"There is no information that I am aware of against Mrs. Abrahams," he

said, "and you must remember that she is, as I told you, a friend of

several members of the Cabinet. They would not be likely to listen to

anything against her."

"What a country!" the poet sighed. "What officialdom! What methods of

making war!"

"Have you anything against Mrs. Abrahams?" Sir Lionel enquired.

"I have," was the prompt reply. "I have no proof to offer because I am

an unofficial person and I cannot take those steps which are necessary

to procure proof, but I can assure you that every afternoon, from four

till six, Mrs. Abraham's drawing-room in the Northumberland Court is a

bureau for the meeting of various persons whose interests are inimical

to this country."

"Dear me!" the other exclaimed blandly. "What do they do there?"

"I can't tell that," Cresswell admitted. "My idea is that they each

bring information of various sorts, which Mrs. Abrahams transmits to

Germany."

"Isn't that rather an assumption on your part?"

"An assumption with a very definite background," the poet persisted,

unruffled. "For instance, take this afternoon. Amongst Mrs. Abraham's

visitors were Professor David, who has spent half his life in Germany,

has stumped this country lecturing on German ideals, and since the war

has maintained a sedulous and enigmatic silence. There were also

present Mr. Halston, who married a German and has had to resign his

seat in Parliament owing to his doubtful sympathies; Jack Lovejoy, the

German-American actor; two men, who, from their conversation, are, I

gathered, censors; and the Minister of a country whom we all know quite

well to be inimical to us. These men meet every afternoon. They

aren't there for fun, are they, and it isn't by chance that they all

have the same point of view."

Sir Lionel stifled what seemed suspiciously like a yawn.

"You must forgive me if I seem a little unmoved," he observed, "but we

hear so many of these vague stories. The matter shall be looked into,

Mr. Cresswell, but I may as well warn you at once that Mrs. Abrahams

has several friends in the Cabinet, and they are not likely to

countenance any proceedings unfavourable to her."

The poet rose from his chair.

"Thank you, Sir Lionel," he said humbly. "I begin to realise----"

"What?"

"That a friend of a Cabinet Minister in this Government can do no

wrong," the young man declared, picking up his hat.

Aaron Rodd and the poet lunched together the next day at the Milan.

Miss Pamela Keane saw them from the other end of the room, where she

was talking to the _maître d'hôtel_ about a table, and at once came

over towards them.

"Well?" she asked Aaron Rodd.

"I have some information already," the latter replied. "I am not in a

position to make a definite report, but if it interests you to know it,

I do not think that Mr. Lovejoy's afternoon philanderings are of an

amorous nature."

"Say, do you hear that!" she exclaimed, her face suddenly lightening.

"If it interests me to know it! Isn't that exactly what I came to you

for? Well, can't you give me an idea what he is up to, then?"

"Not at present," Aaron Rodd regretted, "but you might, if you would,

help me with another hint."

"Get on with it, then," the lady urged. "He may come in at any moment."

"Can you tell me in which direction his sympathies lie with regard to

the war?"

Miss Pamela Keane was for a moment serious. Then she shrugged her

shoulders.

"Well, you know," she said, "there are a good many of us Americans who

think that Great Britain's been asking for trouble for some years back.

A little too much of the Lord Almighty, you know. I shouldn't say that

Jack was overmuch in sympathy with you Britishers."

"That helps," Aaron Rodd admitted. "In two or three days at the most I

think I can let you have a report. So far as I can see at present," he

added, "I think that it will be satisfactory to you."

"Say, you're smarter than you look, Mr. Rodd," she declared, as she

turned away with a little nod. "Come round and see me any time."

The two men finished their luncheon and walked round to Scotland Yard.

Inspector Ditchwater, for whom they enquired, received them with some

surprise.

"Gentlemen," he said, "this is a most unexpected pleasure."

"We have come," Aaron Rodd began, "to lay certain information before

you which has come to me professionally, and to ask for your aid. The

facts are these. A certain Mrs. Abrahams, who is a German woman by

birth, married to an anglicised German Jew, who was naturalised fifteen

years ago, is in the habit of receiving a little circle of friends

every afternoon. These friends are every one of them of more or less

German sympathies, although they some of them occupy public posts in

this country. One of them, I have reason to know, is receiving money

continually from Mrs. Abrahams. I have no proof of anything, and I am

not in a position to proceed far enough in the matter to secure it.

The authority of the law is needed. My friend here, Mr. Cresswell, has

been to the Home Office and has interviewed Sir Lionel Rastall. He,

however, declines to intervene in the matter because Mrs. Abrahams, who

is a woman of a great deal of superficial culture and many

acquaintances, is a friend of several Cabinet Ministers."

"If Sir Lionel declines to interfere," the inspector pointed out, "what

can we do?"

"Get on to the track and find some proof," Aaron Rodd suggested.

"There isn't any one can stop you then from behaving in a commonsense

manner."

"And lose our promotion and get snubbed for our pains," the detective

remarked. "I don't care much about the job, Mr. Rodd, thanking you all

the same. I don't mind telling you that Mrs. Abrahams was on the list

of suspected persons kept here, and has been crossed off at the special

instructions of a highly-placed personage. It isn't my business to

interfere with her or her doings."

The two visitors withdrew, a little perplexed. The poet, however, was

undaunted.

"My friend," he said, "this was to be my adventure and I tell you I've

a trump card left yet. Come along."

They paid one more call at a large and imposing establishment no great

distance away. After a wait of nearly an hour, an orderly came in.

"The Chief will see you and your friend, Mr. Cresswell," he announced.

"Be as quick as you can, please."

The poet, who loved words, showed that he knew how to dispense with

them. He shook hands with the somewhat grizzled-looking, handsome

soldier who welcomed them.

"This is my friend Mr. Rodd, a solicitor," he said. "Sir Horace, I

have put my hand by accident upon a nest of conspiracy within a quarter

of a mile from here. The Home Office or the police won't touch it

because the woman chiefly concerned is _persona grata_ with Cabinet

Ministers. Will you take it on?"

"I will," Sir Horace promised, "if there's anything in it. Get on with

your information."

"The woman's name is Abrahams, and she has a flat in the Northumberland

Court," the poet continued. "I followed a young man there the other

afternoon, who is born a German but calls himself an American. Mrs.

Abrahams was entertaining a small party of friends, every one of whom

is of German sympathies, although two are employed as censors by His

Majesty's Government. The young man I followed is drawing money from

her nearly every week, and spends most of his spare time motoring round

London with one of the new naval air defence commanders."

"That all?"

"Pretty well," the poet admitted, "but there's espionage work going on

there every afternoon."'

"Sounds probable," the other agreed. "Now what do you want me to do?

I can't raid the place without more information."

"Lend me two men and I'll take the risk of something turning up," the

poet begged.

Sir Horace scribbled a few lines on a piece of paper.

"Get out with you," he said. "My regards to your aunt. Show this to

the orderly in Room C and he'll give you a couple of plainclothes

policemen."

The poet gripped Aaron Rodd's arm triumphantly as they stepped outside.

"A man!" he exclaimed. "A man at last!" ...

It was two days before anything fresh happened. Then, about half-past

five in the afternoon, Aaron Rodd and the poet, who had wandered round

by the front of the Northumberland Court to see that their watchers

were in position, almost ran into the arms of a huge, roughly dressed

man, with close-cropped brown beard, a man who looked ill-at-ease in

his clothes and walked with a rolling gait.

"My God!" the poet muttered. "It's the Dutchman! Come on, Aaron."

They turned round and followed him at a short distance. He entered the

Northumberland Court. They followed him, a few minutes later, and

Cresswell addressed the hall-porter, whom he knew slightly.

"My name's Cresswell," he said. "I'm on a Government job. Tell me

what flat that man asked for who has just gone in?"

"Number sixty-seven, sir," the man replied--"Mrs. Abrahams'."

"Seen him here before?"

"He comes about once a week, sir, generally on a Sunday."

"I shan't move from here," Cresswell declared, turning to his

companion. "I shall hold on to that chap myself if he comes out before

we can get the men together. Will you hurry, Aaron? There's one at

the corner of Parliament Street."

"And the other's here," a quiet voice said behind. "It's all right,

Mr. Cresswell. I've sent for Jimmy. I saw that man go in. Know who

he is?"

"I do that," the poet assented.

"His ship's been searched twice," the inspector went on. "We had a

Secret Service man on board the last time they crossed. Nothing was

discovered, but he's under suspicion. When I saw him turn in here, I

thought things might be coming our way."

"Inspector," Cresswell asked eagerly, "your powers will allow you to

hold him, won't they?"

"I think I'll have to stretch them a bit, sir," the man replied.

"We'll wait till he comes out. You'd better let the hall-porter get an

extra constable. This Dutchman is a pretty difficult customer to

tackle."

The hall-porter, who had been divided between curiosity and

nervousness, departed with alacrity. The men spread themselves out a

little. The poet and Aaron Rodd affected great interest in the

lighting of cigarettes. A small boy in buttons eyed them with immense

inquisitiveness. There was something up! He whispered the news to the

lift-boy, who had strolled out for a breath of fresh air. A ripple of

electrical interest thrilled the group. The hall-porter returned, an

unwilling constable in the rear.

"What's this?" he enquired of the elder of the two plain-clothes men.

"I can't leave my beat unless there's a charge."

The man showed him a badge. The constable saluted.

"Wait just outside," the former whispered. The hall-porter suddenly

thrust his head through the swing doors.

"Party you're enquiring for, sir, has just come out of number two," he

announced. "He's stepping into a taxi."

There was a rush for the door, which the poet led. The taxicab was

disappearing round the corner as they reached the entrance of the next

block of flats. The hall-porter, still dangling his whistle, watched

their approach with amazement.

"What address--that taxi?" the inspector asked quickly.

"Monico's, Shaftesbury Avenue."

"Another taxi, quick!"

The man blew his whistle. A taxicab from the rank obeyed the summons.

"The fellow can't suspect anything if he's really gone to the Monico,"

the inspector observed.

They all crowded into the vehicle. In a few minutes they were at the

café. The poet gave a little sigh of relief as he peered eagerly

around. Somehow or other, he felt that this was his own special

adventure and that the onus of its success rested upon him. At a table

a little way in the room the Dutchman was seated, with a huge tumbler

of what seemed to be brandy and water in front of him. He was in the

act of striking a match to light a cigar which was already in the

corner of his mouth. Suddenly his eyes fell upon the poet. A vague

sense of recognition, coupled with a premonition of danger, seemed to

oppress him. His frame seemed to grow tenser. Even underneath his

clothes one could fancy that his muscles were stiffening. He watched

the four men approach, and those few of the neighbouring loungers who

chanced to be looking that way, held their breaths. The atmosphere

around seemed to have become electric. The inspector stood by the

Dutchman's table. Although he was not in uniform, his official bearing

was unmistakable.

"I want you, my man," he said. "You must come with me to the

police-station."

"Why?"

"I am acting under special orders," the inspector told him. "I can

satisfy you as to my authority. The thing is, are you coming quietly?"

Apparently the Dutchman was not, for pandemonium ensued. The inspector

was no light-weight and he was on guard, but his adversary's rush was

irresistible. He went crashing over against an opposite table and the

Dutchman's left fist sent the second man prostrate. The inspector,

however, was not yet done for, and Aaron Rodd and Cresswell suddenly

sprang simultaneously into the fray. Men and women leapt from their

tables. There were shrieks, a crash of breaking glass. The policeman,

who had been knocked down, staggered to his knees and blew his whistle

furiously. The Dutchman, kicking, shaking, even trying to bite the

poet's fingers, which had somehow seized his throat, dragged his

assailants yard by yard towards the door. The whole place was in an

uproar. Suddenly the swing-doors were pushed open. Two uniformed

constables hurried in. Even then the Dutchman did not abandon the

struggle. He wrenched himself almost free from the three men who had

momentarily relaxed their hold, dealt the leading constable a terrific

blow, which only just missed the side of his head, and knocked his

helmet into pulp. That, however, was the end. The other constable was

a powerful fellow and within thirty seconds the Dutchman was

handcuffed. There was a crowd now upon the pavement. The Dutchman,

his face covered with blood and his eyes glaring like the eyes of a

wild animal, was bustled into a taxi. Aaron and the poet were left

behind. They were neither of them much the worse for the struggle, but

Aaron's collar was torn to pieces and the poet's coat had been ripped

down one side. A waiter was hovering around them admiringly.

"Bring you something to drink, gentlemen?" he suggested.

They drank a brandy and soda each. Then the poet rose. He was

conscious of various bruises but he was very happy.

"Home and seclusion, I think, for a time, my friend," he said. "What a

heavenly scrap!"

* * * * *

Late that evening, a very immaculately dressed young man of most

superior appearance discovered the poet in an easy chair in his club,

awaiting the midnight rush of journalists and actors. The young man

presented a card.

"You will find my name there, sir," he said, "and also the Service on

behalf of which I pay you this visit."

Cresswell scrutinised the card and sat up in his chair.

"Have a drink?" he suggested.

His visitor begged to be excused.

"The Chief asked me to find you at the earliest possible moment," he

announced, "to first of all express his thanks and the thanks of his

department for your valuable services."

"Had the Dutchman got the goods on him?" the poet asked eagerly.

"He had indeed! He was carrying documents of high importance which

were obviously destined for our enemies," the young man said. "Their

contents are to a certain extent a secret, and I am to ask you to add

to your services by allowing the matter to slip from your memory."

"What's going to become of Mrs. Abrahams?" Cresswell enquired.

"We received an indirect suggestion to-night from the Home Office," the

young man replied, "that the lady in question should be cautioned. If

it is any relief to you, let me assure you that my chief is not the

sort of man to listen to such tosh. The lady will be interned,

whatever her friends may attempt on her behalf. Two of the other

people implicated, both in the censor's office, I regret to say, will

be shot. You appear to have discovered a bureau which existed for the

purpose of collecting and dispatching abroad, every week, various items

of information likely to be of service to our enemies."

"What'll the Dutchman get?"

The young man hesitated.

"I have already somewhat exceeded my latitude," he said gravely. "May

I ask you to consider what I have said in confidence, to forget this

little adventure, and never again in this life to worry about the

Dutchman?"

"I won't," the poet promised, with a chuckle. "By the by, what about

Jack Lovejoy?"

"There is a reference only to some promised information from a person

whom we concluded to be that young man," was the reply. "He has been

asked to leave the country within twenty-four hours."

The young man took his leave and a few moments later Aaron Rodd

appeared. He was wearing a pearl pin of wonderful quality, which the

poet eyed curiously.

"A little farewell present," the former explained, as he settled down,

"from Miss Pamela Keane."

_Chapter VIII_ _The Yellow Eye_

At a few minutes before the popular dining hour, Aaron Rodd, having

selected a table, ordered, in consultation with the chief _maître

d'hôtel_, a small dinner, and possessed himself of a theatre guide, sat

in the reception lounge of the Carlton Grill-room, awaiting the arrival

of Henriette. There was a mirror exactly opposite to him, and as he

sipped his cocktail he caught a glimpse of his own face. He set down

his glass, momentarily startled. Somehow, it seemed to him like being

brought face to face with the ghost of his youth. He rose to his feet

and lounged over towards the mirror on the pretext of examining some

illustrated papers. In the intervals of glancing at them, he looked

furtively at his own reflection, trying to account for the change he

saw there. At the poet's earnest solicitation he had visited a

first-class tailor, had bought the right shape of collar, had learnt to

tie his evening bow with the proper twist. A personally conducted

visit to a fashionable hairdresser had followed, and his fine black

hair, no longer ragged and unkempt, was brushed back from a face which

seemed, even to its owner, to have changed in some marvellous way

during the last few months. He was, without a doubt, younger. There

was a new expression about his lips, from which the hardness seemed to

have gone, and, curiously enough, he was conscious that notwithstanding

all his anxieties, never more poignant than at this particular moment,

life had taken a sudden and sympathetic turn with him. Since the

coming of Harvey Grimm, he had at last been lifted up from that weary

rut of depression and ill-being; but since the coming of Henriette, he

had been transported bodily into the world where human beings live,

where the flowers have a different perfume, and the sun shines always,

even if sometimes from behind the clouds.

"But you, then, also are vain!" a rather surprised, very amused voice

exclaimed almost in his ears. "Why, you remind me of Mr. Cresswell,

standing there preening yourself before the mirror!"

For a moment he felt almost embarrassed. Then he smiled as he bent

over Henriette's fingers.

"I was wondering," he confessed, "what could have brought so great a

change into my life--and then you came."

Her eyes softened as she looked at him. Her lips parted. She studied

him for a moment apprisingly.

"You are changed, you know," she decided. "You look younger. You

seem, somehow, to have moved from one world into another. You were

looking very melancholy that first day when we met in the Gardens. I

do not think that adventures have disagreed with you."

"If one could only stop them now!" he exclaimed eagerly.

She laid her finger upon her lip. The _maître d'hôtel_ stood bowing

before them.

"Madame will come this way?"

Henriette approved of the table, approved of the dinner, approved of

her companion. As for Aaron Rodd, the shadows which sometimes

terrified him seemed to have passed far away into the background. He

was deaf and dumb to the voices and glances of their neighbours,

attracted by his companion's unanalysable elegance, her aristocratic

little face with its flawless complexion, her little air--foreign,

perhaps, but all the more attractive--of quaint, individual

distinction. She wore no ornaments except the pearls which hung from

her neck. Her hair, to his untutored eyes, might have been arranged

with her own fingers. Her gown, as always, was black, this time of

chiffon, and it was not for him to know that its simplicity represented

the last word in fashion. He simply found her adorable, and dinner was

almost concluded before she uttered a little cry.

"Why, we have not yet decided what theatre to go to!"

He sent for a messenger.

"Do try," she begged, "and get some seats for the _Casino_. I want so

much to see the revue."

The boy brought them a plan of the theatre, and Aaron secured a small

box. Very reluctantly they left their table a short time later.

"I have loved my dinner so," she declared, as they sat together in the

taxi. "I think that I am getting greedy, everything tasted so good."

"And I think that I, too, am greedy," her companion whispered, leaning

towards her, "because I want so much--even the greatest thing in the

world could have to offer."

She suddenly clutched his arm with her white fingers, drew it tightly

to her.

"Hold my fingers, please," she begged. "Sit just like this. Don't let

us spoil anything. Will you be content, please?"

He leaned a little towards her. Her eyes were half pleading with his,

half doubtful.

"I will be content," he promised, "if..."

She drew away from him a moment later.

"I did not mean to let you kiss me," she declared naively.

"I meant to if I could," he confessed.

She laughed a little hysterically, but not unhappily.

"Let us pretend that we have behaved like a couple of bad children,"

she said, "because we must not just now talk of these things. That was

just a slip."

"A slip," he repeated.

"A very wonderful, delightful slip," she murmured. "And here we are."

They found themselves soon in a little box, small even for two people.

Henriette settled down, almost from the first, to enjoy the

performance. She laughed at the whimsical Frenchman, applauded the

versatile leading lady, entered with wonderful facility into the spirit

of the place. And then, some half-hour after their entrance, Aaron

Rodd felt the fingers which he was holding under cover of a programme

suddenly twitch. He glanced up. To his amazement, all the joy and

light-heartedness had passed from her face. Her features seemed as

though they might have been carved out of a piece of ivory. Her lips

were a little parted, her eyes filled with fear. She was gazing with

strange intensity upon the figure of a girl who, heralded by much

applause, had suddenly bounded on to the stage. He leaned towards her.

"Is anything wrong, Henriette?" he asked softly.

She roused herself a little.

"Yes!" she whispered. "That girl--do you see what she is

wearing--around her neck?"

He glanced down on to the stage in puzzled fashion. The girl in

question, French and a new-comer, who was singing a little song of the

boulevards with a good deal of appropriate action, wore no jewellery

except a single rather curious yellow stone, suspended from her neck by

a platinum chain.

"You mean that yellow thing?"

She looked at him in surprise.

"But of course you do not know!" she exclaimed. "That is the great

yellow diamond. It belongs to----"

"To whom?" he interrupted eagerly.

"To Leopold's--to my brother's collection," she explained hesitatingly.

He was puzzled for a moment. Then the sense of her words, and their

import, began to dawn upon him.

"You mean that the stone is amongst those that your brother has

acquired?" he continued diffidently--"one of those he has not yet tried

to have recut?"

"Yes!" she murmured.

There was a moment's embarrassed silence. Henriette was obviously

distraught. She watched the rather fascinating figure upon the stage

with strained eyes.

"It isn't," she went on, turning abruptly to her companion, "that I

mind if Leopold chooses to amuse himself. He has probably lent the

girl the diamond for her first appearance. I see that it is her debut

to-night. It is not that. But he is so rash, so daring. That stone

is known throughout the world--its history, its description have been

published everywhere. Why, if there is anyone in the house who knows

anything of the history of gems, they will recognise it. It will be

traced--so easily traced to Leopold. Oh, what folly! I must go and

see her. I must go at once!"

She rose to her feet. They drew a little into the background of the

box.

"I am afraid it will be rather difficult," Aaron Rodd warned her.

"It must be arranged," she insisted. "We will go together and find

some one at the box office who will take a message round."

They spent a more or less uncomfortable ten minutes at the box office,

where they were assured that, owing to the smallness of the theatre,

visits to the artistes were not permitted. The manager at last

appeared and began an explanation on similar lines. Henriette

interrupted him.

"Monsieur," she begged, "it is a great exception. There is something

which Mademoiselle should know, something which it is very important

for her to know, and I am the only person who can tell her. You will

make an exception, please, this once?"

The manager was quite human and a person of discrimination. He made no

further difficulty.

"If you will both please follow me," he invited. "Mademoiselle Larilly

has just gone off."

He led them by a tortuous way to the back of the stage and knocked at

the door of a room.

"_Entrez!_" was the shrill response.

Their guide ushered Henriette and Aaron Rodd into a tiny little

apartment, prettily furnished notwithstanding the bare floors.

Mademoiselle Larilly was standing before a pier-glass, admiring

herself. She swept round at their entrance.

"Madame?" she murmured in surprise.

The manager spoke a hasty word or two of explanation, in French, and

disappeared. Henriette waited until the door was closed. Then she

turned to the girl.

"Mademoiselle," she said, "I owe you, perhaps, an apology for this

unusual visit. I come for your sake as well as my own and another's.

Will you tell me, please, who lent you the diamond which you wear?"

The girl held it tightly to her bosom:

"It has not been lent to me," she declared. "It is given."

"But that is not possible," Henriette protested. "Do you know that the

jewel you are wearing is worth nearly a million francs?"

The girl started but she simply shrugged her shoulders.

"Oh, la, la!" she exclaimed. "What do I care? It was given me by a

gentleman, not an Englishman, and no one has any right to ask me

questions about it. I do not receive here, mademoiselle. I have but a

few minutes to rest. If you would please go."

Henriette made efforts to modify the haughtiness of her tone, the air

of aloofness with which she seemed shrouded.

"Mademoiselle Larilly," she said, "I will not believe that you wish

evil things to the gentleman who lent or gave you that jewel, yet,

believe me, you will bring harm upon him if you wear it in public. You

will bring a great--the greatest of all misfortunes."

The girl opened her hands a little and gazed at the gem. She shook her

head.

"That I cannot help," she decided. "It is his affair. He must know

better than you. I promised him to wear it. He may even be here

to-night. I shall keep my word."

"Mademoiselle----" Henriette began.

Then the words died away on her lips. The door of the dressing-room

had opened and closed without any knock. Mr. Paul Brodie stood there,

suave and with a little smile upon his lips. He bowed politely--a

gesture which seemed to include every one. Mademoiselle Larilly

glanced at him contemptuously.

"But who allowed you to enter?" she demanded. "I do not receive here.

I will send for the manager. It is an impertinence when people come to

my room without permission."

Mr. Brodie held out his hand deprecatingly.

"Miss Larilly," he begged, "pray do not disturb yourself. I am one of

those who must go anywhere they choose, at any time."

"Indeed!" she exclaimed indignantly. "You are not the owner of the

theatre or the author of the revue, and I do not know you. I beg you

to leave at once."

"Young lady," Mr. Brodie continued, his eyes fastened upon the gem

which hung from her neck, "I have not the good fortune to be either of

the gentlemen you mention, but I represent a force which has to be

reckoned with by law-abiding people. I am of the police."

She stood quite still. Once more her hands clutched at the jewel which

rested on her bosom.

"The police?" she repeated. "But I do not understand! What do

you----what do the police want with me in my room?"

"Now come, Miss Larilly," Mr. Brodie went on soothingly, "it's nothing

you need worry about. I just want your permission to examine the jewel

which you are wearing."

"No!" she refused sharply. "No one shall do that. The jewel has been

lent to me, lent to me on one condition--that I permit no one to touch

it."

"Look here, young lady," Brodie protested, quietly but forcibly, "I

don't want to make any disturbance, and I'd sooner deal with this

matter in a friendly fashion. All the same, if you're out for trouble,

I can soon bring you plenty of it. Come, it won't take you long to

slip that off your neck."

She began to look a little frightened. She glanced towards Henriette

as though for guidance. Henriette, however, seemed almost on the point

of breaking down herself. She had sunk into the chair which Aaron had

fetched.

"Courage," Aaron whispered in her ear. "That brute is watching you."

Brodie had drawn closer to Mademoiselle Larilly. She held her hands

tightly against her bosom.

"If you come a step further," she cried, "I will shriek! I will call

the artistes to defend me--the manager! You must come to me when I am

not playing, if you would ask questions."

"Young lady," the detective said with a new sternness, "you can call

the manager, if you will, and I shall repeat to him what I say to you.

If you do not suffer me to examine that jewel, I shall stop the

performance and have you taken to the police-station."

She was obviously terrified now. The rouge upon her cheeks seemed like

a great daub of red. She set her teeth, her hands flew apart.

"It is a miserable country!" she exclaimed passionately. "In France

this could not happen. Look, then, at the stone, and go, but

remember--I will give it up to no one. If you take it, you must drag

it from my neck and I will follow you, shrieking, even on to the stage.

I will not be robbed! How do I know that you are of the police? You

may be a thief yourself! The stone--I tell you that it is worth a

fortune."

"I can well believe it," Brodie assented calmly. "One moment, if you

please."

He held the stone in the palm of his hand and fitted a magnifying glass

into his eye. There was a moment's silence. Henriette suddenly

gripped her companion's hand. Mademoiselle Larilly stood there,

panting, her bosom rising and falling quickly. There was murder in her

eyes. Presently Brodie let the stone fall, replaced the magnifying

glass in his pocket. He stood, for a moment, as though thinking. Then

he turned towards the door.

"Miss Larilly," he said, looking back at her, "my apologies. The

bauble which you are wearing is a worthless piece of yellow crystal,

worth, perhaps, twenty pounds. I was deceived--as was, perhaps, the

young lady over yonder," he added with a little ironical bow--"by a

wonderful resemblance."

He closed the door quietly behind him. There was a queer silence in

the room. Henriette was deathly pale. Relief and bewilderment were

struggling in her face. The French girl's expression had become

electrically transformed. With a sudden little gesture she leaned

towards the closed door. Her hand flashed in front of her face. Her

gesture was significant if vulgar.

"It is worth twenty pounds, my bauble, is it?" she mocked. "And he

thinks, that big, ugly man, that I would come on to the stage with a

bauble round my neck worth twenty pounds! Eh, but he is not a

gentleman of France, that----!"

An inner door suddenly opened. Leopold Brinnen appeared, and behind

him the tall, slender figure of Monsieur Larkson, the leading French

actor in the revue.

"With your permission," Brinnen began, bowing to Mademoiselle

Larilly.... "Henriette!"

He stopped short in amazement. Henriette rose to her feet and came

towards him.

"Leopold," she exclaimed, talking to him rapidly in French, "what have

you done? How dare you, for all our sakes, run these awful risks! If

the man Brodie had not been a fool, if he had known anything of jewels,

if he had not been blind, where should we have been at this moment? Do

you think they would have let mademoiselle go until she had told from

whence came the Yellow Eye? Oh, but you are so reckless! Take it away

from her quickly! Hide it!"

Leopold listened to her words a little gravely.

"Will you tell me, my sister," he enquired, "what you are doing here?"

"I have dined and am spending the evening with Mr. Aaron Rodd," she

explained. "We sit in the box here and I recognise the Yellow Eye. I

hurry here. Mademoiselle receives me. I beg her to take it off, not

to wear it. I warn her that there is danger. She scoffs at me. And

then Brodie comes. But that man--he must be mad! He held the stone in

his hand."

The young man smiled quietly. Then he listened at the door which led

into the passage and softly turned the key. He glanced towards

mademoiselle.

"Ah, but if you all will," she exclaimed, "behold!"

Her hand disappeared for a moment down her back. She threw the

platinum chain and stone which she was wearing, on to the

dressing-table. In a moment another flashed upon her bosom.

"You see," she went on, "how simple! I obeyed. On the stage I wore

that great beautiful stone, and even before I had reached my room, in

the passage, the other hung in its place."

Leopold Brinnen smiled amiably. Nevertheless, he was a little

apologetic as he turned towards his sister.

"It is that man Brodie," he sighed. "He is so persistent and yet he

has not the wits for success. He wearies me with his blunders. This

is just a little lesson."

"A little lesson," Henriette repeated reproachfully, with a sob in her

throat, "which might have cost us----"

He waved his hand.

"Ah, no, little sister!" he protested. "You take too gloomy a view.

Even Paul Brodie," he continued, lowering his voice so that it was

inaudible at the other end of the room, "has not yet succeeded in

forging the missing link between Jeremiah Sands and Captain Brinnen of

the Belgian Artillery. You permit now, madame," he went on, turning

back to the others, "that I present to you my sister and Monsieur Aaron

Rodd. Mademoiselle Larilly," he explained, "is the wife of Monsieur

Larkson here, whom I take the liberty also to present. What do you

say? Which stone shall mademoiselle wear when she sings her next song?"

"One may play with fire a little too long," Aaron Rodd observed.

"Leopold!" his sister implored, clasping her hands.

The young man bowed.

"It shall be as you will," he promised, holding out his hand and

accepting the stone which Mademoiselle Larilly was eagerly pressing

upon him. "Into my pocket with this one, then. Madame shall dance for

the first time in her life with a worthless bauble around her throat,

but there shall be a recompense. I insist. We will all sup together

at Giro's. You agree? And you, Rodd? My sister," he added, "will, I

am sure, be delighted to see more of you, madame, and your husband."

"It will give me the greatest pleasure," Henriette assented.

A call boy came shouting down the passage.

"Giro's at eleven-thirty," Brinnen reminded them all.

"It shall be au revoir, then, madame!" Henriette said, as she passed

through the door which Aaron was holding open for her.

* * * * *

There was a great relief in Henriette's face as she leaned back in the

darkest corner of the box and closed her eyes. The atmosphere of the

evening, however, had departed. She was no longer full of that

quivering, electrical gaiety. She watched the rest of the performance

with interest and talked now and then to Aaron, but their homeward

drive afterwards was performed almost in silence. She rested her

fingers in his and leaned back.

"Forgive me if I rest," she murmured. "I am terrified. I shake now

when I think of that moment."

"It is all over now," he reminded her. "Try and be quiet for a little

time."

Presently she sat up.

"Listen," she said, "it will be half an hour at least before they can

arrive at Giro's. Madame must change her toilette."

As Madame's last toilette had been one of pink silk, in which there was

very much more stocking than skirt, the suggestion seemed probable.

"What would you like to do?" Aaron asked.

"I would like to call back at the Milan," she begged. "I nearly always

see my grandfather for a moment before he goes to sleep; and I can rest

and bathe my eyes. You will not mind waiting?"

"Of course not!"

He redirected the driver and they drew up, a few minutes later, at the

Milan. She descended at the Court entrance and crossed over at once to

the lift.

"I will not ask you up," she said. "I shall find you here, perhaps,

in--say, ten minutes?"

He assented and bought an evening paper. In less than the time she had

stated, the lift stopped and she reappeared. To his surprise she had

taken off her hat. She came towards him with a strange look in her

face. He could see the tears quivering in her eyes.

"Dear friend," she whispered, "be kind to me. I have had a great blow.

My grandfather died this evening while we were away--only an hour ago."

He murmured an eager word or two of sympathy. She laid her hand upon

his arm.

"Will you go, please, at once to Giro's," she begged him, "and tell

Leopold? Try and prevent him, if you can, entering the supper-room.

There are so many things that will happen now," she went on. "Please

go quickly. See!"

She raised her fingers to his lips. He caught them and kissed them.

Then she turned away and he hurried outside, jumped into a taxi and

drove to Giro's. Leopold Brinnen and a little party of guests were

standing in the hall. The former frowned as he entered alone.

"Where is my sister?" he demanded.

Aaron took him by the arm.

"Captain Brinnen," he said, "I am sorry, but I am the bearer of bad

news. Your grandfather died this evening."

The young man stood perfectly still for a moment.

"Dead!" he muttered. "Poor fellow! ... dead!"

Inside the room the music was crashing, and the hum of conversation was

already swelling to a tumult. A couple of early dancers were whirling

round the room. Brinnen turned to his guests.

"I am so sorry," he explained, "Mr. Rodd here has brought me bad news.

A near relative of mine has died suddenly. You must excuse my joining

you. Luigi will serve the supper."

There was a little murmur of sympathy. His Bohemian friends crowded

silently around him. One by one they shook his hand--a queer little

function. Then he turned away and stood for a moment on the pavement

outside, Aaron Rodd by his side.

"Mr. Rodd," he said, "my grandfather's death may make a difference in

many ways."

Aaron Rodd straightened himself. He was never sure of the demeanour of

this young adventurer, who seemed for the most part to treat life as a

jest.

"In what way?" he asked.

Brinnen replied with a question.

"Can you communicate with Mr. Harvey Grimm?"

Aaron shook his head.

"I do not even know where he does his work. Forgive me for reminding

you," he added, "that your sister is in great distress."

The young man stepped into a taxi.

"It is necessary that I see Harvey Grimm as soon as possible," he

insisted.

"Harvey Grimm won't be hurried over his work," Aaron declared. "For

your own sake he is better out of sight until it is concluded. Shall I

tell the man to go to the Milan?"

Brinnen nodded. He leaned out of the window for a moment, however,

before the cab started.

"Mr. Aaron Rodd," he said, "do you mind if I speak to you for a moment

with perfect frankness?"

"Not in the least," Aaron assured him promptly.

"In some respects," Brinnen continued confidentially, "I am inclined to

like you, but on the whole I have come to the conclusion that you are a

very simple fellow. That is all!"

_Chapter IX_ _The Vengeance of Rosa Letchowiski_

The small boy assumed an air of vast importance. He leaned over the

counter and with mysterious gestures arrested the progress of his

cousin through the shop.

"Rosa, I've got something to thay to you, motht important," he

announced. "Come right over here."

She paused and swung around a little unwillingly. Her scarlet underlip

was thrust outwards. She walked with her hand upon her hip, not averse

to impressing even this young cousin of hers with all the allurements

of her slipshod finery.

"I thay, Rosa, you look fine," the boy declared admiringly. "Lithen

now. You told me to keep my eyes open, if ever I should see any more

of Mr. Levy, eh?"

The girl's face was suddenly alight. She moved close to the counter.

"You've heard of him?" she exclaimed eagerly. "You know where he is?"

The boy nodded many times. He placed a finger upon his lips, in his

eyes was the glint of avarice.

"You promithed me a shilling," he reminded her. "I worked hard. I

know now just where he ith. You can see him for yourthelf. It's worth

a shilling, Rosa, eh?"

The girl's hand dived into the recesses of her half-fastened skirt.

She produced a cheap purse of imitation Russia leather and solemnly

counted out a sixpence and six coppers.

"You tell me the truth," she adjured him, parting with the coins

reluctantly.

"Honest and sure," the boy promised, sweeping them into his pocket.

"He came back again Tuesday night. He's at work now in the repairing

room."

"You little shark!" his cousin cried indignantly. "Why, I should have

found out myself if I'd gone straight in to grandfather."

"Maybe and maybe not," he answered, with his finger upon his nose and

his hand guarding the pocket where the shilling reposed.

The girl was breathing quickly with excitement. The loss of the

shilling, after all, was a slight thing to a girl earning man's wages.

"Listen," she enjoined, "don't you say I've been. I'm off back to tidy

up. I shall be here in half an hour. He won't be gone by then."

"Sure not," was the confident assent. "He brought his valise. He'th

come to stop."

Rosa almost tiptoed her way out of the shop, dived into the stream of

people and disappeared. It was rather more than half an hour before

her small cousin, with palms outstretched upon the counter, struggling

to sell a one-and-sixpenny brooch to a girl who had a shilling to

spend, glanced up and recognised her. His look of admiration was a

genuine tribute. For a moment the glamour of the transaction upon

which he was engaged, faded.

"My, Rosa, you do look fine!" he exclaimed. "Them clothes must have

cost something!"

She nodded haughtily--a vision of cheap furs, with a black hat from

which flared one great scarlet flower. She carried a bag of some

jingling metal in her hand. Her patent shoes squeaked loudly. She

displayed at least twelve inches of silk-clad limbs, and she diffused

little waves of a perfume carefully selected on account of its

far-reaching qualities. The customer, who knew her by sight, gazed

after her admiringly.

"That's your cousin Rosa, isn't it?" she asked.

The small boy nodded, withdrawing his eyes from the disappearing figure

with reluctance.

"It must be wonderful to earn enough money to dress like that," he

observed enviously. "My, did you see those furs! ... The firtht

ornament Rosa ever bought from me wath one of these brooches," he went

on, reverting to the subject in hand. "Two shillings she paid, my

dear, and eighteenpence I'm asking you, jutht because I like to do

business when the old man ain't here. Maybe you could pay the extra

sixpence next Saturday...."

Rosa swept through the door and descended the two steps into the dingy

sitting-room. In a high-backed chair drawn up to the scanty fire, his

head a little on one side, sat her grandfather, asleep. She passed on

tiptoe through the room, down the narrow passage, and softly turned the

handle of the workshop door. The air was vibrating slightly with the

monotonous hum of a concealed dynamo. Bending low over the board, with

huge magnifying glasses in his eyes, Mr. Levy, with a small, bright

instrument in his hand, was absorbed in some delicate process of

refashioning a little glittering mass, carefully held between the thumb

and forefinger of his left hand. Some instinct told the girl to keep

silence. She watched him breathlessly until the consciousness of her

presence reached him through his finer senses. He raised his knife

from its task and turned swiftly around, touched a knob with his foot

and the dynamo gradually slackened speed and died away.

"You!" he exclaimed, removing the glasses from his eyes.

She saw the stone upon which he had been working transferred swiftly to

his pocket. She was immensely curious. Nevertheless, the personal

element came first.

"You're a nice man, aren't you, eh?" she demanded, coming slowly

towards him. "What about that little dinner we were going to have, eh,

and a theatre? You just leave your place without a word of warning. I

wonder grandfather took you back again."

"My dear young lady," he began.

"Rosa!" she pouted.

"Rosa, then," he went on, "pleasure is a great thing, but business is a

greater. I have been away on business, the business I spoke to you of.

Now, you see, I am back again. The other place didn't suit me."

"And grandfather took you on without a word?"

"As you see."

"What is it you are working at?" she asked curiously. "I never knew

you had a dynamo here, or that you needed one for watch repairing."

"It is an idea of my own," he told her. "You see, it isn't only

watches but every article of jewellery we repair. It saves another

assistant."

"What were you working at when I came in?" she persisted.

"A piece of glass, cutting it up into a few of those beautiful diamond

brooches you see in the window," he explained. "But don't let's talk

about the work. How well you look!"

She tossed her head.

"A lot you care about how well I look," she retorted, "going away like

that with never a word!"

"By the by," he enquired suddenly, "how did you come in? Where was

your grandfather?"

"Grandfather was asleep in the easy chair," she told him. "I came

through on tiptoe. Like to keep yourself private down here, don't you?"

"Part of my training," he replied. "I can't work unless I am

absolutely alone and undisturbed."

She leaned against his bench and raised her foot as though to look at

the patent tip of her shoe. He was privileged to behold a goodly

number of inches of silk-clad limb.

"What are you doing to-night," she asked, "after work?"

He shook his head disconsolately.

"Your grandfather is a hard taskmaster," he grumbled. "I generally

stick on here until I'm tired out."

"We'll see about that," she promised. "Would you like ... Oh, bother!"

she broke off. "I promised to go to the pictures with Stolly Wykes."

Her companion's faint sigh of regret was very cleverly assumed.

"Perhaps another evening, then," he suggested.

"You're such a slippery customer," she went on, "here to-day and gone

to-morrow sort of chap. I suppose I could put Stolly off," she went on

meditatively, raising her eyes and looking at him.

"I wouldn't do that," he protested. "I can't help thinking how

disappointed I should be in his place."

"Plenty of feeling for others you have, haven't you?" she observed

sarcastically. "I don't know as I care about going out with Stolly.

He's always worrying me to get engaged."

"I've wondered more than once," he told her confidentially, "why you

haven't been engaged long ago. How old are you? Twenty?"

"I am twenty-two," she confessed, "and if I'm not engaged, it's because

I haven't been over-anxious. I don't think much of these young fellows

round here. I feel, somehow, as though I wanted something different."

He sighed sympathetically, and then, as though with an effort, turned

back to his bench.

"If the old man wakes up and finds I'm not working," he remarked,

"he'll be annoyed."

"You can get on with your work, then," she replied. "I'm going to talk

to him for a minute or two. Be good."

She gave him a little backward nod, enigmatically encouraging, and left

him, closing the door softly behind her. She made her way into the

stuffy little parlour and shook her grandfather by the shoulder.

"Wake up, old man," she exhorted. "Nice thing going to sleep over the

fire in the middle of the afternoon!"

"Eh, what--what, my dear?" he exclaimed, sitting up. "It's Rosa, is

it? Ah! How beautiful you look, Rosa! But those furs--were they very

expensive, my dear?"

"They were rather," the girl admitted complacently, "but I'm earning

good money and I want to get married."

"To get married, my dear," the old man repeated, a little vaguely.

"Well, well, you find some young man with good prospects, and

money--money in his hand, mind----"

"I've found the young man I'd like to marry," Rosa interrupted. "He's

your assistant down there."

Abraham Letchowiski stretched out his hands in protest. He shook his

head vigorously.

"No, no, my tear!" he cried. "You cannot marry him. He is just a

journeyman repairer. He has no money saved. He spends too much on his

clothes."

"He's a clever workman, isn't he?"

"Oh, he is clever," the old man admitted, "very clever indeed, but

there are many clever people in the world who have not much money."

"Look here," the girl expostulated, "you're going to leave David and me

your money, aren't you? You've no one else?"

"But I have not much," the old man whined, "and I may live quite some

time yet."

"You're getting too old to work," the girl declared. "Why not take him

into partnership?"

"Bartnership?" the old man shrieked. "Ah, my tear, you do not

understand!"

"I understand the way to deal with you, anyhow," Rosa retorted. "You

wait!"

She walked to the end of the passage and raised her voice.

"Mr. Levy, please to come here."

There was a smothered reply, and after a few moments he appeared.

Abraham Letchowiski, now thoroughly awake, sat in the chair, wringing

his hands.

"Rosa," he exclaimed, "I implore you! Rosa! Listen to me!"

She cut him short. She seemed, somehow, to dominate the little

room--strong, forceful and determined.

"Mr. Levy," she announced, "grandfather has something to say to you.

He makes such a muddle of things that, although it is rather

embarrassing, I shall say it myself. David and I are his heirs. He

has saved a great deal of money."

"No, no, my tear--no!" the old man interrupted tearfully.

"He has saved a great deal of money," she went on placidly. "He has no

other relatives. He is always bothering me to get married. I tell him

to-day that I have made up my mind. If you are willing, Mr. Levy, he

will take you into partnership. We will see that little David is done

fairly with. Later on, when you grow older, he shall be your partner.

Now, grandfather, sit up and hear what Mr. Levy has to say."

For once in his life, Harvey Grimm was taken at a disadvantage. He

stood speechless and hopelessly astounded. Rosa held out her hands to

him. Before he knew exactly where he was, he was holding one of them.

"So that's all settled," the girl pronounced, drawing him closer to

her. "Now, grandfather, Mr. Levy--Edward we must call him now--is

going to leave off work at once. We are going out to supper and a

cinema."

The old man suddenly struck the table with his clenched fist. There

was a curious solemnity in his voice.

"I will not have it!" he cried, his eyes flashing. "All that you have

spoken is foolish, Rosa. I will not have this young man for my

partner, nor shall you have him for your husband, even if he were

willing."

"Why not?" she demanded.

"Because he is not of our faith," Abraham Letchowiski declared

solemnly, "because his name is not Levy. He is not one of us."

Rosa was taken aback. She looked at her prospective suitor

incredulously.

"Is that true?" she asked him. "I don't care twopence whether you're a

Jew or not, but isn't your name Levy?"

"It is not," he confessed.

"Why don't you go about under your own name?"

There was a moment's silence. A sudden understanding leapt into the

girl's face.

"Wait," she cried--"the dynamo downstairs, and those men who came here

to search! What is it you do in that back room, eh?"

There was still silence. She passed her arms suddenly through his.

"Be sensible," she urged. "I am not a fool. I know that grandfather

loves money and loves making it. So do I. If he lets you work

secretly in his back room, it must be because you make money there.

Well, why not? You need have no fear of me. Tell me the truth? I

shall be faithful. I do not mind that you are not a Jew. I will marry

you all the same. I like you better than any of the Jews I know."

Harvey Grimm wiped the perspiration from his forehead. It was a

situation, this, for which no foresight could have provided.

"And I," Abraham Letchowiski thundered, "swear before the God of my

fathers that you shall marry none but a Jew!"

The girl made a face at him and dragged him back into his easy chair.

"Don't you be a silly old man," she enjoined. "Times have changed

since you were young. A girl has to have a husband, doesn't she? You

wouldn't have me marry any of those skimpers that come around here?"

A fit of coughing seized the old man and he was momentarily speechless.

She turned away from him.

"That's all right," she declared confidently. "He'll be reasonable by

morning. You go and wash and get ready."

Harvey Grimm sighed mournfully. His wits were serving him at last,

presenting a tardy possibility of escape.

"Miss Rosa," he said, "I haven't had the chance to say anything. You

took me by surprise this afternoon. Perhaps I ought to have told you

when we first met, but I didn't. I am married."

She stood looking at him for a moment, her voluptuous red lips parted,

her eyebrows contracting.

"Married?" she exclaimed, a little hysterically. "You beast!"

"I can't help it," he apologised humbly. "I ought to have told you but

I never thought. That is why I kept away before."

"I see," she murmured, with the air of one whose thoughts are far away.

Abraham Letchowiski sat up in his chair. He mopped his eyes with a

yellow handkerchief.

"You see, my tear," he pointed out feverishly, "the young man is

honest--he tells the truth. That is the end."

"Is it!" the girl muttered. "Perhaps! Anyway, he is going to take me

out this evening. Your wife ain't here with you, is she?"

"No," he replied, "she is in America."

"Go and get yourself ready, then."

Harvey Grimm meekly acquiesced, and devoted himself for the rest of the

evening towards the entertainment of his companion. The girl's manner

was a little queer. At the restaurant to which he took her--the best

in the neighbourhood--she appeared to thoroughly enjoy the lavish meal

which he provided. She even held his hand under the table and smiled

many times into his eyes. She took his arm as they walked through the

streets, but in the theatre, which she chose in preference to a cinema,

she sat most of the time silent and absorbed. On the way home she

clung to his arm. When they reached the little jeweller's shop, she

paused.

"Let me take you across to your rooms first," he suggested.

She shook her head.

"I want to find my handkerchief," she told him. "I must have left it

in the parlour. Open the door, please."

He obeyed her, and they stumbled through the darkened shop, down the

steps, into the close, stuffy little apartment. The remains of the

fire were smouldering upon the hearth, but the room was unlit. Abraham

Letchowiski and the boy had long since gone to bed. Suddenly she threw

her arms around him.

"Kiss me!" she cried, in a choked tone.

He yielded, struggling, however, against her vehement embrace. His

hands gripped her shoulders. He wrenched himself free. He stood on

the other side of the table, for a moment, panting. Her eyes,

luminous, shone through the darkness at him. Then suddenly she swung

round, climbed the two steps, passed through the shop and closed the

door softly. Almost immediately she reopened it. In the dim street

light outside he could see the outline of her figure.

"Thank you very much, Mr. Married Man," she said, "for my evening."

He made no reply. There was a second's hesitation, a last opportunity,

of which he declined to avail himself--then the door was closed. A few

minutes later he locked it, went back to his workshop, and from a

cupboard drew out a whisky bottle and some soda.

"Here's a cursed mess!" he muttered dolefully, as he mixed himself a

drink.

* * * * *

Mr. Paul Brodie laid down his cigar and newspaper and swung round in

his chair to receive a visitor, already, in his mind, a prospective new

client. A small boy had opened the door.

"The lady, sir," he announced.

Mr. Brodie recognised his visitor with a thrill of expectancy.

"Say, this is Miss Letchowiski, isn't it?" he exclaimed, holding out

his hand. "Glad to see you, young lady. Please take a seat."

Rosa ignored the invitation. She came up to his desk and leaned over

it.

"Look here," she said, "you're the man, aren't you, who came messing

round my grandfather's jewellery shop a few weeks ago? You were after

the assistant--Edward Levy."

"Well?" Brodie ejaculated eagerly.

"You bungled things, or else he was too clever for you," Rosa

continued. "I've come to tell you that he's back again there now,

carrying on the same game, got an electrical dynamo in the workshop,

and no end of tools. His name ain't Levy at all, and he isn't a Jew."

"What do you suppose he is doing there?" Brodie enquired.

"Look here," the girl went on, "if I tell you, will you swear that you

won't get my grandfather into this?"

"I think I can promise that," was the cautious reply.

"Breaking up diamonds, then--that's what he's doing," the girl

confided. "He's at it now."

Mr. Brodie showed no signs of excitement, but he was already struggling

into his overcoat.

"There will probably be a reward for this," he said to Rosa. "I shall

not forget."

"I don't want your reward," the girl replied. "I've done it just

because--well, never mind. You go and nab him...."

Brodie did not suffer the grass to grow beneath his feet. He drove

straight to Scotland Yard, and chafed very much at the delay which kept

him five minutes from Inspector Ditchwater's presence.

"Inspector," he announced, as soon as he was ushered into the latter's

room, "I want you to give me a man and a warrant at once. This time I

think I've got a clue that will lead us straight to Jerry Sands."

"Is that so?" the inspector remarked dryly. "We've been there before,

you know."

"See here, Ditchwater," Brodie continued, "you've kind of lost faith in

me, and I can't say that I'm altogether surprised. But just listen.

The girl from Abraham Letchowiski's shop has been up to me to-day. She

says that that fellow I went after is back again there. He's got a

dynamo in the back place and a whole set of tools, and is breaking up

diamonds. Just what I suspected before, only I couldn't lay my hands

on him. This time we shall do it."

The inspector scribbled a few lines on a piece of paper.

"You can take your man," he said, "but don't get me into any trouble

over this. We can't be raiding people's premises for ever, on

suspicion."

"There'll be no trouble this time," Mr. Brodie promised triumphantly.

"A jealous woman's the real thing in our job."

"Well, I wish you luck," the inspector replied. "If you're really on

to Jerry Sands, you're on to a big thing."

Mr. Brodie, with a plain-clothes constable, took a taxicab to the Mile

End Road. The two men entered the shop together. David was alone

behind the counter.

"What can I show the shentlemen?" he enquired urbanely.

"We want to speak to your grandfather," Brodie announced. "You needn't

leave the shop. I know the way."

They passed down the little steps into the stuffy parlour. Abraham

Letchowiski was sitting in his chair, gazing into the fire and mumbling

to himself. He looked at the visitors uneasily.

"What do you want here?" he asked. "I am not well to-day. I am not

speaking of business."

"That's all right, Mr. Letchowiski," Brodie answered. "It's just a

word with your assistant we're after."

The uneasiness in the old man's face changed into terror.

"What do you want with him?" he exclaimed. "He is a respectable young

man, a very clever watchmaker. He comes from Switzerland. He has done

nothing wrong."

Brodie turned to the constable.

"Don't let him move," he directed. "I hear the dynamo stopping."

He ran down the passage and threw open door. The man who had been

working at bench turned to face him. The whir of the dynamo was

slackening, but Harvey Grimm had had no time to collect his tools.

There were several curiously shaped knives and fine files and chisels

lying about. Brodie saw them, and his eyes sparkled.

"Edward Levy," he said, "I arrest you on the charge of breaking up

stolen diamonds. I have a constable in the room outside. You'll have

to come up to the police-station with us and be questioned."

The young man laughed scornfully. He pointed to something bright held

in the teeth of a small brass vice. With a touch of his finger he

released it.

"Diamonds!" he scoffed. "Why, I am an expert on sham jewellery!"

Brodie pressed incautiously forward, and Harvey Grimm's left hand swung

round with a lightning-like stroke. The detective went over like a

log, groaned for a moment and staggered to his feet. Harvey Grimm

pressed him back, forced his knotted handkerchief into his mouth, and

closed and locked the door through which he had entered. Then he threw

off his overall and caught up his coat and overcoat.

"You're a clever fellow, Paul Brodie," he said to the writhing figure

upon the floor. "Sorry I can't stop to discuss this matter with you."

He threw a little higher open the window which led into the yard,

vaulted through and walked swiftly down the entry. He strolled into

the broad thoroughfare, wiping the moisture from his forehead and

looking everywhere for a taxi.

"My God!" he muttered to himself. "We're coming near the end of

things!"

Listening all the while for footsteps behind which never came, he at

last hailed a taxicab and was driven to Aldgate. At the Mansion House

he alighted, and in another taxicab made his way to one of the streets

on the north side of the Strand. Here he entered a passageway, climbed

the stairs past a second-hand clothes shop, and on the second flight

opened the door of a room with a latchkey which hung from his chain.

He gave a little murmur of relief as he discovered a young man in a

dressing-gown, seated in an arm-chair with his feet up on the

mantelpiece, reading a paper-backed novel. The young man bore a

remarkable resemblance to Mr. Harvey Grimm.

"Thank heaven you are in!" the new-comer exclaimed, commencing like

lightning to throw off his clothes. "Turn on the bath, Jim--quick as

you can--and take these clothes down to the shop. Shove 'em away

anywhere."

The young man was already busying himself about the place.

"Anything wrong, sir?" he asked.

"I've just had the devil of a squeak," Harvey Grimm declared. "It'll

be touch and go this time. How did I spend the morning?"

"We made a point of calling at your tailor, sir," the young man

replied, "also your hosier. We looked in at Bendlebury's in Cork

Street, and we had a cocktail--two, I think--at Fitz's bar."

"Capital!" Harvey Grimm muttered. "What did I do last night?"

"Last night we wore dinner clothes, sir," the young man went on. "We

dined at Romano's----"

"Alone, I trust?" Harvey Grimm snapped.

"Quite alone, sir," the young man assented. "We conversed for a time

with two ladies at an adjoining table. Luigi spoke to us twice."

Harvey Grimm bolted through the door, and a few moments afterwards

there was a sound of splashing. When he reappeared, a short time

later, his complexion seemed to have undergone a marvellous change, and

the most wonderful wig in the world had disappeared. The young man

helped him into a blue serge suit. In five minutes he was dressed.

"My George, this is quick work!" Harvey Grimm murmured, his eyes

sparkling. "There's ten pounds on the table, Jim. Put it in your

pocket. I'll drop in to-morrow or the next day. Clean gloves and my

malacca cane. Don't wait two moments after I've gone. Get rid of all

the clothes I have been wearing, in the darkest corner of the store.

There goes the wig," he added, throwing it on the fire. "There won't

be any more Mile End for a little time. Get to work like blazes, Jim,

and good-bye!"

The young man handed him a sheet of paper.

"There are our movements, sir, since you left last Wednesday. You will

find about a dozen recognitions a day."

Harvey Grimm thrust the paper into his pocket, stole swiftly down the

stairs, paused for a moment on the threshold--it was his one moment of

danger--and then strolled jauntily out. The street was almost empty.

A few seconds and he was in the Strand. He plunged into a

tobacconist's shop, bought half-a-dozen cigarettes, one of which he

lit, and a few minutes later he climbed the stairs leading to Aaron

Rodd's office. There was no immediate answer to his knock, so he

opened the door and stepped inside. A tall figure in khaki was

standing in front of the looking-glass, going through sundry mysterious

evolutions. Harvey Grimm stared at him in blank amazement.

"Good heavens!" he gasped. "It's Cresswell!"

The poet turned round and saluted Harvey Grimm in jaunty fashion.

"Cheero, Harvey!" he exclaimed. "You see, I've taken the plunge."

"Fine fellow," Harvey Grimm murmured. "Tell us about it?"

"I came in to tell Aaron," the poet went on, "but he is, for some

unaccountable reason, absent. The fact is, at first I didn't feel the

call of this sort of thing at all. In my soul I hate war to-day, that

is in its external and material aspects--the ugliness, the bloodshed,

the mangled bodies and all the rest of it. But a few days ago old

Harris asked me to write them a patriotic poem. I tell you I no sooner

got into the swim of it than I felt the fever burning in my own veins.

I will read you the poem shortly. It will create a great sensation.

The first person whom it brought into khaki was myself."

"You seem to have done the job pretty quickly," Harvey Grimm observed.

"I joined an Officers' Training Corps only a few days ago," Cresswell

explained. "I went to my tailor's for a uniform and found that he had

one made for a man exactly my height, who was down with pneumonia. So

I just stepped into it and here I am. I came round to tell Aaron, to

take a fond farewell and all that sort of thing. I'm afraid my

adventures will be of a different sort for a time. We've had some fun,

though," he added, with a reminiscent gleam in his eyes.

"We shall miss you," Harvey Grimm sighed, "but I am beginning to fancy

that our own number's about up. I've had the narrowest shave of my

life this morning, and I don't feel that I am out of the wood yet.

Where is Aaron, I wonder?"

"He was out when I arrived," the poet replied. "I've been waiting here

for an hour."

Harvey Grimm consulted his watch.

"It is time," he decided, "for number one. It is several days since I

tasted a cocktail. After that we might lunch together."

The poet assented with alacrity. They left a note for Aaron and made

their way round to the Milan. The bar was rather more crowded than

usual and they took their cocktails to a settee in a corner of the

room. Harvey Grimm sent for a page and wrote the name of Captain

Brinnen on a piece of paper.

"Will you see whether you can find this gentleman in the hotel?" he

directed. "He is staying, I believe, in the Court."

The boy departed. Harvey Grimm, who as a rule was a temperate man,

drank up his cocktail quickly and sent for another.

"Do you believe in forebodings, Stephen?" he asked.

"I was brought up on them," the poet replied. "There is Irish blood in

my veins. I am most superstitious."

"I have had an exciting adventure this morning," Harvey Grimm went on.

"So far as any human being can see, I am out of it as I have been

before. I have made the most careful arrangements, too--but there,

it's well for you not to know too much. There's just this about it. I

wish to God I could see that Belgian and get rid of a few baubles."

"Let me have them," his companion begged. "No one would suspect me."

Harvey Grimm shook his head.

"They're not your trouble, my boy," he said. "Besides, you're too

damned careless."

The page returned a few moments later.

"The gentleman left the hotel yesterday, sir," he announced. "The hall

porter----"

"Well?" Harvey Grimm interrupted.

"The hall porter," the boy continued, a little confused, "said

something about the gentleman having changed his name."

Harvey Grimm's face grew sterner, and the look of trouble about his

eyes more pronounced. He put a shilling in the boy's hand and sent him

away.

"There's something up here," he muttered. "First of all Aaron

disappears, and now Brinnen has changed his name. My God, if they only

knew what his other name really was!"

The poet chuckled.

"And to think," he murmured, "that I have been in it! What a man!"

"The devil of it is for me," Harvey Grimm declared, "that I've fifty

thousand pounds' worth of his stolen jewls around my body at the

present moment. I fought my way out of a trap this morning. I tell

you, Stephen, as a rule this sort of thing stimulates me. I hold my

head, a little higher, I whistle gayer tunes, I am looking out for the

bright things in life every second of the time, and my feet scarcely

touch the earth. But to-day it's all different. I can't walk without

turning round. I can't hear that door open without starting. Hell!

... Bring me another cocktail, waiter."

"Steady, old chap! Your nerves are dicky, that's what's the matter

with you."

"It's the first time in my life," Harvey Grimm muttered, "but I've got

them now. I feel that I'm cornered. I did Brodie in this morning. I

left him at eleven o'clock, gagged and tied in the workshop he tracked

me to. I was Edward Levy there, and there isn't one of them except the

old man who knew otherwise. Brodie himself never recognised me. The

only fear is if the old man peaches. He's had a couple of thousand of

the best, and he hoards gold and loves it as though it were his own

lifeblood. Thank God, here are the cocktails!"

"I shall write an epic about you this afternoon," the poet declared.

"You're tense, Harvey, that's what you are. You're strung up. There's

a different sense in the words you speak, a sort of quivering

significance in everything you say. You're feeling life, man."

"I'm feeling afraid, if that's anything," Harvey Grimm confessed,

raising his glass. "There was a woman in it, of course--and God knows

I was careful!--a fierce, strong young Jewess. If she gets her

grandfather by the throat, she'll wring the truth out of him."

Cresswell rose to his feet.

"It will do you good to eat, my friend," he suggested. "I find you

exciting, vibrating, stimulating, but you are wearing yourself out."

Harvey Grimm sat with tightly clenched fists.

"I'm afraid to go in the restaurant," he said. "Do you notice how that

man at the bar is staring, Cresswell? Who's he?"

"Don't be a silly ass!" his companion exclaimed. "That's Greaves, the

London correspondent of the _New York Trombone_. He'd be all over our

story if he knew it. Come along. Pull yourself together, man ...

upright!"

Harvey Grimm did his best. He walked into the restaurant with almost

his usual airy _bonhomme_. An acquaintance stopped the two men.

"Wouldn't look at me in Fitz's, Grimm," he complained. "Getting proud,

old chap?"

"Sorry," Harvey Grimm replied. "I saw your back afterwards. I was

looking at a man over your shoulder."

They seated themselves at their usual table. Another chance

acquaintance paused to speak to them.

"Thought you'd given up this place, Grimm. Saw you at the Piccadilly

on Thursday."

"I like a change sometimes," the latter observed. "How's the new play

going?"

"Capitally, thanks!"

The actor passed on. Harvey Grimm glanced at a sheet of paper which he

brought out from his pocket.

"Yes," he murmured, "I was at the Piccadilly on Thursday. Nothing like

being thorough in these things, Stephen. My alibi was pretty

successful, eh?"

"Mean to say you get a chap to go about when you're in hiding, and

establish alibis for you?" the poet asked wonderingly.

"That's exactly the idea," Harvey Grimm agreed, "and to tell you the

truth, if I hadn't a fit of nerves on me I should say that my alibis

would take a little upsetting."

They ordered luncheon and a bottle of wine, but for some reason or

other the old spirit was lacking. They missed Aaron Rodd and

speculated as to the cause of his absence. Cresswell, too, seemed to

have inherited a new seriousness with his unaccustomed attire. It was

their mutual recognition of the drawing to an end of one little cycle

of their life, and try though he might, Harvey Grimm could never escape

from the queer sense of foreboding which had haunted him for the last

few hours. And then, towards the end of the meal, a page-boy came into

the room, gazed around for a moment and approached their table.

"Two gentlemen would like to speak to you, Mr. Grimm," he announced.

Harvey Grimm laid down his knife and fork. He nodded to the boy, but

there was a queer, hunted look in his eyes as he turned towards his

companion.

"Stephen, old fellow," he muttered, "it's come."

The poet laid his hand upon his friend's shoulder.

"Look here, Harvey," he asked, "do you want to make a scrap of it? I'm

your man, if you do. Or I say, have you anything you'd like to hand

over to me? I can stand the racket."

Harvey Grimm shook his head firmly.

"No," he decided, "if it's the end, well, I'll face it. If only Jerry

hadn't cleared out I might have got rid of the stones. Good-bye,

Stephen, and good luck to you! Better follow me out, perhaps, if I

don't return."

He made his way without undue haste from the room, exchanging one or

two greetings, pausing, even, in the swing doors to say a few words

with a friend. Then, when he stood in the little lobby, he knew that

there was truth at the back of all his forebodings. It was a

well-known Scotland Yard inspector and a subordinate, both in plain

clothes, who were standing there with their hats in their hands. The

inspector greeted him cheerily, but dropped his voice.

"Mr. Grimm," he said, "I'll have to trouble you to come along to

head-quarters. Just a few questions, you understand--as quietly as you

like. You see, we've come here in mufti. Go back and say good-bye to

your friend, if you want to."

"That's very considerate of you, Inspector," was the grateful reply.

"I'll just tap the window, if you'll allow me."

The poet obeyed the summons promptly. Harvey Grimm met him by the door

and took his arm.

"They're after me, Stephen," he confided. "They're doing it jolly

civilly, though. There's a time for going on to the bitter end and

there's a time for dropping it. I'm dropping it. Once more, good luck

to you!"

The two men gripped hands. The page-boy came up again and touched

Harvey Grimm on the shoulder.

"Wanted on the telephone, sir," he announced.

The former turned towards the inspector.

"Pray, don't hurry, Mr. Grimm," the latter remarked courteously. "Our

time is entirely yours."

Harvey Grimm stepped into the telephone box and took up the receiver.

The voice that answered his enquiry was hoarse, as though with some

unnatural emotion.

"Is that Harvey Grimm?"

"Yes!"

"This is Aaron--Aaron Rodd. Where are you? Can you come and help?

I'm in trouble."

"So am I," Harvey Grimm replied, a little bitterly. "What's yours?"

"I came down to Tilbury this morning with Henriette, to see her brother

off. We couldn't find him. Henriette got on the wrong steamer and

they've taken her off. It was a trap, Harvey, do you hear? They've

got her!"

"Where are you?"

"I'm at Tilbury, telephoning from the docks," was the hoarse reply.

"The whole thing was a sell. The munition boat by which Brinnen was

supposed to leave has never been heard of. Can you come down?"

Harvey Grimm closed the door tightly behind him and almost whispered

down the telephone.

"Can you hear, Aaron?"

"Yes!"

"Jerry Sands has got away all right. He wasn't on any munition boat!

I was arrested five minutes ago. I'm being taken to Scotland Yard, and

I've fifty thousand pounds' worth of his diamonds on me! I shouldn't

worry about the girl if I were you, Aaron. I think Jerry Sands' sister

can take care of herself!"

"Where's Cresswell?"

"Here with me."

"Could he come?"

"He's joined an O.T.C. I don't suppose he could get leave. Besides,

can't you understand, Aaron? She is Jerry Sands' sister and they're

off together somewhere, for certain.... What's that? ... What? ..."

There was a confused babel of sounds--nothing more distinct. The

connection had been cut. Harvey Grimm spent five minutes in vain,

trying to re-establish it. Then he left the booth.

"Nice cropper for us, Stephen," he announced to the poet, who was

waiting outside. "That was Aaron. The girl's given him the slip down

at Tilbury. He's like a madman, of course."

The inspector, who had lit his second cigarette, strolled up.

"I am afraid," he said, "that people are beginning to recognise us.

Don't you think----?"

"You are quite right, sir," Harvey Grimm assented. "You have been very

considerate. I am entirely at your service now. Good luck to you,

Cresswell. Go back and finish your luncheon. You can sign the bill

for me."

The poet played the game and departed, after a hearty handshake.

Harvey Grimm took his seat in a taxicab, the inspector by his side, the

constable opposite. They drove off.

"Enquiries, eh?" Harvey Grimm ruminated. "I wonder what you want to

enquire about?"

"I fancy," the inspector said confidentially, "that the Chief will

start by having you searched."

"What do you expect to find, if it's a fair question?"

The inspector smiled. He had thrust his arm in friendly fashion

through his companion's.

"We've an idea," he replied, "that this time we shall find a few of

Jerry Sands' diamonds."

_Chapter X_ _The End of Jeremiah Sands_

Aaron Rodd clasped his arms a little further around the barrel against

which he was leaning, trod water with his feet and thought about death.

The curtain of a slight mist had fallen around him. There was nothing

visible but the cold, grey sea, sometimes high above his head,

sometimes like a water-slide tumbling away many feet below him. All

around him he could hear the hooting of the steamers, sounding their

weird notes of warning from some unseen, unimaginable world. A few

feet away, also clinging to a barrel, was a bronzed and hairy man in

nautical attire, who was using the most awful language.

"No good wasting your breath," Aaron gasped. "Try another shout."

The man did as he was advised, without eliciting any reply from the

other side of the grey walls, whereupon he proceeded once more, in

lurid language, to express his opinion of murdering foreigners, and

mysterious gents who tempted honest tug-masters into doubtful

enterprises. Suddenly he broke off.

"Crikey! 'Ere's something on the top of us!" he exclaimed. "Shout,

guv'nor, quick!"

Once more Aaron Rodd drew a long breath and shouted. His voice sounded

like a child's falsetto, lost in the stentorian roar of his companion's

demand for immediate help and rescue. Then the grey fog was suddenly

pierced. A huge, dark mass seemed to be gliding almost on the top of

them. From somewhere up in the clouds came an answering shout. Aaron

Rodd's companion was moved to one supreme and successful effort. A

clear, loud voice shouted directions to them.

"We're lowering ropes. Catch hold, if you can, before the wash. We'll

lower boats in a minute."

Half a dozen ropes came down like curving snakes. One of them hit the

water scarcely a foot from Aaron. He gripped it tightly.

"Twist it round your body, mate," his companion spluttered. "Twist it

two or three times round and hold on for dear life."

The next few minutes were barely realisable. Aaron felt himself tossed

like a cork on to the top of a seething mass of churned-up sea, flung

down again with the roar of it in his ears, left for a moment in peace

and then dragged through the water at such a pace that he found himself

wondering whether his arms were going to be torn from his body. Then

he was shot forward with a new impetus. His body and arms ached with

the strain. He was only half conscious.

"That's done it, matey," he heard his companion shout. "Hold on,

there's the boat coming."

Aaron Rodd never wholly lost consciousness. He heard the measured beat

of the oars, the sharp, clear voice of the officer standing up in the

stern. He saw the boat emerge from the gloom, heard the quick orders,

felt himself lifted up by the shoulders, felt the luxury of something

solid beneath his feet. The officer in charge of the boat looked at

the two men curiously.

"What's this?" he asked. "Collision?"

Aaron Rodd's companion took a long breath and tried to explain what it

was. The officer listened to him, spellbound. The men almost forgot

to row.

"Some one seems to have been playing a dirty trick on you, eh?" the

former remarked, when at last the mariner ceased through sheer

exhaustion. "Well, you can tell the Commander when we get on board."

Gradually a fuller consciousness returned to Aaron Rodd. He was able

to walk along the deck of the ship they boarded, to grope his way,

unaided, down the narrow stairs into the small cabin below, where a man

was seated at a table with a chart before him. He pushed it away as

the two men were ushered in.

"Hullo, what's this?" he exclaimed.

The officer who had brought them made a brief report. The Commander

nodded.

"Fetch them some hot whisky, quick," he directed. "Now tell us your

story."

The tug-master got in first, but after a few sentences the Commander

stopped him.

"I think I'll get at the truth quicker from you," he decided, nodding

to Aaron. "Quick, please."

Aaron pulled himself together and took a long gulp of the hot whisky

which was at that moment brought in.

"May I enquire if this is an English man-of-war?" he asked, as he set

the glass down.

"His Majesty's destroyer, _Flying Fox_," was the brief reply. "Now

tell me what you two men are doing on barrels in the North Sea?"

Aaron Rodd found a few terse and explicit words.

"Early this morning," he said, "I escorted a young lady to Tilbury. We

went there on the strength of a bogus telegram, which informed us that

her brother, who is a Belgian officer, was leaving there at midday on a

munition ship bound for Havre. We found a ship's boat waiting for us

at the dock mentioned in the telegram, but they refused to take me on

board with her. I thought this reasonable, as it was supposed to be a

Government vessel, and I stayed behind to wait for her. She was no

sooner safely on board than the steamer hoisted the Norwegian flag and

steamed off."

The Commander stared for a moment. Then he looked away.

"Sounds a queer story," he observed.

"It's a true one," Aaron assured him. "Of course, there's a reason for

this abduction. The young lady some months ago----"

"I don't want the whole story," the Commander interrupted. "I want to

know how you got into the North Sea?"

"I was coming to that," Aaron Rodd proceeded. "My companion can bear

me out as to the rest. I hired his tug, meaning to follow the steamer

into whatever port it might go if they refused to take me on board. We

caught her up and signalled her to stop. She manoeuvred a little,

disclosed a gun, and blew us to pieces. The captain here and I are the

only two who ever came up again."

The Commander glanced at the lieutenant, who had remained in the room.

Not a word passed between them.

"Who are you?" he enquired.

"My name is Aaron Rodd," was the prompt reply. "I am an American, but

I have practised law in England for a good many years. I know my story

sounds fanciful, but there's no getting away from the sequel. The

tug-master here can confirm every word of it."

The tug-master proceeded to do so, and the two officers listened for a

time as though fascinated. The Commander interrupted him at last.

"What's the name of this boat?" he asked.

"She had ss. _Christiania_ painted across her stern," the tug-master

said, "and she was flying the Norwegian flag, but the ship's name's new

painted. I passed close alongside yesterday, and a queer-looking lot

they were on board."

The two officers exchanged quick glances.

"The _Christiania_," the Commander murmured softly.

He paused for a moment and bent over the chart. Then he looked up.

"Take Mr. Rodd and the tug-master to the ward-room," he directed. "Rig

them both out in some dry clothes and see that they have everything

they want."

Aaron Rodd had forgotten the discomfort of his condition. He had only

one idea in his brain.

"Sir," he told the Commander, "that ship, the _Christiania_, is in the

pay of the Germans."

"You may be right, Mr. Rodd," the latter assented. "When you have

changed your clothes, come down and have another chat, if I am not on

the bridge."

Even then Aaron lingered.

"Sir," he went on, "I know that there's nothing I can say will keep you

for one moment from what you think to be your duty. I have just had a

fortune left me in America. I'll give a destroyer to the British Navy

if you'll overhaul the _Christiania_, search her, and take that young

lady off."

The Commander smiled.

"The British Navy doesn't need bribing, sir," he said. "I've had a

hint about the _Christiania_ myself. I'll see what can be done. Now

off you go and get into those dry clothes."

The two unexpected guests were hospitably entertained in the wardroom,

and Aaron Rodd made a very creditable appearance, an hour later, in

some oddments of naval uniform. They found their way on deck, but were

only allowed at the top of the companion-way. The fog had lifted.

There were half a dozen steamers in sight, and the destroyer seemed to

be completing a rather violent curve. Suddenly there were loud orders.

The roar of the machinery was lessened. She glided through the water,

slackening speed at every instant. Looking down the deck they could

see a sight which thrilled them both. The tug-master understood it

better than Aaron.

"She's cleared for action, guv'nor!" he exclaimed. "The gunners are

all at their posts. See the signal. My God, that's the _Christiania_!"

He pointed to the steamer round which they had circled.

"They've signalled her to stop," he continued. "If I get my hands on

the captain! ... Hullo, another signal! Watch it, guv'nor. That's the

last call--'Heave to at once or'----"

"Or what?" Aaron Rodd asked.

The tug-master smacked his lips.

"Those little six-inch boys will talk," he replied, with gusto. "We

could send the _Christiania_ to the bottom in something less than

thirty seconds. You watch the angle of those guns. Look at the man's

face who's just had an order! He's trained on her. My God!"

The _Christiania_ had pursued her course. Suddenly there was a

deafening roar, a vibration which shook the ship. Fifty yards in front

of the _Christiania_ the sea was all churned into foam.

"It's just an 'int!" the tug-master exclaimed in delight. "It's a

blankety 'int! Look at 'em running about on board."

There were signs of an immense commotion on board the _Christiania_.

Another signal slowly fluttered to the masthead. The tug-master, who

was watching the steamer's progress, grinned.

"They're giving in," he declared. "They've stopped the engines. Oh,

if they'd only let me go on board her!"

The lieutenant came running lightly down the bridge and approached

Aaron.

"We are sending a crew on board the _Christiania_," he announced.

"You'd better go and see if you can identify the young lady. There's a

boat being lowered from the other deck."

"May I go along, sir?" the tug-master asked eagerly.

The officer shook his head.

"You stay where you are, my man," he directed. "You'll get

compensation for your tug, if your story turns out to be true."

The man sighed.

"There's two sorts of compensation," he muttered, as he spat upon his

hands.

Aaron Rodd sat by the side of the lieutenant, and though he had never

done such a thing in his life before, he stepped confidently up the

rope ladder after him and boarded the _Christiania_. The captain was

waiting to receive them. He was a small, very fair man, who spoke

English with a harsh and guttural accent. His manner was exceedingly

perturbed.

"By what right, will you tell me, this piracy?" he demanded, barely

accepting the lieutenant's salute. "My papers were cleared in London.

My cargo----"

"A few words with you below, if you please, Captain," the lieutenant

interrupted. "You had better stay on deck, Mr. Rodd," he added,

looking around.

Aaron walked up and down and endeavoured unsuccessfully to converse

with various members of the crew. The ship bore all the usual

evidences of being a small cargo steamer, but there was, to his fancy,

something sinister in the appearance of the sailors and the sound of

their conversation as they pointed to the destroyer--long, grey and

evil-looking, rising and falling upon the waves, a short distance away.

Suddenly a man who might have been a steward appeared from below and

touched him on the shoulder.

"Come this way, please," he invited.

He led Aaron downstairs into a dark, odoriferous saloon. The captain

and the English lieutenant were seated at the top of one of the long

tables. The latter motioned Aaron Rodd to approach.

"The captain denies having any passenger on board, Mr. Rodd," he

observed.

"I saw a young lady taken on board at Tilbury," Aaron pronounced

firmly. "She was brought here under a false pretext, and she is here

now."

"It is not true," the captain declared furiously. "There is no young

lady on board."

"What do you say to that, Mr. Rodd?" the lieutenant enquired.

Aaron leaned a little forward. He stretched out his hand, and the

captain for a moment shrank back.

"The man is lying," he said calmly. "The young lady was brought here

under the pretext of seeing her brother. If this vessel is allowed to

proceed on its way to Norway she will be intercepted somewhere by a

German boat, and the young lady will be made a prisoner. That is a

certainty."

"The gentleman has made a mistake," the captain insisted. "There were

many vessels lying in the Thames yesterday morning. We do not carry

passengers."

The boatswain of the destroyer, who had accompanied them on board,

entered the saloon and, coming up to the lieutenant, saluted.

"Could I have a word with you, sir?" he asked.

The lieutenant rose to his feet and retired for a few moments to the

further end of the saloon. When he returned, his manner had undergone

a change.

"Captain Hooge," he said, "in confirmation of this gentleman's story I

find that you have two concealed guns on board, and there are other

suspicious circumstances which my boatswain has pointed out, which

confirm my own impressions about you. I am signalling for a prize crew

and shall take you to Harwich."

The captain sprang to his feet. His eyes were red with fury.

"You damned, meddlesome Englishmen!" he cried. "If you keep me here

another hour, you will hear of it! My Government will protest. It is

contrary to the accepted principles of maritime law."

"It is very much against the principles of maritime law, as I read it,"

the lieutenant answered coolly, "for you to blow to pieces, with a

concealed gun, a tug which simply came up to ask you questions. Now be

a sensible man, Captain Hooge. I shall have your ship searched from

top to bottom. If the young lady is found, you will have to stand your

trial in an English court on an extremely serious charge."

"If there is any young lady on board," the captain declared sullenly,

"it is without my knowledge. I will go and see the purser."

"We will come, too," the lieutenant said dryly.

They passed down a little companion-way. The captain opened the door

of a small stateroom and talked for some time in Norwegian to a bearded

and spectacled man. The latter, after some time, turned towards the

two men and spoke in English.

"There is a young lady here. She must have boarded us by accident. We

were on the point of starting, and we could not land her. Come this

way."

They followed the man down a long gloomy passage. He knocked at the

door of a stateroom at the end of it. A faint voice answered. The

door was thrown open. Henriette, white and eager, stood shrinking back

against the wall. There was a rush of cold air into the place.

"Aaron!" she exclaimed in blank astonishment. "Aaron Rodd!"

Words failed her altogether. It seemed too wonderful. She peered into

his face, shook him by the shoulders, and finally, almost collapsed in

his arms.

"It's all right, Henriette," he cried, his own voice shaking. "You're

quite safe."

"But where did you come from? How did you get here?" she gasped.

"I followed in a tug," he told her. "These pleasant people blew us up."

"I heard the gun!" she cried. "I saw the tug. I saw it go down! I

saw the men swimming in the water. It was horrible."

"I was one of them," Aaron continued. "The master and I were picked up

by an English destroyer. This is one of the officers. I managed to

make them believe my story and we overhauled and boarded your steamer.

We are going to take it into Harwich. You are safe, Henriette."

She began to sob. The tears stood in Aaron's own eyes as he saw thrust

through the open porthole the umbrella on which she had tied various

fragments of clothing.

"I have been waving this out of the porthole," she explained

hysterically. "I thought they might see. I was locked in until a

moment ago."

"Better bring the young lady up on deck," the officer suggested.

"We've no accommodation for you on board the _Flying Fox_, but I am

going to signal the Commander for a prize crew, and place the captain

and officers of this ship under arrest, so you'll both feel quite safe

here. You'll be in Harwich in five hours and we shall be standing by

all the time."

"You won't leave me, Aaron? she begged.

"Not I!" he answered heartily.

"I expect I shall take the steamer in," the officer remarked. "You are

quite safe now, young lady," he added reassuringly. "I should come on

deck and get a little fresh air, if I were you."

She clung to Aaron as they passed out. They met the captain and the

purser talking together in the companion-way. The former saluted a

little awkwardly.

"Sorry to hear that there was a mistake, miss," he said. "We were

expecting a young lady on board, the daughter of the owner, who had

been giving her people some trouble."

Henriette simply looked at the man. He turned away.

"I want to go on deck," she whispered to Aaron. "I want to get away

from this atmosphere. Come quickly, please.... Oh, look, look!"

Half a dozen English sailors came down the companion-way. They were in

war trim and they looked like ruddy goliaths by the side of the pale,

anæmic-looking crew of the _Christiania_. Henriette gave a little sob.

"I feel safe," she cried, "safe, after all.... Aaron!"

"Yes, dear?"

Her little face, so white and pitiful, was strained up to his. The

ghost of one of her old provocative smiles quivered at her lips.

"Even Leopold," she murmured, "will not be able to say 'no' any longer.

Do you know that you are a wonderful person? You are like one of those

heroes in romances. There never was such a rescue."

He pressed her arm.

"Our last adventure," he whispered, "is going to be the greatest of

all."

* * * * *

The magistrate's court was crowded almost to suffocation when for the

third time Harvey Grimm was charged with having aided and abetted in

the theft of various jewels found in his possession. The solicitor for

the Treasury rose at once when called upon, urbane, even apologetic,

yet firm.

"I trust that this time, Mr. Dyson," the magistrate remarked, "you are

in a position to offer sufficient evidence to enable me either to

discharge or to send the prisoner for trial?"

The solicitor for the Treasury proceeded to explain. He reminded their

Worships that the prisoner had been discovered last week, owing to the

assiduous efforts of Mr. Brodie, actually engaged in secretly cutting

up and disguising valuable diamonds. There was no question at all but

that these diamonds were stolen. The trouble which the prosecution had

to contend with was the fact that they were stolen in America, and that

some of the stones had been mutilated in such a fashion as to render

them almost unrecognisable. A commission from the police force of New

York had already sailed, not only to identify the jewels, but with a

strong hope of identifying the prisoner as a confederate of one of the

most notorious jewel thieves of this generation. He was exceedingly

sorry to have to ask for a fourth remand, but in this case there was no

alternative.

He sat down. A mild-mannered man arose from his side and addressed the

magistrate.

"Your Worship," he said, "I am defending the prisoner. In the event of

the prosecution having no further evidence to offer to-day, which I

understand to be the case, may I be allowed to call a witness?"

The magistrate coughed.

"You would be within your rights, Mr. Ransome," he admitted, leaning

forward and looking over his eyeglasses, "but I need scarcely remind

you that, to a certain extent, by calling witnesses for the defence at

this stage of the proceedings you might possibly prejudice your

client's case."

The solicitor bowed.

"My client being a wholly innocent man, your Worship," he said, "is

only anxious to have the truth known as soon as possible."

"You can do as you choose, Mr. Ransome," the magistrate consented.

There was a moment's whispering. A name only partially heard was

called outside, and a ripple of interest passed through the court when

Captain Brinnen, still in his Belgian uniform, entered the witness-box.

The solicitor for the prosecution looked a little staggered. The

solicitor for the defence stood up.

"Will you tell the magistrate your name?" he asked.

The witness bowed.

"Leopold Francis Henri Brinnen de Floge."

"And your titles?"

"Comte de Malaison, Baron d'Asche, Chevalier di Scolo, Vicomte de

Floge."

There was a distinct sensation in court, a sense of impending events

which left every one pleasantly excited. Harvey Grimm leaned forward,

gripping at the rail in front of him.

"You are, I believe," the solicitor continued, "a godson of the late

King of the Belgians?"

"That is so," the witness admitted.

"Do you know anything of the prisoner?"

The witness glanced at Harvey Grimm and, meeting his astounded stare,

greeted him in friendly fashion.

"Certainly," he replied. "Mr. Harvey Grimm is a valued acquaintance.

I engaged him recently to recut and, if possible, to present to me in

an altered form a variety of precious stones."

"May I ask your reason for this?" the solicitor enquired.

"It is a matter of almost political history," the witness explained,

turning towards the magistrate. "The De Floge collection of diamonds

is famous, I believe I may say, throughout the world. They were the

subject, at the time of the outbreak of the war, of a lawsuit between

the German branch of the De Floge family and my own. During the

hearing of the case, the jewels were deposited by common consent at the

Antwerp Museum, where anybody who is an expert in these matters will

tell you that they have been inspected by connoisseurs from all over

the world. With the invasion of our country, my grandfather and I

determined to do our best to prevent these jewels, which were worth an

immense sum, from falling into the hands of the enemy. The curators of

the Antwerp Museum, although they were under a bond, consented, under

the circumstances, to hand them over to our branch of the family, and

they were transported to my grandfather's chateau, which is very near

the French frontier, just before the sack of Antwerp. Subsequently my

grandfather and my sister, the Comtesse de Floge, after a series of

remarkable adventures, in which the latter especially was concerned,

managed to escape to England with the bulk of the jewels. My cousin,

however, who represents the German side of our family, has seized our

lands and home and has made desperate attempts in various directions to

secure also the jewels, which the authorities would now award him as a

matter of course. I deemed it wise, bearing all these things in mind,

to yield to my grandfather's almost passionate insistence and dispose

secretly of as many as possible."

There was a great sensation in court. Mr. Harvey Grimm asked for a

chair and sat down.

"Did you," the solicitor for the defence asked, "impose entire secrecy

upon Mr. Harvey Grimm?"

"Under the peculiar circumstances of the case, I did," was the prompt

reply.

The solicitor turned to the magistrate.

"There is nothing left, your Worship," he said, "but for me to ask you

to sanction the immediate release of my client."

He resumed his seat. The solicitor for the prosecution promptly arose.

"I may be allowed, your Worship," he asked, "to cross-examine the

witness?"

"Certainly," the magistrate assented.

"May I ask you, sir, whether you have any evidence in support of these

extraordinary statements of yours?"

The young man bowed.

"Certainly," he replied. "The Belgian Minister, who was my father's

greatest friend and relative, and the Princess Augusta, my godmother,

are both, I believe, present."

The solicitor for the prosecution turned to the magistrate.

"If these witnesses may be called and are found to support the story,

your Worship," he said, "the case for the prosecution is withdrawn."

Leopold de Floge left the witness-box, strolled along the back of the

benches, and held out his hand to Harvey Grimm.

"My profound regrets and apologies," he murmured. "I wait here and we

will lunch together."

The court rocked itself with excitement. The Belgian Minister was

called and promptly took his place in the witness-box. Asked if he

knew the last witness, his reply was comprehensive.

"The Vicomte de Floge," he said, "is the first nobleman in Belgium. He

is a godson of the late king, is himself connected with the royal

family, and is a young man whose gallantry in the field has won special

commendation from the King."

"Do you know anything about the De Floge diamonds?"

"Certainly," the witness replied. "They are of historical and

priceless value, and special efforts were made to seize them at Antwerp

Museum. My friend, the Vicomte de Floge, was able to rescue them just

in time. I may say that he consulted me, and under the difficult

circumstances I advised him to dispose of as many as possible secretly.

Very powerful influences have been brought to bear through a neutral

country, to effect their restoration."

The magistrate bowed and the witness stood down. There was a moment's

whispered consultation between the two solicitors. Then one of them

stood up.

"The case for the prosecution is withdrawn, your Worship," he announced.

Harvey Grimm and Leopold de Floge, by the courtesy of the magistrate,

left the court by the back entrance, arm in arm. The former was

looking a little haggard from his six days' detention, and was scarcely

his usual spick-and-span self. He was a little dazed, too. He leaned

back in a luxurious motor-car and tried to realise what had happened.

His first question was not an unnatural one.

"Will you tell me," he asked earnestly, "why your grandfather, and you,

and your sister, all practically confessed that you were Jeremiah

Sands, the international jewel thief?"

"I must admit that the idea was my own," De Floge explained. "You see,

we were extremely anxious that no one should know whose jewels these

really were. The one way to ensure absolute secrecy was to dispose of

them as stolen property. That is what we did, and I must say that

under the circumstances, Mr. Grimm, your silence was more than

admirable. To a great extent, I must admit, we were humouring my

grandfather, who was oppressed the whole of the time with a nervous

fear of being ordered by the British Government to restore them. His

death makes all the difference--in fact, I have this morning entrusted

the whole of the rest of my collection to Christie's, and they will

offer them for sale as soon as the South American buyers can be duly

advised. It is, perhaps, just as well that we have passed the crisis,

for I see by this morning's papers that Jeremiah Sands was arrested at

Chicago yesterday."

Harvey Grimm cleared his throat.

"You haven't such a thing as a cigarette, I suppose?"

De Floge produced his case at once.

"My profound apologies," he said. "I should have known the one thing

you needed most after this regrettable detention."

"To think," Harvey Grimm muttered to himself, "that I stole way down to

Letchowiski's and lived in terror of my life, with that rat of a Brodie

dogging my footsteps, and all the time I might have fitted up a

laboratory and have done my work at home!"

"That would never have done," De Floge objected. "By the decision of

the Belgian courts--German inspired, of course, but still according to

the law of the land--the whole of the jewels are, in a way, stolen

property. Still--it is not the sort of theft that counts."

Harvey Grimm looked out of the windows. There was a queer sort of

plaintive happiness dawning in his face.

"It's London all right," he murmured, "the Strand, too.... I never

thought to see them again--not till I was an old man, at any rate.

Where are we going?"

"The Milan for luncheon," De Floge replied, "where you will meet some

friends. I have more wonders to tell you. Will you hear them first or

wait till you have had a cocktail?"

"More wonders," Harvey Grimm murmured, "and this is the city which

lacks the spirit of adventure! I think," he went on, as they stepped

out of the car and walked towards the smoke-room, "you must leave this

to me. There is just one concoction--I can't call it by a name. I

must speak to Coley. What a cigarette!" he went on. "For six days----"

"I know," De Floge interrupted. "I am sorry. We will try and make up

for it."

They drank a cocktail together, and the sense of unreality began to

fall away. Once more the earth was firm beneath Harvey Grimm's feet.

"The money I have wasted!" he groaned. "Why, I had a young actor

establishing alibis for me all the time I was away! ... Where's Aaron?"

"Just back from the North Sea with my sister," De Floge replied. "He

will tell you a story that will make your hair stand on end."

"And the poet?"

"Down with an Officers' Training Corps. He is coming up to lunch, if

he can get off."

Harvey Grimm glanced at the clock. His companion interpreted his

thoughts.

"You have an hour," he said.

"A shave and a bath," the other murmured ecstatically.

"And the corner table as you come in, in the grill-room," De Floge

added. "We will all meet there at one-thirty...."

Some time before the hour had elapsed Harvey Grimm was entirely his

usual self. Shaved and bathed, clad in one of his favourite blue serge

suits, patent shoes and spotless gaiters, a bunch of violets in his

buttonhole, a sense of stupefied but immeasurable satisfaction

radiating from him, he took his place at the round luncheon table,

between Aaron Rodd and Henriette, and raised the glass of amber liquid

which he found waiting there, to his lips. De Floge, however, checked

him.

"My friends," he said, "but wait. Here is Mr. Cresswell."

The poet came to them with outstretched hands.

"My heartiest congratulations!" he exclaimed, pausing before Harvey

Grimm. "You will be able to write a ballad of the Bow Street cells.

Perhaps I will collaborate. It will mean immortality for you. Where

do I sit?"

A place was found for him. He, too, raised the wine-glass which he

found in front of him, to his lips, but was checked by De Floge.

"We will, with your permission," the latter proposed, "drink to the

happiness of my dear sister, Henriette, and your friend--and mine, too,

that is to be," he added, with a bow--"Mr. Aaron Rodd. They are to be

married this month, and if you would care for a wonderful entertainment

during the service of our luncheon, they shall recount their adventures

of the last six days. I promise you, Mr. Harvey Grimm, that yours will

seem to you monotonous."

They listened to the story, told by one and supplemented by the other.

It was all amazing. The poet was frankly envious.

"After all," he grumbled, "it seems to me that I am the one who treads

the dreary path of commonplace life."

De Floge leaned across towards him.

"Sir," he said, "that is not wholly true, for both you and I, along

different paths, are pledged to the greatest and most wonderful

adventure the world can offer. We have drunk to the happiness of my

sister and Mr. Aaron Rodd. I drank to you a short while ago, Mr.

Harvey Grimm, full of respect for that sporting spirit which kept you

silent in captivity. We will drink now, all of us, to the common

cause, to the great adventure of life and death, to the end which is

written in letters of blood across the scarred face of Europe--to

Vengeance and Victory!"

THE END

Printed in Great Britain at

_The Mayflower Press, Plymouth_.

William Brendon & Son, Ltd.

* * * * *

_WORKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR_

THE STRANGE CASE OF MR. JOCELYN THEW

AMBROSE LAVENDALE, DIPLOMAT

THE HON. ALGERNON KNOX, DETECTIVE

THE DOUBLE TRAITOR

THE WICKED MARQUIS

MR. LESSINGHAM GOES HOME

THE PAWNS COUNT

HAVOC

THE OTHER ROMILLY

THE LIGHTED WAY

THE TEMPTATION OF TAVERNAKE

THE MISCHIEF MAKER

THE FALLING STAR

THE PLUNDERERS

THE ADVENTURES OF PETER RUFF

THE BLACK WATCHER

THE BLACK BOX

THE KINGDOM OF THE BLIND

_LONDON : HODDER & STOUGHTON, LTD._

End of Project Gutenberg's Aaron Rodd, Diviner, by E. Phillips Oppenheim