MIDNIGHT--AND THE MAN
The next two days were busy ones for Sheard, who, from a variety of
causes--the chief being his intimacy with the little circle which,
whether it would or not, gathered around Mr. Julius Rohscheimer--found
himself involved in the mystery of Séverac Bablon. He had interviewed
this man and that, endeavouring to obtain some coherent story of the
great "hold up," but with little success. Everything was a mysterious
maze, and Scotland Yard was without any clue that might lead to the
solution. All the Fleet Street crime specialists had advanced theories,
and now, on the night of the third day after the audacious robbery,
Sheard was contributing his theory to the Sunday newspaper for which he
worked.
The subject of his article was the identity of Séverac Bablon, whom
Sheard was endeavouring to prove to be not an individual, but a society;
a society, so he argued, formed for the immolation of Capital upon the
altars of Demos.
The course of reasoning that he had taken up proved more elusive than he
had anticipated.
His bundle of notes lay before him on the table. The news of the latest
outrage, the burning of the great Runek Mills in Ontario, had served to
convince him that his solution was the right one; yet he could make no
headway, and the labours of the last day or so had left him tired and
drowsy.
He left his table and sank into an arm-chair by the study fire, knocking
out his briar on a coal and carefully refilling and lighting that
invaluable collaborator. With his data presently arranged in better
mental order, he returned to the table and covered page after page with
facile reasoning. Then the drowsiness which he could not altogether
shake off crept upon him again, and staring at the words "Such societies
have existed in fiction, now we have one existing in fact," he dropped
into a doze--as the clock in the hall struck one.
When he awoke, with his chin on his breast, it was to observe, firstly,
that the MS. no longer lay on the pad, and, secondly, on looking up,
that a stranger sat in the arm-chair, opposite, reading it!
"Who----" began Sheard, starting to his feet.
Whereupon the stranger raised a white, protesting hand.
"Give me but one moment's grace, Mr. Sheard," he said quietly, "and I
will at once apologise and explain!"
"What do you mean?" rapped the journalist. "How dare you enter my house
in this way, and----" He broke off from sheer lack of words, for this
calm, scrupulously dressed intruder was something outside the zone of
things comprehensible.
In person he was slender, but of his height it was impossible to judge
accurately whilst he remained seated. He was perfectly attired in
evening-dress, and wore a heavy, fur-lined coat. A silk hat, by an
eminent hatter, stood upon Sheard's writing-table, a pair of gloves
beside it. A gold-mounted ebony walking-stick was propped against the
fireplace. But the notable and unusual characteristic of the man was his
face. Its beauty was literally amazing. Sheard, who had studied
black-and-white, told himself that here was an ideal head--that of
Apollo himself.
And this extraordinary man, with his absolutely flawless features
composed, and his large, luminous eyes half closed, lounged in Sheard's
study at half-past one in the early morning and toyed with an unfinished
manuscript--like some old and privileged friend who had dropped in for a
chat.
"Look here!" said the outraged pressman, stepping around the table as
the calm effrontery of the thing burst fully upon him. "Get out! _Now!_"
"Mr. Sheard," said the other, "if I apologise frankly and fully for my
intrusion, will you permit me to give my reasons for it?"
Sheard again found himself inarticulate. He was angrily conscious of a
vague disquiet. The visitor's suave courtesy under circumstances so
utterly unusual disarmed him, as it must have disarmed any average man
similarly situated. For a moment his left fist clenched, his mind swung
in the balance, irresolute. The other turned back a loose page and
quietly resumed his perusal of the manuscript.
That decided Sheard's attitude, and he laughed.
Whereat the stranger again raised the protestant hand.
"We shall awake Mrs. Sheard!" he said solicitously. "And now, as I see
you have decided to give me a hearing, let me begin by offering you my
sincere apology for entering your house uninvited."
Sheard, his mind filled with a sense of phantasy, dropped into a chair
opposite the visitor, reached into the cabinet at his elbow, and
proffered a box of Turkish cigarettes.
"Your methods place you beyond the reach of ordinary castigation," he
said. "I don't know your name and I don't know your business; but I
honestly admire your stark impudence!"
"Very well," replied the other in his quiet, melodious voice, with its
faint, elusive accent. "A compliment is intended, and I thank you! And
now, I see you are wondering how I obtained admittance. Yet it is so
simple. Your front door is not bolted, and Mrs. Sheard, but a few days
since, had the misfortune to lose a key. You recollect? I found that
key! Is it enough?"
"Quite enough!" said Sheard grimly. "But why go to the trouble? What do
you want?"
"I want to insure that one, at least, of the influential dailies shall
not persistently misrepresent my actions!"
"Then who----" began Sheard, and got no farther; for the stranger handed
him a card--
SÉVERAC BABLON
"You see," continued the man already notorious in two continents, "your
paper, here, is inaccurate in several important particulars! Your
premises are incorrect, and your inferences consequently wrong!"
Sheard stared at him, silent, astounded.
"I have been described in the Press of England and America as an
incendiary, because I burned the Runek Mills; as a maniac, because I
compensated men cruelly thrown out of employment; as a thief, because I
took from the rich in Park Lane and gave to the poor on the Embankment.
I say that this is unjust!"
His eyes gleamed into a sudden blaze. The delicate, white hand that held
Sheard's manuscript gripped it so harshly that the paper was crushed
into a ball. That Séverac Bablon was mad seemed an unavoidable
conclusion; that he was forceful, dominant, a power to be counted with,
was a truth legible in every line of his fine features, in every vibrant
tone of his voice, in the fire of his eyes. The air of the study seemed
charged with his electric passion.
Then, in an instant, he regained his former calm. Rising to his feet, he
threw off the heavy coat he wore and stood, a tall, handsome figure,
with his hands spread out, interrogatively.
"Do I look such a man?" he demanded.
Despite the theatrical savour of the thing, Sheard could not but feel
the real sincerity of his appeal; and, as he stared, wondering, at the
fine brow, the widely-opened eyes, the keen nostrils and delicate yet
indomitable mouth and chin, he was forced to admit that here was no mere
up-to-date cracksman, but something else, something more. "Is he mad?"
flashed again through his mind.
"No!" smiled Séverac Bablon, dropping back into the chair; "I am as sane
as you yourself!"
"Have I questioned it?"
"With your eyes and the left corner of your mouth, yes!" Sheard was
silent.
"I shall not weary you with a detailed exculpation of my acts,"
continued his visitor; "but you have a list on your table, no doubt, of
the people whom I forced to assist the Embankment poor?"
Sheard nodded.
"Mention but one whose name has ever before been associated with
charity; I mean the charity that has no relation to advertisement! You
are silent! You say"--glancing over the unfinished article--"that 'this
was a capricious burlesque of true philanthropy.' I reply that it served
its purpose--of proclaiming my arrival in London and of clearly
demonstrating the purpose of my coming! You ask who are my accomplices!
I answer--they are as the sands of the desert! You seek to learn who I
am. Seek, rather, to learn _what_ I am!"
"Why have you selected me for this--honour?"
"I overheard some remarks of yours, contrasting a restaurant supper-room
with the Embankment which appealed to me! But, to come to the point, do
you believe me to be a rogue?"
Sheard smiled a trifle uneasily.
"You are doubtful," the other continued. "It has entered your mind that
a proper course would be to ring up Scotland Yard! Instead, come with
me! I will show you how little you know of me and of what I can do. I
will show you that no door is closed to me! Why do you hesitate? You
shall be home again, safe, within two hours. I pledge my word!"
Possessing the true journalistic soul, Sheard was sorely tempted; for to
the passion of the copy-hunter such an invitation could not fail in its
appeal. With only a momentary hesitation, he stood up.
"I'll come!" he said.
A smart landaulette stood waiting outside the house; and, without a word
to the chauffeur, Séverac Bablon opened the door and entered after
Sheard. The motor immediately started, and the car moved off silently.
The blinds were drawn.
"You will have to trust yourself implicitly in my hands," said Sheard's
extraordinary companion. "In a moment I shall ask you to fasten your
handkerchief about your eyes and to give me your word that you are
securely blindfolded!"
"Is it necessary?"
"Quite! Are you nervous?"
"No!"--shortly.
There was a brief interval of silence, during which the car, as well as
it was possible to judge, whirled through the deserted streets at a
furious speed.
"Will you oblige me?" came the musical voice.
The journalist took out his pocket-handkerchief, and making it into a
bandage, tied it firmly about his head.
"Are you ready?" asked Séverac Bablon.
"Yes."
A click told of a raised blind.
"Can you see?"
"Not a thing!"
"Then take my hand and follow quickly. Do not speak; do not stumble!"
Cautiously feeling his way, Sheard, one hand clasping that of his guide,
stepped out into the keen night air, and was assisted by some third
person--probably the chauffeur--on to the roof of the car!
"Be silent!" from Séverac Bablon. "Fear nothing! Step forward as your
feet will be directed and trust implicitly to me!"
As a man in a dream Sheard stood there--on the roof of a motor-car, in a
London street--and waited. There came dimly to his ears, and from no
great distance, the sound of late traffic along what he judged to be a
main road. But immediately about him quiet reigned. They were evidently
in some deserted back-water of a great thoroughfare. A faint scuffling
sound arose, followed by that of someone lightly dropping upon a stone
pavement.
Then an arm was slipped about him and he was directed, in a whisper, to
step forward. He found his foot upon what he thought to be a flat
railing. His ankle was grasped from below and the voice of Séverac
Bablon came, "On to my shoulders--so!"
Still with the supporting arm about him, he stepped gingerly
forward--and stood upon the shoulders of the man below.
"Stand quite rigidly!" said Séverac Bablon.
He obeyed; and was lifted, lightly as a feather, and deposited upon the
ground! It was such a feat as he had seen professional athletes perform,
and he marvelled at the physical strength of his companion.
A keen zest for this extravagant adventure seized him. He thought that
it must be good to be a burglar. Then, as he heard the motor re-started
and the car move off, a sudden qualm of disquiet came; for it was
tantamount to burning one's boats.
"Take my hand!" he heard; and was led to the head of a flight of steps.
Cautiously he felt his way down, in the wake of his guide.
A key was turned in a well-oiled lock, and he was guided inside a
building. There was a faint, crypt-like smell--vaguely familiar.
"Quick!" said the soft voice--"remove your boots and leave them here!"
Sheard obeyed, and holding the guiding hand tightly in his own,
traversed a stone-paved corridor. Doors were unlocked and re-locked. A
flight of steps was negotiated in phantom silence; for his companion's
footsteps, like his own, were noiseless. Another door was unlocked.
"Now!" came the whispered words: "Remove the handkerchief!"
Rapidly enough, Sheard obeyed, and, burning with curiosity, looked about
him.
"Good heavens!" he muttered.
A supernatural fear of his mysterious cicerone momentarily possessed
him. For he thought that he stood in a lofty pagan temple!
High above his head a watery moonbeam filtered through a window, and
spilled its light about the base of a gigantic stone pillar. Towering
shapes, as of statues of gods, loomed, awesomely, in the gloom. Behind
the pillar dimly he could discern a painted procession of deities upon
the wall. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that the tall figure of
Séverac Bablon was at his elbow.
"Where do you stand?" questioned his low voice.
And, like an inspiration, the truth burst in upon Sheard's mind.
"The British Museum!" he whispered hoarsely.
"Correct!" was the answer; "the treasure-house of your modern Babylon!
Wait, now, until I return; and, if you have no relish for arrest as a
burglar, do not move--do not breathe!"
With that, he was gone, into the dense shadows about; and Henry Thomas
Sheard, of the _Gleaner_, found himself, at, approximately, a
quarter-past two in the morning, standing in an apartment of the British
Museum, with no better explanation to offer, in the event of detection,
than that he had come there in the company of Séverac Bablon.
He thought of the many printing-presses busy, even then, with the
deductions of Fleet Street theorists, regarding this man of mystery. All
of their conclusions must necessarily be wrong, since their premises
were certainly so. For which of them who had assured his readers that
Séverac Bablon was a common cracksman (on a large scale) would not have
reconsidered his opinion had he learned that the common cracksman held
private keys of the national treasure-house?
His eyes growing more accustomed to the darkness, Sheard began to see
more clearly the objects about him. A seated figure of the Pharaoh Seti
I. surveyed him with a scorn but thinly veiled; beyond, two towering
Assyrian bulls showed gigantic in the semi-light. He could discern, now,
the whole length of the lofty hall--a carven avenue; and, as his gaze
wandered along that dim vista, he detected a black shape emerging from
the blacker shadows beyond the bulls.
It was Séverac Bablon. In an instant he stood beside him, and Sheard saw
that he carried a bag.
"Follow me--quickly!" he said. "Not a second to spare!"
But too fully alive to their peril, Sheard slipped away in the wake of
this greatly daring man. The horror of his position was strong upon him
now.
"This way!"
Blindly he stumbled forward, upstairs, around a sharp corner, and then a
door was unlocked and re-locked behind them. "Egyptian Room!" came a
quick whisper. "In here!"
A white beam cut the blackness, temporarily dazzling him, and Sheard saw
that his companion was directing the light of an electric torch into a
wall-cabinet--which he held open. It contained mummy cases, and, without
quite knowing how he got there, Sheard found himself crouching behind
one. Séverac Bablon vanished.
Darkness followed, and to his ears stole the sound of distant voices.
The voices grew louder.
Behind him, upon the back of the cabinet, danced a sudden disc of light,
and, within it, a moving shadow! Someone was searching the room!
Muffled and indistinct the voices sounded through the glass and the
mummy-case; but that the searchers were standing within a foot of his
hiding-place Sheard was painfully certain. He shrank behind the
sarcophagus lid like a tortoise within its shell, fearful lest a hand,
an arm, a patch of clothing should protrude.