From my writing-table I took out my pass-book which had only been sent
by the bank the day before. And there, to my surprise, I saw that she
was correct.
On the second of the month, two days before, my account had been
credited with eight thousand three hundred and forty pounds! On my
table there lay a letter from the bank which had only arrived on the
previous morning, and which I had not opened, so preoccupied had I
been. I tore it open, and found the usual formal notice that the check
in question had been received from a mysterious Mr. Charles Davis.
“Well!” laughed the stunted little woman, “am I not correct?”
I nodded. What could I say? Evidently I was actually in association
with that desperate gang of bandits, and from them derived a
substantial income. The thought held me appalled. I, a trusted servant
of the Foreign Office, and son of one of the best known
parliamentarians in the kingdom, a member of a gang of jewel-thieves!
I saw she was much puzzled at my attitude; for, of course, she had no
knowledge that I had been at last extricated from that long,
trance-like stupor in which I had existed ever since that terrible
night. How could she know that, at length, I had been rescued from
that precarious state of a period concerning which I had no
recollection of the foolish actions I might have committed, perchance.
Little could she imagine that I had been released from the obscurity
of memory of the two years that I had been within the grip of the low,
beetle-browed man whom I so well remembered--the man they called His
Excellency who, according to Illona’s statement, had shot dead the
jeweler’s manager.
“You surely cannot now deny the truth, Lionel!” said the woman
somewhat severely. “It is really amusing that you should deny all
knowledge of association with us. You must remember your own little
escapade--how cleverly you pinched Lady Rathgormly’s famous
twenty-thousand-pound rope of pearls, as she came out of the Garrick
Theatre.”
“Lady Rathgormly’s pearls!” I echoed. “What do you mean, Illona? Are
you mad?” I cried. “Whatever I may be, I’m no thief.”
A queer, sarcastic laugh escaped the woman’s lips. It irritated me so
much that I could have forcibly ejected her from my room.
“Most excellent acting, Lionel dear. But with me it really won’t
wash!”
“I swear I have no knowledge of any woman’s pearls!” I cried. “I’m not
a thief.”
“Then shall I give you proof of it?” she asked in a hard voice. “Since
you deny everything, you must be made to produce the evidence of your
guilt yourself.”
Then, crossing to the opposite wall, which was faced with books
arranged on shelves to the height of seven feet from the floor, she
ran her eye along the many volumes until she came upon an old brown
leather-backed and frayed one--an eighteenth-century copy of Voltaire
in French, as its faded gilding denoted.
“Will you please take that out?” Illona commanded, placing her finger
upon it.
I obeyed wonderingly. Of late I had read hardly anything, and of the
several hundred books I possessed--perhaps indeed a thousand
volumes--I had for years taken no heed of them.
I took it out--a stout little volume in an old calf binding--and held
it in my hand.
“Open it,” she ordered. And I did so. There were fifty or so old
pages, stained yellow by damp and age, but beyond was a cavity. The
remainder of the pages of the book had been securely stuck together
each to the next, hardened, and then the whole centre had been cut out
neatly.
My eyes fell on a packet in white paper, secured by a piece of thin
blue string.
“Open it!” she demanded.
Utterly astounded, I moved to the table, pulled at the string hard,
and next moment a magnificent rope of pearls fell into my hands!
“There!” she laughed. “You still have her ladyship’s pearls intact in
your possession, though the police of Europe have been hunting for
them. But His Excellency knows they are safe enough in your custody,
for you have never been and never will be suspected--unless you are
given away by your enemies,” she added meaningly.
“My enemies? You mean Lisely?” I remarked.
“And Owen,” she added. “Blind Roddy is not your friend, even if you
think he is. As I warned you, beware of him. He intends evil against
you.”
“But he has fled,” I remarked.
“I know,” she said. “He was with Tuggy when he was shot.”
“But why does Owen hate me so intensely?” I asked her.
“Because of Lisely. It was she who saved your eyesight--she who
defended you against them all. Again, she chose you as bearer of the
Double Nought to him in London--a beautiful piece of pierced
aquamarine, which in the fifteenth century adorned the neck of the
Queen of Matthias Corvinus, King of Hungary, and which His Excellency
annexed three years ago from the Art History Museum in Vienna.”
“Then the Double Nought has some serious significance?” I remarked,
eager for information.
“As you well know, it is of very great and serious meaning among us,”
she replied. “Into whose hands it is given, the command of His
Excellency must be obeyed without question. You, Owen’s rival in
Lisely’s affections, brought it to him from Rome. And since that he
has vowed vengeance upon you.”
I again took up the stolen pearls. The rope was certainly a glorious
one, graduated to a splendid diamond, emerald, and platinum clasp, and
a delicate safety-chain, which was broken. Each pearl shone with a
brilliant lustre and iridescence in the daylight, so different from
the white, silvery-looking imitations so commonly worn. On each pearl
was that wonderful sheen which can be very closely imitated, but can
be detected even by the non-expert eye.
I had never held such a magnificent string of pearls in my hands
before. I ran them through my fingers and examined them, afterwards
placing them upon the polished table.
“I am no thief, Illona,” I said quietly. “I shall return them to their
owner anonymously.”
“You’d better not,” she cried.
“Why? It is surely the easiest way out of the difficulty.”
“But what would His Excellency say? All our spoils belong to him. You
are only keeping them in safe custody, until they can be split up, and
distributed in New York, Paris, Brussels, and Buenos Aires,” she
remarked. “No pearls pass from us in the form of the string, as they
come to us. Fresh strings are often made by old Hartley, who lives out
at Streatham Common, out of pearls from a dozen other lots of various
sources. Fresh clasps are put on, and their owners could never
recognize them again. As you know, there are dozens of such strings
which have come through our hands, and are now displayed in the
windows of smart jewelers in Paris and New York.”
“But I can’t keep it there!” I cried, again handling the beautiful
rope.
“You must. You surely don’t want to risk His Excellency’s
displeasure,” she said. “You have enough enemies already.”
“Suppose they were traced to me?” I said.
“Suppose pigs could fly,” laughed Illona carelessly, “how long would a
porker take to cross the Atlantic? No, my dear Lionel,” she went on
affably, “you must keep them as they are till His Excellency wants to
sell them. Then you will get your share--a decent one, considering it
was you who pinched them. The good lady is a friend of yours and you
were one of the theatre party. Dotty Lewis taught you the delicate
trick how to touch pearls.”