REVEALS ANOTHER PLOT
Approaching from Ealing Broadway, the huge electric-light standard,
which was also a sign-post, shed a bright glow across the junction of
the two roads. The thoroughfare on the right was Castlebar Road and on
the left Carlton Road. In the latter road stood half a dozen big old
trees, relics of a day when Ealing was a rural village and those trees
formed a leafy way.
Beyond the sign-post, placed at the end of the triangle, lay a small
open space of grass, and behind it a pleasant house with many trees in
its spacious grounds.
At that hour silence reigned in that highly respectable suburban
neighbourhood, and, as I went forward, I noticed that the figure beneath
the trees was that of a man, who, emerging from the shadow, crossed the
road leisurely and passed across the grass into the Castlebar Road, on
the right hand.
He was dressed in dark clothes with a light grey felt hat, but so far
was I away that to see his features was impossible, though the zone of
light from the sign-post revealed his figure plainly.
Once he halted and looked in my direction, on hearing my footsteps, I
suppose, but then continued his leisurely stroll.
I was upon the left-hand pavement, and in order not to attract the man's
attention, passed along by the garden walls of the series of detached
villas, for about two hundred yards, until the road ran in a curve round
to the left, and thus I became hidden from his view.
When I found that I had not attracted the attention of the waiting man
in the grey hat, I halted.
Was that the spot indicated? Was he one of those keeping the
long-arranged appointment?
Ten o'clock had struck fully five minutes before, therefore, treading
noiselessly, I retraced my steps until I could cautiously peep around
the corner and see over the triangular plot of grass to the Castlebar
Road.
Yes, the man was still standing there awaiting somebody. I could see the
glowing end of his cigar.
Fortunately, he had his back turned towards me, gazing in the direction
of the Broadway in apparent expectation. This allowed me to slip along a
few yards, and entering the garden gate of one of the villas, I crouched
down behind the low stone wall which separated the garden from the
footway.
Kneeling there, I could watch without being seen, for fortunately the
stranger opposite had not seen me.
I suppose I must have been there fully ten minutes. Several people
passed within a few inches of me quite unsuspicious of my presence. In
Castlebar Road a few people went along, but none interested the watcher.
Of a sudden, however, after straining his eyes for a long time in the
direction whence I had come, he suddenly threw away his cigar and
started off eagerly.
A few moments later I witnessed the approach of a short, thinnish man,
wearing a black overcoat, open, over his evening clothes, and an opera
hat.
And as he approached I recognized him. It was none other than Gregory
himself!
The two men shook hands heartily, and by their mutual enthusiasm I
realized that they could not have met for some considerable time.
They halted on the kerb in eager consultation, then both with one accord
turned and strolled together in the direction of the station.
Next moment I had slipped from my hiding-place and was lounging along at
a respectable distance behind them.
How I regretted that I had had no time to hail Rayner, for he would have
had no difficulty in keeping observation upon the pair, while I, at any
moment, might be recognized by the cunning, clever old fellow to whose
inventiveness all the _coups_ of the notorious Jules Jeanjean were due.
He seemed to walk more erect, and with more sprightliness, than at
Cromer, where his advanced age and slight infirmity were undoubtedly
assumed. In his present garb he really looked what he was supposed to
be--a wealthy dealer in gems.
Engaged in earnest conversation, Gregory and his companion walked
together along the dark road until they came to a taxi-stand near the
station, when, entering the first cab, they drove rapidly away.
The moment they had left, I leapt into the next cab and, telling the
driver to keep his friend in sight, we were soon moving along after the
red tail-light of the first taxi.
The chase was an exciting one, for we whizzed along dark roads, quite
unfamiliar to me, roads lying to the south of Ealing towards the Thames.
My driver believed me to be a detective from my garb, and I did not
discourage the belief.
Suddenly we turned to the right, when I recognized that we were in the
long, narrow town of Brentford, and travelling in the direction of Syon
House, the main road to Hounslow and Staines. At Spring Grove, which I
had known slightly in years gone by, we turned again to the right, and
were soon passing through a district of market-gardens and solitary
houses.
On the way I had leaned out of the window and instructed the taxi-driver
to keep well behind the other cab, so as not to be discovered.
Therefore, in carrying out my orders, he suddenly put on his brakes and
stopped, saying--
"They're going into that house yonder, sir. See?"
I nipped out quickly and saw that in the distance the other taxi had
pulled up and the two men had alighted before a garden gate.
"Put out your lights, go back to the end of the road, and wait for me,"
I said.
Then I hurried forward to ascertain what I could.
The taxi, having put down its two fares and been dismissed, turned and
passed me as I went forward. At last I had run the sly old fox, Gregory,
to earth, and I now meant to keep in touch with him.
On approaching the house I found it to be a good-sized one, standing
back, lonely and deserted, in a weedy garden, and surrounded by big,
high elms. From the neglect apparent everywhere, the decayed oak fence,
and the grass-grown path leading to the front door, it was plain that
the place was unoccupied, though in two windows lights now shone, behind
dark-green holland blinds.
The place seemed situated in the centre of some market-gardens, without
any other house in the near vicinity. A dismal, old-fashioned dwelling
far removed from the bustle of London life, and yet within hearing of
it, for, as I stood, I could see the night-glare of the metropolis
shining in the sky, upon my right, and could hear the roar of
motor-buses upon the main road through Spring Grove.
For a few moments I stood up under the shadow of a big bush which
overhung the road, my eyes upon the lower window where the fights
showed. The house was half-covered with ivy and had bay-windows upon
each side of the front door, which was approached by a short flight of
moss-grown steps.
That I was not mistaken in my surmise that the house was uninhabited was
proved by the "To Let" notice-board which I discerned lying behind the
fence, thrown down purposely, perhaps.
Was old Gregory an intruder there? Had he purposely thrown down that
board in order that any person, seeing lights in the window, would not
have their suspicions sufficiently aroused to cause them to investigate?
The house was a dark, weird one. But what would I not have given to be
inside, and to overhear what was being planned!
Vernon Gregory was, according to Lola, the instigator of all those
marvellously ingenious thefts effected by Jeanjean. Was another great
robbery being planned?
Perhaps the man in the grey hat had travelled from afar. Possibly so,
because of the long time in advance the appointment had been made.
All was silent. Therefore I crept over the weedy garden until I stood
beneath the bay window in which a light was shining.
I could hear voices--men's voices raised in controversy. Then, suddenly,
they only conversed in whispers. What was said, I could not distinguish.
They were speaking in French, but further than that I could catch
nothing.
Sometimes they laughed heartily at something evidently hailed as a huge
joke. I distinctly heard Gregory's tones, but the others' I could not
recognize. As far as I could gather they were strangers to me.
Was the place, I wondered, one of old Gregory's hiding-places? Though he
conducted his business in Hatton Garden, where he was well known, his
private address, Lola had told me, had always been a mystery, such pains
did he take to conceal it.
Was that lonely house his place of abode? Had he met his friend in
Ealing and taken him there in order to place before him certain plans
for the future?
I looked at the grim old house, with its mantle of ivy, and reflected
upon what quantities of stolen property it might contain!
That the man I knew as Vernon Gregory was head of an association of the
cleverest jewel-thieves in the world, had been alleged by Lola, and I
believed her. His deep cunning and clever elusiveness, his amazing
craftiness and astounding foresight had been well illustrated by his
disappearance from Cromer, even though his flight had been so sudden
that he had been compelled to abandon his treasures. Yet as I stood
there, upon the carpet of weeds, with my ears strained, I could hear his
familiar voice speaking in slow measured tones, as he was explaining
something in elaborate detail.
What was it? I stood there in a fever of excitement and curiosity.
Yet I had one satisfaction. I had run him to earth at last.
Presently the voices of the men were again raised in dissension. Gregory
had apparently made some statement from which the others--how many there
were, I knew not--dissented. They spoke rapidly in French, and I could
hear one man's mouth full of execrations, a hard, hoarse voice of one of
the lower class.
Then I distinctly heard some one say in English--
"I don't believe it! He knows nothing. Why take such a step against an
innocent man?"
"Because, I tell you, he knows too much!" declared Gregory, now speaking
loudly in English. "He was at Cromer, and discovered everything. Ah! you
don't know how shrewd and painstaking he is. Read his books and you will
see. He is the greatest danger confronting you to-day, my friends."
I held my breath. They were discussing me!
"I object," exclaimed the man who had first spoken in English. "He has
no evil intentions against us."
"But he knows the Nightingale, and through her has learnt much,"
Gregory replied promptly.
"What?" gasped the unseen speaker. "Has she told him anything? Has the
girl betrayed us?"
"Ask her," the old man urged. "She's upstairs. Call her."
Lola was there--in that house!