up police headquarters, the manager dismounted from his throne, went down among the girls, and had them back at their work in short order.
Godfrey came over to me and laid his hand on my shoulder.
"Why, Lester," he said, "you look as though you were at your last gasp."
"I am," I said. "I'm going to have nervous prostration if this thing keeps up. You're not looking particularly happy yourself."
"I'm not happy. I've let that fellow kill a man right under my nose —literally, under my nose!—and then get away!"
"Kill a man?" I repeated. "Do you mean…."
"Go upstairs and look at the right hand of the man lying there," saidGodfrey, curtly, "and you'll see what I mean!"
I sat staring at him, unable to believe that I had heard aright; unable to believe that Godfrey had really uttered those words … the right hand of the man lying there … that could mean only one thing….
Simmonds joined us with a twisted smile on his lips, and I saw that even he was considerably shaken.
"I got Grady," he said, "and told him what had happened. He says he's too busy to come up, and that I'm to take charge of things."
Godfrey laughed a little mocking laugh.
"Grady foresees his Waterloo!" he said. "Well, it's not far distant. But I'm glad for your sake, Simmonds—you're going to get some glory out of this thing, yet!"
"I hope so," and Simmonds's eyes gleamed an instant. "The ambulance will be around at once," he added. "We'd better get our shoes on, and go back upstairs, and see if anything can be done for that fellow."
"There can't anything be done for him," said Godfrey wearily; "but we'd better have a look at him, I guess," and he led the way out into the hall.
Not until Simmonds spoke did I remember that I was shoeless. Now I sat down beside Godfrey, got fumblingly into my shoes again, and then followed him and Simmonds slowly up the stair.
I thought I knew what was passing in Godfrey's mind: he was blaming himself for this latest tragedy; he was telling himself that he should have foreseen and prevented it; he always blamed himself in that way when things went wrong—and then, to have the murderer slip through his very fingers! I could guess what a mighty shock that had been to his self-confidence!
The latest victim was lying where he had fallen, just inside the doorway leading into the inner room. Simmonds stepped to the window, threw open the shutters, and let a flood of afternoon sunshine into the room. Then he knelt beside the body, and held up the limp right hand for us to see.
Just above the knuckles were two tiny incisions, with a drop or two of blood oozing away from them, and the flesh about them swollen and discoloured.
"I knew what it was the instant he yelled 'La mort!'" said Godfrey quietly. "Andheknew what it was the instant he felt the stroke. It is evident enough that he had seen it used before, or heard of it, and knew that it meant instant death."
I sat down, staring at the dead man, and tried to collect my senses. So this fiendish criminal, who slew with poison, had been lurking in Vantine's house, and had struck down first Drouet and then the master of the house himself! But why—why! It was incredible, astounding, my brain reeled at the thought. And yet it must be true!
I looked again at the third victim, and saw a man roughly dressed, with bushy black hair and tangled beard; a very giant of a man, whose physical strength must have been enormous—and yet it had availed him nothing against that tiny pin-prick on the hand!
And then a sudden thought brought me bolt upright.
"But Armand!" I cried. "Where is Armand?"
Godfrey looked at me with a half-pitying smile.
"What, Lester!" he said, "don't you understand, even yet? It was your fascinating M. Armand who did that," and he pointed to the dead man.
I felt as though I had been struck a heavy blow upon the head; black circles whirled before my eyes….
"Go over to the window," said Godfrey, peremptorily, "and get some fresh air."
Mechanically I obeyed, and stood clinging to the window-sill, gazing down at the busy street, where the tide of humanity was flowing up and down, all unconscious of the tragedy which had been enacted so close at hand. And, at last, the calmness of all these people, the sight of the world going quietly on as usual, restored me a portion of my self-control. But even yet I did not understand.
"Was it Armand," I asked, turning back into the room, "who lay there in the corner?"
"Certainly it was," Godfrey answered. "Who else could it be?"
"Godfrey!" I cried, remembering suddenly. "Did you see his eyes as he lay there watching the man at the cabinet?"
"Yes; I saw them."
"They were the same eyes…."
"The same eyes."
"And the laugh—did you hear that laugh?"
"Certainly I heard it."
"I heard it once before," I said, "and you thought it was a case of nerves!"
I fell silent a moment, shivering a little at the remembrance.
"But why did Armand lie there so quietly?" I asked, at last. "Was he injured?"
Godfrey made a little gesture toward the corner.
"Go see for yourself," he said.
Something lay along the wall, on the spot where I had seen that figure, and as I bent over it, I saw that it was a large net, finely meshed but very strong.
"That was dropped over Armand's head as he came up the stairs," said Godfrey, "or flung over him as he came into the room. Then the dead man yonder jumped upon him and trussed him up with those ropes."
Pushing the net aside, I saw upon the floor a little pile of severed cords.
"Yes," I agreed; "he would be able to do that. Have you noticed his size, Godfrey? He was almost a giant!"
"He couldn't have done it if Armand hadn't been willing that he should," retorted Godfrey, curtly. "You see he had no difficulty in getting away," and he held up the net and pointed to the great rents in it. "He cut his way out while he was lying there—I ought to have known—I ought to have known he wasn't bound—that he was only waiting—but it was all so sudden…."
He threw the net down upon the floor with a gesture of disgust and despair. Then he stopped in front of the Boule cabinet and looked down at it musingly; and, after a moment, his face brightened.
The burlap wrappings had been almost wholly torn away, and the cabinet stood, more insolently beautiful than ever, it seemed to me, under the rays of the sun, which sparkled and glittered and shimmered as they fell upon it.
"But we'll get him, Simmonds," said Godfrey, and his lips broke into a smile. "In fact, we've got him now. We have only to wait, and he'll walk into our arms. Simmonds, I want you to lock this cabinet up in the strongest cell around at your station; and carry the key yourself."
"Lock it up?" stammered Simmonds, staring at him.
"Yes," said Godfrey, "lock it up. That's our one salvation!" His face was glowing; he was quite himself again, alert, confident of victory. "You're in charge of this case, aren't you? Well, lock it up, and give your reasons to nobody."
"That'll be easy," laughed Simmonds. "I haven't got any reasons."
"Oh, yes, you have," and Godfrey bent upon him a gaze that was positively hypnotic. "You will do it because I want you to, and because I tell you that, sooner or later, if you keep this cabinet safe where no one can get at it, the man we want will walk into our hands. And I'll tell you more than that, Simmonds; if we do get him, I'll have the biggest story I ever had, and you will be world-famous. France will make you a chevalier of the Legion of Honour, Simmonds, mark my words. Don't you think the ribbon would look well in your button-hole?"
Simmonds was staring at the speaker as though he thought he had suddenly gone mad. Indeed, the thought flashed through my own brain that the disappointment, the chagrin of failure, had been too much for Godfrey.
He burst into laughter as he saw our faces.
"No, I'm not mad," he said, more soberly; "and I'm not joking. I'm speaking in deadly earnest, Simmonds, when I say that this fellow is the biggest catch we could make. He's the greatest criminal of modern times—I repeat it, Lester, this time without qualification. And now, perhaps, you'll agree with me."
And with Armand, so finished, so self-poised, so distinguished, in my mind, and the body of his latest victim before my eyes, I nodded gloomily.
"But who is he?" I asked. "Do you know who he is, Godfrey?"
"There's the ambulance," broke in Simmonds, as a knock came at the street door, and he hurried down to open it.
"Come on, Lester," and Godfrey hooked his arm through mine. "There's nothing more we can do here. We'll go down the back way. I've had enough excitement for the time being—haven't you?"
"I certainly have," I agreed, and he led the way back along the hall to another stair, down it and so out through the laundry.
"But, Godfrey, who is this man?" I repeated. "Why did he kill that poor fellow up there? Why did he kill Drouet and Vantine? How did he get into the Vantine house? What is it all about?"
"Ah!" he said, looking at me with a smile. "That is the important question—what is it all about! But we can't discuss it here in the street. Besides, I want to think it over, Lester; and I want you to think it over. If I can, I'll drop in to-night to see you, and we can thresh it out! Will that suit you?"
"Yes," I said; "and for heaven's sake, don't fail to come!"
I had begun to fear that Godfrey was going to disappoint me, so late it was before his welcome knock came at my door that night. I hastened to let him in, and I could tell by the sigh of relief with which he sank into a chair that he was thoroughly weary.
"It does me good to come in here occasionally and have a talk with you, Lester," he said, accepting the cigar I offered him. "I find it restful after a hard day," and he smiled across at me good-humouredly.
"How you keep it up I don't see," I said. "This one case has nearly given me nervous prostration."
"Well, I don't often strike one as strenuous as this," and he settled back comfortably. "As a matter of fact, I haven't had one for a long time that even touches it. There is nothing really mysterious about most crimes."
"This one is certainly mysterious enough," I remarked.
"What makes it mysterious," Godfrey explained, "is the apparent lack of motive. As soon as one learns the motive for a crime, one learns also who committed it. But where the motive can't be discovered, it is mighty hard to make any progress."
"It isn't only lack of motive which makes it mysterious," I commented; "it's everything about it. I can't understand either why it was done or how it was done. When I get to thinking about it, I feel as though I were wandering around and around in a maze, from which I can never escape."
"Oh, yes, you'll escape, Lester," said Godfrey, quietly, "and that before very long."
"If you have an explanation, Godfrey," I protested, "for heaven's sake tell me! Don't keep me in the maze an instant longer than is necessary. I've been thinking about it till my brain feels like a snarl of tangled thread. Do you mean to say you know what it is all about?"
"'Know' is perhaps a little strong. There isn't much in this world that we really know. Suppose we say that I strongly suspect." He paused a moment, his eyes on the ceiling. "You know you've accused me of romancing sometimes, Lester—the other evening, for instance; yet that romance has come true."
"I take it all back," I said, meekly.
"There's another thing these talks do," continued Godfrey, going off rather at a tangent, "and that is to clarify my ideas. You don't know how it helps me to state my case to you and to try to answer your objections. Your being a lawyer makes you unusually quick to see objections, and a lawyer is always harder to convince of a thing than the ordinary man. You are accustomed to weighing evidence; and so I never allow myself to be convinced of a theory until I have convinced you. Not always, even then," he added, with a smile.
"Well, I'm glad I'm of some use," I said, "if it is only as a sort of file for you to sharpen your wits on. So please go ahead and romance some more. Tell me first how you and Simmonds came to be following Armand."
"Simply because I had found out he wasn't Armand. Felix Armand is inParis at this moment. You were too credulous, Lester."
"Why, I never had any doubt of his being Armand," I stammered. "He knew about my cablegram—he knew about the firm's answer…."
"Of course he did, because your cable was never received by the Armands, but by a confederate in this fellow's employ; and it was that confederate who answered it. Our friend, the unknown, foresaw, of course, that a cable would be sent the Armands as soon as the mistake was discovered, and he took his precautions accordingly."
"Then you still believe that the cabinet was sent to Vantine by design and not by accident?"
"Absolutely. It was sent by the Armands in good faith, because they believed that it had been purchased by Vantine—all of which had been arranged very carefully by the Great Unknown."
"Tell me how you know all this, Godfrey," I said.
"Why, it was easy enough. When you told me yesterday of Armand, I knew, or thought I knew, that it was a plant of some kind. But, in order to be sure, I cabled our man at Paris to investigate. Our man went at once to Armand,père, and he learned a number of very interesting things. One was, that the son, Félix Armand, was in Paris; another was that no member of the firm knew anything about your cable or the answer to it; a third was, that, had the cable been received, it would not have been understood, because the Armands' books show that this cabinet was bought by Philip Vantine for the sum of fifteen thousand francs."
"Not this one!" I protested.
"Yes; this one. And it was cheap at the price. Of course, the Armands knew nothing about the Montespan story—they were simply selling at a profit."
"But I don't understand!" I stammered. "Vantine told me himself that he did not buy that cabinet."
"Nor did he. But somebody bought it in his name and directed that it be sent forward to him."
"And paid fifteen thousand francs for it?"
"Certainly—and paid fifteen thousand francs to the Armands."
"Rather an expensive present," I said, feebly, for my brain was beginning to whirl again.
"Oh, it wasn't intended as a present. The purchaser planned to reclaim it—but Vantine's death threw him out. If it hadn't been for that—for an accident which no one could foresee—everything would have gone along smoothly and no one would ever have been the wiser."
"But what was his object? Was he trying to evade the duty?"
"Oh, nothing so small as that! Besides, he would have had to refund the duty to Vantine. Did he refund it to you?"
"No," I said, "I didn't think there was any to refund. Vantine really paid the duty only on the cabinet he purchased, since that was the one shown on his manifest. The other fellow must have paid the duty on the cabinet he brought in; so I didn't see that there was anything coming to Vantine's estate. There is probably something due the government, for the cabinet Vantine brought in was, of course, much more valuable than his manifest showed."
"No doubt of that; and the other cabinet is the one which Vantine really purchased. It was, of course, sent forward to this other fellow's address, here in New York. His plan is evident enough—to call upon Vantine, as the representative of the Armands, or perhaps as the owner of the Montespan cabinet, and make the exchange. Vantine's death spoiled that, and he had to make the exchange through you. Even then, he would have been able to pull it off but for the fact that Vantine's death and that of Drouet had called our attention to the cabinet; we followed him, and the incidents of this afternoon ensued."
"And he accomplished all this by means of a confederate in the employ of the Armands?"
"No doubt of it. The clerk who made the supposed sale to Vantine and got a commission on it, resigned suddenly two days ago—just as soon as he had intercepted your cable and answered it. The Paris police are looking for him, but I doubt if they'll find him."
I paused to think this over; and then a sudden impatience seized me.
"That's all clear enough," I said. "The cabinets might have been exchanged just as you say they were—no doubt you are right—but all that doesn't lead us anywhere. Why were they exchanged? What is there about that Boule cabinet which makes this unknown willing to do murder for it? Does he think those letters are still in it?"
"He knows they are not in it now—you told him. Before that, he knew nothing about the letters. If he had known of them, he would have had them out before the cabinet was shipped."
"What is it, then?" I demanded. "And, above all, Godfrey, why should this fellow hide himself in Vantine's house and kill two men? Did they surprise him while he was working over the cabinet?"
"I see no reason to believe that he was ever inside the Vantine house," said Godfrey quietly; "that is, until you took him there yourself this afternoon."
"But, look here, Godfrey," I protested, "that's nonsense. He must have been in the house, or he couldn't have killed Vantine and Drouet."
"Who said he killed them?"
"If he didn't kill them, who did?"
Godfrey took two or three contemplative puffs, while I sat there staring at him.
"Well," Godfrey answered, at last, "now I'm going to romance a little. We will return to your fascinating friend, Armand, as we may as well call him for the present. He is an extraordinary man."
"No doubt of it," I agreed.
"I can only repeat what I have said before—in my opinion, he is the greatest criminal of modern times."
"If he is a criminal at all, he is undoubtedly a great one," I conceded. "But it is hard for me to believe that he is a criminal. He's the most cultured man I ever met."
"Of course he is. That's why he's so dangerous. An ignorant criminal is never dangerous—it's the ignorant criminals who fill the prisons. But look out for the educated, accomplished ones. It takes brains to be a great criminal, Lester, and brains of a high order."
"But why should a man with brains be a criminal?" I queried. "If he can earn an honest living, why should he be dishonest?"
"In the first place, most criminals are criminals from choice, not from necessity; and with a cultured man the incentive is usually the excitement of it. Have you ever thought what an exciting game it is, Lester, to defy society, to break the law, to know that the odds against you are a thousand to one, and yet to come out triumphant? And then, I suppose, every great criminal is a little insane."
"No doubt of it," I agreed.
"Just as every absolutely honest man is a little insane," went on Godfrey quickly. "Just as every great reformer and enthusiast is a little insane. The sane men are the average ones, who are fairly honest and yet tell white lies on occasion, who succumb to temptation now and then; who temporise and compromise, and try to lead a comfortable and quiet life. I repeat, Lester, that this fellow is a great criminal, and that he finds life infinitely more engrossing than either you or I. I hope I shall meet him some time—not in a little skirmish like this, but in an out-and-out battle. Of course I'd be routed, horse, foot and dragoons—but it certainly would be interesting!" and he looked at me, his eyes glowing.
"It certainly would!" I agreed. "Go ahead with your romance."
"Here it is. This M. Armand is a great criminal, and has, of course, various followers, upon whom he must rely for the performance of certain details, since he can be in but one place at a time. Abject and absolute obedience is necessary to his success, and he compels obedience in the only way in which it can be compelled among criminals—by fear. For disobedience, there is but one punishment —death. And the manner of the death is so certain and so mysterious as to be almost supernatural. For deserters and traitors are found to have died, inevitably and invariably, from the effects of an insignificant wound on the right hand, just above the knuckles."
I was listening intently now, as you may well believe, for I began to see whither the romance was tending.
"It is by this secret," Godfrey continued, "that Armand preserves his absolute supremacy. But occasionally the temptation is too great, and one of his men deserts. Armand sends this cabinet to America. He knows that in this case the temptation is very great indeed; he fears treachery, and he arranges in the cabinet a mechanism which will inflict death upon the traitor in precisely the same way in which he himself inflicts it—by means of a poisoned stab in the right hand. Imagine the effect upon his gang. He is nowhere near when the act of treachery is performed, and yet the traitor dies instantly and surely! Why, it was a tremendous idea! And it was carried out with absolute genius."
"But," I questioned, "what act of treachery was it that Armand feared?"
"The opening of the secret drawer."
"Then you still believe in the poisoned mechanism?"
"I certainly do. The tragedy of this afternoon proves the truth of the theory."
"I don't see it," I said, helplessly.
"Why, Lester," protested Godfrey, "it's as plain as day. Who was that bearded giant who was killed? The traitor, of course. We will find that he was a member of Armand's gang. He followed Armand to America, lay in wait for him, caught him in the net and bound him hand and foot. Do you suppose for an instant that Armand was ignorant of his presence in that house? Do you suppose he would have been able to take Armand prisoner if Armand had not been willing that he should?"
"I don't see how Armand could help himself after that fellow got his hands on him."
"You don't? And yet you saw yourself that he was not really bound —that he had cut himself loose!"
"That is true," I said, thoughtfully.
"Let us reconstruct the story," Godfrey went on rapidly. "The traitor discovers the secret of the cabinet; he follows Armand to New York, shadows him to the house on Seventh Avenue, waits for him there, and seizes and binds him. He is half mad with triumph—he chants a crazy sing-song about revenge, revenge, revenge! And, in order that the triumph may be complete, he does not kill his prisoner at once. He rolls him into a corner and proceeds to rip away the burlap. His triumph will be to open the secret drawer before Armand's eyes. And Armand lies there in the corner, his eyes gleaming, because it is really the moment ofhistriumph which is at hand!"
"The moment of his triumph?" I repeated. "What do you mean by that,Godfrey?"
"I mean that, the instant the traitor opened the drawer, he would be stabbed by the poisoned mechanism! It was for that that Armand waited!"
I lay back in my chair with a gasp of amazement and admiration. I had been blind not to see it! Armand had merely to lie still and permit the traitor to walk into the trap prepared for him. No wonder his eyes had glowed as he lay there watching that frenzied figure at the cabinet!
"It was not until the last moment," Godfrey went on, "when the traitor was bending above the cabinet feeling for the spring, that I realised what was about to happen. There was no time for hesitation —I sprang into the room. Armand vanished in an instant, and the giant also tried to escape; but I caught him at the door. I had no idea of his danger; I had no thought that Armand would dare linger. And yet he did. Now that it is too late, I understand. Hehadto kill that man; there were no two ways about it. Whatever the risk, he had to kill him."
"But why?" I asked. "Why?"
"To seal his lips. If we had captured him, do you suppose Armand's secret would have been safe for an instant? So he had to kill him—he had to kill him with the poisoned barb—and hedidkill him, and got away into the bargain! Never in my life have I felt so like a fool as when that door was slammed in my face!"
"Perhaps he had that prepared, too," I suggested timidly, ready to believe anything of this extraordinary man. "Perhaps he knew that we were there, all the time."
"Of course he did," assented Godfrey grimly. "Why else would there be a snap-lock on the outside of the door? And to think I didn't see it! To think that I was fool enough to suppose that I could follow him about the streets of New York without his knowing it! He knew from the first that he might be followed, and prepared for it!"
"But it's incredible!" I protested feebly. "It's incredible!"
"Nothing is incredible in connection with that man!"
"But the risk—think of the risk he ran!"
"What does he care for risks? He despises them—and rightly. He got away, didn't he?"
"Yes," I said, "he got away; there's no question of that, I guess."
"Well, that is the story of this afternoon's tragedy, as I understand it," proceeded Godfrey, more calmly. "And now I'm going to leave you. I want you to think it over. If it doesn't hold together, show me where it doesn't. But itwillhold together—ithasto—because it's true!"
"But how about Armand?" I protested. "Aren't you going to try to capture him? Are you going to let him get away?"
"He won't get away!" and Godfrey's eyes were gleaming again. "We don't have to search for him; for we've got our trap, Lester, and it's baited with a bait he can't resist—the Boule cabinet!"
"But he knows it's a trap."
"Of course he knows it!"
"And you really think he will walk into it?" I asked incredulously.
"I know he will! One of these days, he will try to get that cabinet out of the steel cell at the Twenty-third Street station, in which we have it locked!"
I shook my head.
"He's no such fool," I said. "No man is such a fool as that. He'll give it up and go quietly back to Paris."
"Not if he's the man I think he is," said Godfrey, his hand on the door. "He will never give up! Just wait, Lester; we shall know in a day or two which of us is a true prophet. The only thing I am afraid of," he added, his face clouding, "is that he'll get away with the cabinet, in spite of us!"
And he went away down the hall, leaving me staring after him.
It seemed for once that Godfrey was destined to be wrong, for the days passed and nothing happened—nothing, that is, in so far as the cabinet was concerned. There was an inquest, of course, over the victim of the latest tragedy, and once again I was forced to give my evidence before a coroner's jury. I must confess that, this time, it made me appear considerable of a fool, and the papers poked sly fun at the attorney who had walked blindly into a trap which, now that it was sprung, seemed so apparent.
The Bertillon measurements of the victim had been cabled to Paris, and he had been instantly identified as a fellow named Morel, well-known to the police as a daring and desperate criminal; in fact, M. Lepine considered the matter so important that he cabled next day that he was sending Inspector Pigot to New York to investigate the affair further, and to confer with our bureau as to the best methods to be taken to apprehend the murderer. Inspector Pigot, it was added, would sail at once for Havre onLa Savoie.
Meanwhile, Grady's men, with Simmonds at their head, strained every nerve to discover the whereabouts of the fugitive; a net was thrown over the entire city, but, while a number of fish were captured, the one which the police particularly wished for was not among them. Not a single trace of the fugitive was discovered; he had vanished absolutely, and, after a day or two, Grady asserted confidently that he had left New York.
For Grady had come back into the case again, goaded by the papers, particularly by theRecord, to efforts which he must have considered superhuman. The remarkable nature of the mystery, its picturesque and unique features, the fact that three men had been killed within a few days in precisely the same manner, and the absence of any reasonable hypothesis to explain these deaths—all this served to rivet public attention. Every amateur detective in the country had a theory to exploit—and far-fetched enough most of them were!
Grady did a lot of talking in those days, explaining in detail the remarkable measures he was taking to capture the criminal; but the fact remained that three men had been killed, and that no one had been punished; that a series of crimes had been committed, and that the criminal was still at large, and seemed likely to remain so; and, naturally enough, the papers, having exhausted every other phase of the case, were soon echoing public sentiment that something was wrong somewhere, and that the detective bureau needed an overhauling, beginning at the top.
The Boule cabinet remained locked up in a cell at the Twenty-third Street station; and Simmonds kept the key in his pocket. I know now that he was as much in the dark concerning the cabinet as the general public was; and the general public was very much in the dark indeed, for the cabinet had not figured in the accounts of the first two tragedies at all, and only incidentally in the reports of the latest one. As far as it was concerned, the affair seemed clear enough to most of the reporters, as an attempt to smuggle into the country an art object of great value. Such cases were too common to attract especial attention.
But Simmonds had come to see that Grady was tottering on his throne; he realised, perhaps, that his own head was not safe; and he had made up his mind to pin his faith to Godfrey as the only one at all likely to lead him out of the maze. And Godfrey laid the greatest stress upon the necessity of keeping the cabinet under lock and key; so under lock and key it was kept. As for Grady, I do not believe that, even at the last, he realised the important part the cabinet had played in the drama.
But while the Boule cabinet failed to focus the attention of the public, and while most of the reporters promptly forgot all about it, I was amused at the pains which Godfrey took to inform the fugitive as to its whereabouts and as to how it was guarded. Over and over again, while the other papers wondered at his imbecility, he told how it had been placed in the strongest cell at the Twenty-third Street station; a cell whose bars were made of chrome-nickle steel which no saw could bite into; a cell whose lock was worked not only by a key but by a combination, known to one man only; a cell isolated from the others, standing alone in the middle of the third corridor, in full view of the officer on guard, so that no one could approach it, day or night, without being instantly discovered; a cell whose door was connected with an automatic alarm over the sergeant's desk in the front room; a cell, in short, from which no man could possibly escape, and which no man could possibly enter unobserved.
Of the Boule cabinet itself Godfrey said little, saving his story for the dénouement which he seemed so sure would come; but the details which I have given above were dwelt upon in theRecord, until, happening to meet Godfrey on the street one day, I protested that he would only succeed in frightening the fugitive away altogether, even if he still had any designs on the cabinet, which I very much doubted. But Godfrey only laughed.
"There's not the slightest danger of frightening him away," he said. "This fellow isn't that kind. If I am right in sizing him up, he's the sort of dare-devil whom an insuperable difficulty only attracts. The harder the job, the more he is drawn to it. That's the reason I am making this one just as hard as I can."
"But a man would be a fool to attempt to get to that cabinet," I protested. "It's simply impossible."
"It looks impossible, I'm free to admit," he agreed. "But, just the same, I wake every morning cold with fear, and run to the 'phone to make sure the cabinet's safe. If I could think of any further safeguards, I would certainly employ them."
I looked at Godfrey searchingly, for it seemed to me that he must be jesting. He smiled as he caught my glance.
"I was never more in earnest in my life, Lester," he said. "You don't appreciate this fellow as I do. He's a genius; nothing is impossible to him. He disdains easy jobs; when he thinks a job is too easy, he makes it harder, just as a sporting chance. He has been known to warn people that they kept their jewels too carelessly, and then, after they had put them in a safer place, he would go and take them."
"That seems rather foolish, doesn't it?" I queried.
"Not from his point of view. He doesn't steal because he needs money, but because he needs excitement."
"You know who he is, then?" I demanded.
"I think I do—I hope I do; but I am not going to tell even you till I'm sure. I'll say this—if he is who I think he is, it would be a delight to match one's brains with his. We haven't got any one like him over here—which is a pity!"
I was inclined to doubt this, for I have no romantic admiration for gentlemen burglars, even in fiction. However picturesque and chivalric, a thief is, after all, a thief. Perhaps it is my training as a lawyer, or perhaps I am simply narrow, but crime, however brilliantly carried out, seems to me a sordid and unlovely thing. I know quite well that there are many people who look at these things from a different angle, Godfrey is one of them.
I pointed out to him now that, if his intuitions were correct, he would soon have a chance to match his wits with those of the Great Unknown.
"Yes," he agreed, "and I'm scared to death—I have been ever since I began to suspect his identity. I feel like a tyro going up against a master in a game of chess—mate in six moves!"
"I shouldn't consider you exactly a tyro," I said, drily.
"It's long odds that the Great Unknown will," Godfrey retorted, and bade me good-bye.
Except for that chance meeting, I saw nothing of him, and in this I was disappointed, for there were many things about the whole affair which I did not understand. In fact, when I sat down of an evening and lit my pipe and began to think it over, I found that I understood nothing at all. Godfrey's theory held together perfectly, so far as I could see, but it led nowhere. How had Drouet and Vantine been killed? Why had they been killed? What was the secret of the cabinet? In a word, what was all this mystery about? Not one of these questions could I answer; and the solutions I guessed at seemed so absurd that I dismissed them in disgust. In the end, I found that the affair was interfering with my work, and I banished it from my mind, turning my face resolutely away from it whenever it tried to break into my thoughts.
But though I could shut it out of my waking hours successfully enough, I could not control my sleeping ones, and my dreams became more and more horrible. Always there was the serpent with dripping fangs, sometimes with Armand's head, sometimes with a face unknown to me, but hideous beyond description; its slimy body glittered with inlay and arabesque; its scaly legs were curved like those of the Boule cabinet; sometimes the golden sun glittered on its forehead like a great eye. Over and over again I saw this monster slay its three victims; and always, when that was done, it raised its head and glared at me, as though selecting me for the fourth…. But I shall not try to describe those dreams; even yet I cannot recall them without a shudder.
It was while I was sitting moodily in my room one night, debating whether or not to go to bed; weary to exhaustion and yet reluctant to resign myself to a sleep from which I knew I should wake shrieking, that a knock came at the door—a knock I recognised; and I arose joyfully to admit Godfrey.
I could see by the way his eyes were shining that he had something unusual to tell me; and then, as he looked at me, his face changed.
"What's the matter, Lester?" he demanded. "You're looking fagged out.Working too hard?"
"It's not that," I said. "I can't sleep. This thing has upset my nerves, Godfrey. I dream about it—have regular nightmares."
He sat down opposite me, concern and anxiety in his face.
"That won't do," he protested. "You must go away somewhere—take a rest, and a good long one."
"A rest wouldn't do me any good, as long as this mystery is unsolved," I said. "It's only by working that I can keep my mind off of it."
"Well," he smiled, "just to oblige you, we will solve it first, then."
"Do you mean you know…."
"I know who the Great Unknown is, and I'm going to tell you presently. Day after to-morrow—Wednesday—I'll know all the rest. The whole story will be in Thursday morning's paper. Suppose you arrange to start Thursday afternoon."
I could only stare at him. He smiled as he met my gaze.
"You're looking better already," he said, "as though you were taking a little more interest in life," and he helped himself to a cigar.
"Godfrey," I protested, "I wish you would pick out somebody else to practise on. You come up here and explode a bomb just to see how high I'll jump. It's amusing to you, no doubt, and perhaps a little instructive; but my nerves won't stand it."
"My dear Lester," he broke in, "that wasn't a bomb; that was a simple statement of fact."
"Are you serious?"
"Perfectly so."
"But how do you know…."
"Before I answer any questions, I want to ask you one. Did you, by any chance, mention me to the gentleman known to you as M. Félix Armand?"
"Yes," I answered, after a moment's thought; "I believe I did. I was telling him about our trying to find the secret drawer—I mentioned your name—and he asked who you were. I told him you were a genius at solving mysteries."
Godfrey nodded.
"That," he said, "explains the one thing I didn't understand. Now go ahead with your questions."
"You said a while ago that you would know all about this affair day after to-morrow."
"Yes."
"How do you know you will?"
"Because I have received a letter which sets the date," and he took from his pocket a sheet of paper and handed it over to me. "Read it!"
The letter was written in pencil, in a delicate and somewhat feminine hand, on a sheet of plain, unruled paper. With an astonishment which increased with every word, I read this extraordinary epistle:—
"My Dear Mr. Godfrey:
"I have been highly flattered by your interest in the affaire of the cabinet Boule, and admire most deeply your penetration in arriving at a conclusion so nearly correct regarding it. I must thank you, also, for your kindness in keeping me informed of the measures which have been taken to guard the cabinet, and which seem to me very complete and well thought out. I have myself visited the station and inspected the cell, and I find that in every detail you were correct.
"It is because I so esteem you as an adversary that I tell you, in confidence, that it is my intention to regain possession of my property on Wednesday next, and that, having done so, I shall beg you to accept a small souvenir of the occasion.
"I am, my dear sir,
"Most cordially yours,
"L'Invincible!"
I looked up to find Godfrey regarding me with a quizzical smile.
"Of course it's a joke," I said. Then I looked at him again. "Surely,Godfrey, you don't believe this is genuine!"
"Perhaps we can prove it," he said, quietly. "That is one reason I came up. Didn't Armand leave a note for you the day he failed to see you?"
"Yes; on his card; I have it here!" and with trembling fingers, I got out my pocket-book and drew the card from the compartment in which I had carefully preserved it.
One glance at it was enough. The pencilled line on the back was unquestionably written by the same hand which wrote the letter.
"And now you know his name," Godfrey added, tapping the signature with his finger. "I have been certain from the first that it was he!"
I gazed at the signature without answering. I had, of course, read in the papers many times of the Gargantuan exploits of Crochard—"The Invincible," as he loved to call himself, and with good reason. But his achievements, at least as the papers described them, seemed too fantastic to be true. I had suspected more than once that he was merely a figment of the Parisian space-writers, a sort of reserve for the dull season; or else that he was a kind of scape-goat saddled by the French police with every crime which proved too much for them. Now, however, it seemed that Crochard really existed; I held his letter in my hand; I had even talked with him—and as I remembered the fascination, the finish, the distinguished culture of M. Félix Armand, I understood something of the reason of his extraordinary reputation.
"There can be no two opinions about him," said Godfrey, reaching out his hand for the letter and sinking back in his chair to contemplate it. "Crochard is one of the greatest criminals who ever lived, full of imagination and resource, and with a sense of humour most acute. I have followed his career for years—it was this fact that gave me my first clue. He killed a man once before, just as he killed this last one. The man had betrayed him to the police. He was never betrayed again."
"What a fiend he must be!" I said, with a shudder.
But Godfrey shook his head quickly.
"Don't get that idea of him," he protested earnestly. "Up to the time of his arrival in New York, he had never killed any man except that traitor. Him he had a certain right to kill—according to thieves' ethics, anyway. His own life has been in peril scores of times, but he has never killed a man to save himself. Put that down to his credit."
"But Drouet and Vantine," I objected.
"An accident for which he was in no way responsible," said Godfrey promptly.
"You mean he didn't kill them?"
"Most certainly not. This last man he did kill was a traitor like the first. Crochard, I think, reasons like this; to kill an adversary is too easy; it is too brutal; it lacks finesse. Besides, it removes the adversary. And without adversaries, Crochard's life would be of no interest to him. After he had killed his last adversary, he would have to kill himself."
"I can't understand a man like that," I said.
"Well, look at this," said Godfrey, and tapped the letter again. "He honours me by considering me an adversary. Does he seek to remove me? On the contrary, he gives me a handicap. He takes off his queen in order that it may be a little more difficult to mate me!"
"But, surely, Godfrey," I protested, "you don't take that letter seriously! If he wrote it at all, he wrote it merely to throw you off the track. If he says Wednesday, he really intends to try for the cabinet to-morrow."
"I don't think so. I told you he would think me only a tyro. And, beside him, that is all I am. Do you know where he wrote that letter, Lester? Right in theRecordoffice. That is a sheet of our copy paper. He sat down there, right under my nose, wrote that letter, dropped it into my box, and walked out. And all that sometime this evening, when the office was crowded."
"But it's absurd for him to write a letter like that, if he really means it. You have only to warn the police…."
"You'll notice he says it is in confidence."