"Well, sir, as you may imagine I have been thinking a good deal about it

lately, and this the conclusion I have come to. If this were an

ordinary year, I should say that we possess out and away the best horse

in the race; but we must remember that this is not by any means an

ordinary year--there's Vulcanite, who they tell me is in the very pink

of condition, and who has beaten our horse each time they have met;

there's the Mandarin, who won the Two Thousand this week, and who will

be certain to come into greater favor as the time shortens, and The

Filibuster who won the Biennial Stakes at the Craven Meeting, a nice

enough horse, though I must say I don't fancy him over-much myself."

"I take it, then, that the only horse you really fear is Vulcanite?"

"That's so, sir. If he were not in the list, I should feel as certain

of seeing you leading your horse back a winner as any man could well

be."

On looking at his watch Carne discovered that it was time for him to

rejoin his friends and be off to the railway station if they desired to

catch the train which they had arranged should convey them back to town.

So bidding the trainer and his wife goodbye, they took their places in

the carriage once more, and were driven away.

Arriving at Waterloo, they drove to Lord Orpington's club.

"Do you know you're a very lucky fellow, Carne?" said the Earl of

Amberley as they stood on the steps of that institution afterwards,

before separating in pursuit of the pleasures of the afternoon. "You

have health, wealth, fame, good looks, one of the finest houses in

London, and now one of the prospective winners of the Derby. In fact,

you only want one thing to make your existence perfect."

"And what is that?" asked Carne.

"A wife," replied Lord Amberley. "I wonder the girls have let you

escape so long."

"I am not a marrying man," said Carne; "how could a fellow like myself,

who is here to-day and gone to-morrow, expect any woman to link her lot

with his? Do you remember our first meeting?"

"Perfectly," replied Lord Amberley. "When I close my eyes I can see

that beautiful marble palace, set in its frame of blue water as plainly

as if it were but yesterday I breakfasted with you there."

"That was a very fortunate morning for me," said the other. "And now

here is my cab. I must be off. Good-bye."

"Good-bye," cried his friends, as he went down the steps and entered the

vehicle. "Don't forget to let us know if anything further turns up."

"I will be sure to do so," said Simon Carne, and then, as he laid

himself back on the soft cushions and was driven by way of Waterloo

Place to Piccadilly, he added to himself, "Yes if I can bring off the

little scheme I have in my mind, and one or two others which I am

preparing, and can manage to get out of England without any one

suspecting that I am the burglar who has outwitted all London, I shall

have good cause to say that was a very fortunate day for me when I first

met his lordship."

That evening he dined alone. He seemed pre-occupied, and it was evident

that he was disappointed about something. Several times on hearing

noises in the street outside he questioned his servants as to the cause.

At last, however, when Ram Gafur entered the room carrying a telegram

upon a salver, his feelings found vent in a sigh of satisfaction. With

eager fingers he broke open the envelope, withdrew the contents, and

read the message it contained:

"Seven Stars Music Hall--Whitechapel Road. Ten o'clock."

There was no signature, but that fact did not seem to trouble him very

much. He placed it in his pocketbook, and afterwards continued his meal

in better spirits. When the servants had left the room he poured

himself out a glass of port, and taking a pencil proceeded to make

certain calculations upon the back of an envelope. For nearly ten

minutes he occupied himself in this way, then he tore the paper into

tiny pieces, replaced his pencil in his pocket, and sipped his wine with

a satisfaction that was the outcome of perfected arrangements.

"The public excitement," he said to himself, not without a small touch

of pride, "has as yet scarcely cooled down from the robbery of the

famous Wiltshire jewels. Lord Orpington has not as yet discovered the

whereabouts of the gold and silver plate which disappeared from his

house so mysteriously a week or two ago, while several other people have

done their best to catch a gang of burglars who would seem to have set

all London at defiance. But if I bring off this new coup, they'll

forget all their grievances in consideration of the latest and greatest

scandal. There'll be scarcely a man in England who won't have something

to say upon the subject. By the way, let me see how he stands in the

betting to-night."

He took a paper from the table in the window, and glanced down the

sporting column. Vulcanite was evidently the public's choice, Knight of

Malta being the only second favorite, with The Mandarin a strong third.

"What a hubbub there will be when it becomes known," said Carne, as he

placed the paper on the table again. "I shall have to take especial

care, or some of the storm may blow back on me. I fancy I can hear the

newsboys shouting: 'Latest news of the turf scandal. The Derby favorite

stolen. Vulcanite missing. An attempt made to get at Knight of Malta.'

Why, it will be twenty years before old England will forget the

sensation I am about to give her."

With a grim chuckle at the idea, he went upstairs to his dressing-room

and locked the door. It must have been well after nine o'clock when he

emerged again, and clad in a long ulster, left the house in his private

hansom. Passing down Park Lane he drove along Piccadilly, then by way

of the Haymarket, Strand, Ludgate Hill, and Fenchurch Street to the

Whitechapel Road. Reaching the corner of Leman Street he signalled to

his man to stop, and jumped out.

His appearance was now entirely changed. Instead of the deformed,

scholar-like figure he usually presented, he now resembled a

commonplace, farmerish individual, with iron-grey hair, a somewhat

crafty face, ornamented with bushy eyebrows and a quantity of fluffy

whiskers. How he had managed it as he drove along goodness only knows,

but that he had effected the change was certain.

Having watched his cab drive away, he strolled along the street until he

arrived at a building, the flaring lights of which proclaimed it the

Seven Stars Music Hall. He paid his money at the box office, and then

walked inside to find a fair-sized building, upon the floor of which

were placed possibly a hundred small tables. On the stage at the

further end a young lady, boasting of a minimum of clothing and a

maximum of self-assurance was explaining, to the dashing accompaniment

of the orchestra, the adventures she had experienced "When Billy and me

was courting."

Acting up to his appearance, Carne called for a "two of Scotch cold,"

and, having lit a meerschaum pipe which he took from his waistcoat

pocket, prepared to make himself at home. As ten o'clock struck he

turned his chair a little, in order that he might have a better view of

the door, and waited.

Five minutes must have elapsed before his patience was rewarded. Then

two men came in together, and immediately he saw them he turned his face

in an opposite direction, and seemed to be taking an absorbing interest

in what was happening upon the stage.

One of the men who had entered, and whom he had seemed to recognize--a

cadaverous-looking individual in a suit of clothes a size too small for

him, a velvet waistcoat at least three sizes too large, a check tie, in

which was stuck an enormous horseshoe pin composed of palpably imitation

diamonds, boasting no shirt as far as could be seen, and wearing upon

his head a top hat of a shape that had been fashionable in the early

sixties--stopped, and placed his hand upon his shoulder.

"Mr. Blenkins, or I'm a d'isy," he said. "Well, who'd ha' thought of

seeing you here of all places? Why, it was only this afternoon as me and

my friend, Mr. Brown here, was a-speaking of you. To think as how you

should ha' come up to London just this very time, and be at the Seven

Stars Music Hall, of all other places! It's like what the noospapers

call a go-insidence, drat me if it ain't. 'Ow are yer, old pal?"

He extended his hand, which Mr. Blenkins took, and shook with

considerable cordiality. After that, Mr. Brown, who from outward

appearances was by far the most respectable of the trio, was introduced

in the capacity of a gentleman from America, a citizenship that became

more apparent when he opened his mouth to speak.

"And what was 'ee speaking of I about?" asked Mr. Blenkins, when the

trio were comfortably seated at table.

This the diffident Mr. Jones, for by that common-place appellative the

seedy gentleman with the magnificent diamonds chose to be called;

declined to state. It would appear that he was willing to discuss the

news of the day, the price of forage, the prospects of war, the

programme proceeding upon the stage, in fact, anything rather than

declare the subject of his conversation with Mr. Brown that afternoon.

It was not until Mr. Brown happened to ask Mr. Blenkins what horse he

fancied for the Derby that Mr. Jones in any degree recovered his

self-possession. Then an animated discussion on the forthcoming race was

entered upon. How long it would have lasted had not Mr. Jones presently

declared that the music of the orchestra was too much for him I cannot

say.

Thereupon Mr. Brown suggested that they should leave the Hall and

proceed to a place of which he knew in a neighboring street. This they

accordingly did, and when they were safely installed in a small room off

the bar, Mr. Jones, having made certain that there was no one near

enough to overhear, unlocked his powers of conversation with whisky and

water, and proceeded to speak his mind.

For upwards of an hour they remained closeted in the room together,

conversing in an undertone. Then the meeting broke up, Mr. Blenkins

bidding his friends "good-night" before they left the house.

From the outward appearances of the party, if in these days of seedy

millionaires and over-dressed bankrupts one may venture to judge by

them, he would have been a speculative individual who would have given a

five-pound note for the worldly wealth of the trio. Yet, had you taken

so much trouble you might have followed Mr. Blenkins and have seen him

picked up by a smart private hansom at the corner of Leman Street. You

might then have gone back to the Hen and Feathers, and have followed Mr.

Brown as far as Osborn Street, and have seen him enter a neat brougham,

which was evidently his own private property. Another hansom, also a

private one, met Mr. Jones in the same thoroughfare, and an hour later

two of the number were in Park Lane, while the third was discussing a

bottle of Heidseck in a gorgeous private sitting-room on the second

floor of the Langham Hotel.

As he entered his dressing-room on his return to Porchester House, Simon

Carne glanced at his watch. It was exactly twelve o'clock.

"I hope Belton will not be long," he said to himself. "Give him a

quarter of an hour to rid himself of the other fellow, and say

half-an-hour to get home. In that case he should be here within the next

few minutes."

The thought had scarcely passed through his brain before there was a

deferential knock at the door, and the next moment Belton, clad in a

long great-coat, entered the room.

"You're back sooner than I expected," said Carne. "You could not have

stayed very long with our friend?"

"I left him soon after you did, sir," said Belton. "He was in a hurry to

get home, and as there was nothing more to settle I did not attempt to

prevent him. I trust you are satisfied, sir, with the result of our

adventure."

"Perfectly satisfied," said Carne. "To-morrow I'll make sure that he's

good for the money, and then we'll get to work. In the meantime you had

better see about a van and the furniture of which I spoke to you, and

also engage a man upon whom you can rely."

"But what about Merford, sir, and the attempt upon Knight of Malta?"

"I'll see about that on Monday. I have promised Bent to spend the night

there."

"You'll excuse my saying so, sir, I hope," said Belton, as he poured out

his master's hot water and laid his dressing-gown upon the back of a

chair, ready for him to put on, "but it's a terrible risky business. If

we don't bring it off, there'll be such a noise in England as has never

been heard before. You might murder the Prime Minister, I believe, and

it wouldn't count for so much with the people generally as an attempt to

steal the Derby favorite."

"But we shall not fail," said Carne, confidently. "By this time you

ought to know me better than to suppose that. No, no, never fear,

Belton; I've got all my plans cut and dried, and even if we fail to get

possession of Vulcanite, the odds are a thousand to one against our

being suspected of any complicity in the matter. Now you can go to bed.

Good-night."

"Good-night, sir," said Belton respectfully, and left the room.

It was one of Simon Carne's peculiarities always to fulfill his

engagements in spite of any inconvenience they might cause himself.

Accordingly the four o'clock train from Waterloo, on the Monday

following the meeting at the Music Hall just narrated, carried him to

Merford in pursuance of the promise he had given his trainer.

Reaching the little wayside station on the edge of the Downs, he

alighted, to find himself welcomed by his trainer, who lifted his hat

respectfully, and wished him good-afternoon.

During the drive, Carne spoke of the impending race, and among other

things of a letter he had that morning received, warning him of an

attempt that would probably be made to obtain possession of his good

horse. The trainer laughed good-humoredly.

"Bless you, sir," he said, "that's nothing. You should just see some of

the letters I've got pasted into my scrap-book. Most of 'em comes a

week or fortnight before a big race. Some of 'em warns me that if I

don't prevent the horse from starting, I'm as good as a dead man; others

ask me what price I will take to let him finish outside the first three;

while more still tell me that if I don't put 'im out of the way

altogether, I'll find my house and my wife and family flying up to the

clouds under a full charge of dynamite within three days of the race

being run. Don't you pay any attention to the letters you receive. I'll

look after the horse, and you may be very sure I'll take good care that

nothing happens to him."

"I know that, of course," said Carne, "but I thought I'd tell you. You

see, I'm only a novice at racing, and perhaps I place more importance

just now upon a threat of that kind than I shall do a couple of years

hence."

"Of course," replied the trainer. "I understand exactly how you feel,

sir. It's quite natural. And now here we are, with the missis standing

on the steps to help me give you a hearty welcome."

They drove up to the door, and when Carne had alighted he was received

by the trainer's wife as her lord and master had predicted. His

bedroom, he discovered, on being conducted to it to prepare for dinner,

was at the back of the house, overlooking the stableyard, and possessed

a lovely view, extending across the gardens and village towards where

the Downs ended and the woods of Herberford began.

"A pretty room," he said to Belton, as the latter laid out his things

upon the bed, "and very convenient for our purpose. Have you discovered

where you are located?"

"Next door, sir."

"I am glad of that; and what room is beneath us?"

"The kitchen and pantry, sir. With the exception of one at the top of

the house, there are no other bedrooms on this side."

"That is excellent news. Now get me ready as soon as you can."

During dinner that evening Simon Carne made himself as pleasant as

possible to his host and hostess. So affable, indeed, was he that when

they retired to rest they confessed to each other that they had never

entertained a more charming guest. It was arranged that he should be

called at five o'clock on the morning following, in order that he might

accompany the trainer to the Downs to see his horse at his exercise.

It was close upon eleven o'clock when he dismissed his valet and threw

himself upon his bed with a novel. For upwards of two hours he amused

himself with his book; then he rose and dressed himself in the rough

suit which his man had put out for him. Having done so, he took a

strong rope ladder from his bag, blew out his light, and opened his

window. To attach the hooks at the end of the ropes to the inside of

the window-sill, and to throw the rest outside was the work of a moment.

Then, having ascertained that his door was securely locked, he crawled

out and descended to the ground. Once there, he waited until he saw

Belton's light disappear, and heard his window softly open. Next moment

a small black bag was lowered, and following it by means of another

ladder, came the servant himself.

"There is no time to be lost," said Carne, as soon as they were

together. "You must set to work on the big gates while I do the other

business. The men are all asleep; nevertheless, be careful that you

make no noise."

Having given his instructions, he left his servant and made his way

across the yard towards the box where Knight of Malta was confined.

When he reached it he unfastened the bag he had brought with him, and

took from it a brace and a peculiar-shaped bit, resembling a pair of

compasses. Uniting these, he oiled the points and applied them to the

door, a little above the lock. What he desired to do did not occupy him

for more than a minute.

Then he went quietly along the yard to the further boundary, where he

had that afternoon noticed a short ladder. By means of this he mounted

to the top of the wall, then lifted it up after him and lowered it on

the other side, still without making any noise. Instead of dismounting

by it, however, he seated himself for a moment astride of it, while he

drew on a pair of clumsy boots he had brought with him, suspended round

his neck. Then, having chosen his place, he jumped. His weight caused

him to leave a good mark on the soft ground on the other side.

He then walked heavily for perhaps fifty yards, until he reached the

high-road. Here he divested himself of his boots, put on his list

slippers once more, and returned as speedily as possible to the ladder,

which he mounted and drew up after him. Having descended on the other

side, he left it standing against the wall, and hastened across the yard

towards the gates, where he found Belton just finishing the work he had

set him to do.

With the aid of a brace and bit similar to that used by Carne upon the

stable door, the lock had been entirely removed and the gate stood open.

Belton was evidently satisfied with his work; Carne, however, was not so

pleased. He picked up the circle of wood and showed it to his servant.

Then, taking the bit, he inserted the screw on the reverse side and gave

it two or three turns.

"You might have ruined everything," he whispered, "by omitting that.

The first carpenter who looked at it would be able to tell that the work

was done from the inside. But thank goodness, I know a trick that will

set that right. Now then, give me the pads and I'll drop them by the

door. Then we can return to our rooms."

Four large blanket pads were handed to him, and he went quietly across

and dropped them by the stable door. After that he rejoined Belton, and

they made their way, with the assistance of the ladders, back to their

own rooms once more.

Half-an-hour later Carne was wrapped in a sweet slumber from which he

did not awake until he was aroused by a tapping at his chamber door. It

was the trainer.

"Mr. Carne," cried Bent, in what were plainly agitated tones, "if you

could make it convenient I should be glad to speak to you as soon as

possible."

In something under twenty minutes he was dressed and downstairs. He

found the trainer awaiting him in the hall, wearing a very serious face.

"If you will stroll with me as far as the yard, I should like to show

you something," he said.

Carne accordingly took up his hat and followed him out.

"You look unusually serious," said the latter as they crossed the

garden.

"An attempt has been made to get possession of your horse."

Carne stopped short in his walk and faced the other.

"What did I tell you yesterday?" he remarked. "I was certain that that

letter was more than an idle warning. But how do you know that an

attempt has been made?"

"Come, sir, and see for yourself," said Bent. "I am sorry to say there

is no gainsaying the fact."

A moment later they had reached the entrance to the stable-yard.

"See sir," said Bent pointing to a circular hole which now existed where

previously the lock had been. "The rascals cut out the lock, and thus

gained an entry to the yard."

He picked up the round piece of wood with the lock still attached to it,

and showed it to his employer.

"One thing is very certain, the man who cut this hole is a master of his

trade, and is also the possessor of fine implements."

"So it would appear," said Carne grimly. "Now what else is there for me

to hear? Is the horse much hurt?"

"Not a bit the worse, sir," answered Bent. "They didn't get in at him,

you see. Something must have frightened them before they could complete

their task. Step this way, sir, if you please, and examine the door of

the box for yourself. I have given strict orders that nothing shall be

touched until you have seen it."

They crossed the yard together, and approached the box in question. On

the woodwork the commencement of a circle similar to that which had been

completed on the yard gates could be plainly distinguished, while on the

ground below lay four curious-shaped pads, one of which Carne picked up.

"What on earth are these things?" he asked innocently.

"Their use is easily explained, sir," answered the trainer. "They are

intended for tying over the horse's feet, so that when he is led out of

his box his plates may make no noise upon the stones. I'd like to have

been behind 'em with a whip when they got him out, that's all. The

double-dyed rascals, to try such a trick upon a horse in my charge!"

"I can understand your indignation," said Carne. "It seems to me we have

had a very narrow escape."

"Narrow escape or no narrow escape, I'd have 'em safely locked up in

Merford Police Station by this time," replied Bent vindictively. "And

now, sir, let me show you how they got out. As far as I can see they

must have imagined they heard somebody coming from the house, otherwise

they would have left by the gates instead of by this ladder."

He pointed to the ladder, which was still standing where Carne had

placed it, and then led him by a side door round to the other side of

the wall. Here he pointed to some heavy footmarks upon the turf. Carne

examined them closely.

"If the size of his boot is any criterion of his build," he said, "he

must have been a precious big fellow. Let me see how mine compares with

it."

He placed his neat shoe in one of the imprints before him, and smiled as

he noticed how the other overlapped it.

They then made their way to the box, where they found the animal at his

breakfast. He lifted his head and glanced round at them, bit at the

iron of the manger, and then gave a little playful kick with one of his

hind legs.

"He doesn't seem any the worse for his adventure," said Carne, as the

trainer went up to him and ran his hand over his legs.

"Not a bit," answered the other. "He's a wonderfully even-tempered

horse, and it takes a lot to put him out. If his nerves had been at all

upset he wouldn't have licked up his food as clean as he has done."

Having given another look at him, they left him in charge of his lad,

and returned to the house.

The gallop after breakfast confirmed their conclusion that there was

nothing the matter, and Simon Carne returned to town ostensibly

comforted by Bent's solemn assurance to that effect. That afternoon

Lord Calingforth, the owner of Vulcanite, called upon him. They had met

repeatedly, and consequently were on the most intimate terms.

"Good-afternoon, Carne," he said as he entered the room. "I have come

to condole with you upon your misfortune, and to offer you my warmest

sympathy."

"Why, what on earth has happened?" asked Carne, as he offered his

visitor a cigar.

"God bless my soul, my dear fellow! Haven't you seen the afternoon

paper? Why, it reports the startling news that your stables were broken

into last night, and that my rival, Knight of Malta, was missing this

morning."

Carne laughed.

"I wonder what they'll say next," he said quietly. "But don't let me

appear to deceive you. It is perfectly true that the stables were

broken into last night, but the thieves were disturbed, and decamped

just as they were forcing the lock of the Knight's box."

"In that case I congratulate you. What rascally inventions some of

these sporting papers do get hold of, to be sure. I'm indeed glad to

hear that it is not true. The race would have lost half its interest if

your horse were out of it. By the way, I suppose you are still as

confident as ever?"

"Would you like to test it?"

"Very much, if you feel inclined for a bet."

"Then I'll have a level thousand pounds with you that my horse beats

yours. Both to start or the wager is off. Do you agree?"

"With pleasure. I'll make a note of it."

The noble Earl jotted the bet down in his book, and then changed the

subject by inquiring whether Carne had ever had any transactions with

his next-door neighbor, Klimo.

"Only on one occasion," the other replied. "I consulted him on behalf

of the Duke of Wiltshire at the time his wife's diamonds were stolen.

To tell the truth, I was half thinking of calling him in to see if he

could find the fellow who broke into the stables last night, but on

second thoughts I determined not to do so. I did not want to make any

more fuss about it than I could help. But what makes you ask about

Klimo?"

"Well, to put the matter in a nutshell, there has been a good deal of

small pilfering down at my trainer's place lately, and I want to get it

stopped."

"If I were you I should wait till after the race, and then have him

down. If one excites public curiosity just now, one never knows what

will happen."

"I think you are right. Anyhow, I'll act on your advice. Now what do

you say to coming along to the Rooms with me to see how our horses stand

in the market? Your presence there would do more than any number of

paper denials towards showing the fallacy of this stupid report. Will

you come?"

"With pleasure," said Carne, and in less than five minutes he was

sitting beside the noble Earl in his mail phaeton, driving towards the

rooms in question.

When he got there, he found Lord Calingforth had stated the case very

correctly. The report that Knight of Malta had been stolen had been

widely circulated, and Carne discovered that the animal was, for the

moment, almost a dead letter in the market. The presence of his owner,

however, was sufficient to stay the panic, and when he had snapped up

two or three long bets, which a few moments before had been going

begging, the horse began steadily to rise towards his old position.

That night, when Belton waited upon his master at bedtime, he found him,

if possible more silent than usual. It was not until his work was

well-nigh completed that the other spoke.

"It's a strange thing Belton," he said, "and you may hardly believe it,

but if there were not certain reasons to prevent me from being so

magnanimous I would give this matter up, and let the race be run on its

merits. I don't know that I ever took a scheme in hand with a worse

grace. However, as it can't be helped, I suppose I must go through with

it. Is the van prepared?"

"It is quite ready, sir."

"All the furniture arranged as I directed?"

"It is exactly as you wished, sir. I have attended to it myself."

"And what about the man?"

"I have engaged the young fellow, sir, who assisted me before. I know

he's quick, and I can stake my life he's trustworthy."

"I am glad to hear it. He will have need to be. Now for my

arrangements. I shall make the attempt on Friday morning next, that is

to say, two days from now. You and the man you have just mentioned will

take the van and horses to Market Stopford, travelling by the goods

train which, I have discovered, reaches the town between four and five

in the morning. As soon as you are out of the station you will start

straight away along the highroad towards Exbridge, reaching the village

between five and six. I shall meet you in the road alongside the third

milestone on the other side, made up for the part I am to play. Do you

understand?"

"Perfectly, sir."

"That will do then. I shall go down to the village to-morrow evening,

and you will not hear from me again until you meet me at the place I

have named. Good-night."

"Good-night, sir."

Now, it is a well-known fact that if you wish to excite the anger of the

inhabitants of Exbridge village, and more particularly of any member of

the Pitman training Establishment, you have but to ask for information

concerning a certain blind beggar who put in an appearance there towards

sunset on the Thursday preceding the Derby of 18--, and you will do so.

When that mysterious individual first came in sight he was creeping

along the dusty high road that winds across the Downs from Market

Stopford to Beaton Junction, dolorously quavering a ballad that was

intended to be, though few would have recognized it, "The Wearing of the

Green."

On reaching the stables he tapped along the wall with his stick, until

he came to the gate. Then, when he was asked his business by the head

lad, who had been called up by one of the stable boys he stated that he

was starving, and, with peculiar arts of his own induced them to provide

him with a meal. For upwards of an hour he remained talking with the

lads, and then wended his way down the hill towards the village, where

he further managed to induce the rector to permit him to occupy one of

his outhouses for the night.

After tea he went out and sat on the green, but towards eight o'clock he

crossed the stream at the ford, and made his way up to a little copse,

which ornamented a slight eminence, on the opposite side of the village

to that upon which the training stables were situated.

How he found his way, considering his infirmity, it is difficult to say,

but that he did find it was proved by his presence there. It might also

have been noticed that when he was once under cover of the bushes he

gave up tapping the earth with his stick, and walked straight enough,

and without apparent hesitation, to the stump of a tree upon which he

seated himself.

For some time he enjoyed the beauty of the evening undisturbed by the

presence of any other human being. Then he heard a step behind him and

next moment a smart-looking stable lad parted the bushes and came into

view.

"Hullo," said the new-comer. "So you managed to get here first?"

"So I have," said the old rascal, "and it's wonderful when you come to

think of it, considering my age and what a poor old blind chap I be.

But I'm glad to find ye've managed to get away, my lad. Now what have

ye got to say for yourself?"

"I don't know that I've got anything to say," replied the boy. "But

this much is certain, what you want can't be done."

"And a fine young cockerel you are to be sure, to crow so loud that it

can't be done," said the old fellow, with an evil chuckle. "How do you

know it can't?"

"Because I don't see my way," replied the other. "It's too dangerous by

a long sight. Why, if the guv'nor was to get wind of what you want me

to do, England itself wouldn't be big enough to hold us both. You don't

know 'im as well as I do."

"I know him well enough for all practical purposes," replied the beggar.

"Now, if you've got any more objections to raise, be quick about it. If

you haven't, then I'll talk to you. You haven't? Very good then. Now,

just hold your jaw, open your ears, and listen to what I've got to say.

What time do you go to exercise to-morrow morning?"

"Nine o'clock."

"Very good then. You go down on to the Downs, and the boss sends you

off with Vulcanite for a canter. What do you do? Why, you go steadily

enough as long as he can see you, but directly you're round on the other

side of the hill you stick in your heels, and nip into the wood that

runs along on your right hand, just as if your horse was bolting with

you. Once in there, you go through for a half-a-mile until you come to

the stream, ford that, and then cut into the next wood, riding as if the

devil himself were after you, until you reach the path above Hangman's

Hollow. Do you know the place?"

"I reckon I ought to."

"Well, then, you just make tracks for it. When you get there you'll

find me waiting for you. After that I'll take over command, and get

both you and the horse out of England in such a way that nobody will

ever suspect. Then there'll be five hundred pounds for your trouble, a

safe passage with the horse to South America, and another five hundred

the day the nag is set ashore. There's not as much risk as you could

take between your finger and thumb, and a lad with a spirit like yours

could make a fortune with a thousand pounds on the other side. What

have you to say now?"

"It's all very well," replied the lad, "but how am I to know that you'll

play straight with me?"

"What do you take me for?" said the beggar indignantly, at the same time

putting his hand in his coat pocket and producing what looked like a

crumpled piece of paper. "If you doubt me, there's something that may

help to convince you. But don't go showing it around to-night, or

you'll be giving yourself away, and that'll mean the Stone Jug for you,

and 'Amen' to all your hopes of a fortune. You'll do as I wish now, I

suppose?"

"I'll do it," said the lad sullenly, as he crumpled the banknote up and

put it in his pocket. "But now I must be off. Since there's been this

fuss about Knight of Malta, the guv'nor has us all in before eight

o'clock, and keeps the horse under lock and key, with the head lad

sleeping in the box with him."

"Well, good-night to you, and don't you forget about to-morrow morning;

niggle the horse about a bit just to make him impatient like, and drop a

hint that he's a bit fresh. That will make his bolting look more

feasible. Don't leave the track while there's any one near you, but, as

soon as you do, ride like thunder to the place I told you of. I'll see

that they're put off the scent as to the way you've gone."

"All right," said the lad. "I don't like it, but I suppose I'm in too

deep now to draw back. Good-night."

"Good-night, and good luck to you."

Once he had got rid of the youth, Carne (for it was he) returned by

another route to the rector's outbuilding, where he laid himself down on

the straw, and was soon fast asleep. His slumbers lasted till nearly

daybreak, when he rose and made his way across country to the small

copse above Hangman's Hollow on the road from Exbridge to Beaton

Junction. Here he discovered a large van drawn up apparently laden with

furniture both inside and out. The horses were feeding beneath a tree,

and a couple of men were eating their breakfast beside them. On seeing

Carne, the taller of the pair--a respectable-looking workman, with a big

brown beard--rose and touched his hat. The other looked with

astonishment at the disreputable beggar standing before them.

"So you arrived here safely," said Carne. "If anything you're a little

before your time. Boil a cup of tea, and give me something to eat as

quickly as possible, for I am nearly famished. When you have done that,

get out the clothes I told you to bring with you, and let me change into

them. It wouldn't do for any of the people from the village back yonder

to be able to say afterwards that they saw me talking with you in this

rig-out."

As soon as his hunger was appeased he disappeared into the wood, and

dressed himself in his new attire. Another suit of clothes, and an apron

such as might be worn by a furniture remover's foreman, a grey wig, a

short grey beard and moustache, and a bowler hat, changed his identity

completely; indeed, when his rags had been hidden in the hollow of a

tree it would have been a difficult matter to have traced any

resemblance between the respectable-looking workman eating his breakfast

and the disreputable beggar of half-an-hour before.

It was close upon nine o'clock by this time, and as soon as he realized

this Carne gave the order to put the horses to. This done, they turned

their attention to the back of the van, and then a strange thing became

apparent. Though to all appearances, viewed from the open doors at the

end, the inside of this giant receptacle was filled to its utmost

capacity with chests of drawers, chairs, bedsteads, carpets, and other

articles of household furniture, yet by pulling a pair of handles it was

possible for two men easily to withdraw what looked like half the

contents of the van.

The poorest observer would then have noticed that in almost every

particular these articles were dummies, affixed to a screen, capable of

being removed at a moment's notice. The remainder of the van was fitted

after the fashion of a stable, with a manger at the end and a pair of

slings dependent from the roof.

The nervous tension produced by the waiting soon became almost more than

the men could bear. Minute after minute went slowly by, and still the

eagerly expected horse did not put in an appearance. Then Belton, whom

Carne had placed on the lookout, came flying towards them with the

report that he could hear a sound of galloping hoofs in the wood. A few

seconds later the noise could be plainly heard at the van, and almost

before they had time to comment upon it, a magnificent thoroughbred,

ridden by the stable boy who had talked to the blind beggar on the

previous evening, dashed into view, and pulled up beside the van.

"Jump off," cried Carne, catching at the horse's head, "and remove the

saddle. Now be quick with those cloths; we must rub him down or he'll

catch cold."

When the horse was comparatively dry he was led into the van which was

to be his stable for the next few hours, and, in spite of his protests,

slung in such a fashion that his feet did not touch the floor. This

business completed, Carne bade the frightened boy get in with him, and

take care that he did not, on any account, neigh.

After that the mask of furniture was replaced, and the doors closed and

locked. The men mounted to their places on the box and roof, and the

van continued its journey along the highway towards the Junction. But

satisfactory as their attempt had so far proved, the danger was by no

means over. Scarcely had they proceeded three miles on their way before

Carne distinguished the sound of hoofs upon the road behind him. A

moment later a young man, mounted on a well-bred horse, came into view,

rode up alongside, and signalled to the driver to stop.

"What's the matter?" inquired the latter, as he brought his horses to a

standstill. "Have we dropped anything?"

"Have you seen anything of a boy on a horse?" asked the man, who was so

much out of breath that he could scarcely get his words out.

"What sort of a boy, and what sort of a horse?" asked the man on the

van.

"A youngish boy," was the reply, "seven stone weight, with sandy hair,

on a thoroughbred."

"No; we ain't seen no boy with sandy 'air, ridin' of a thoroughbred

'orse seven stone weight," said Carne. "What's 'e been an' done?"

"The horse has bolted with him off the Downs, back yonder," answered the

man. "The guv'nor has sent us out in all directions to look for him."

"Sorry we can't oblige you," said the driver as he prepared to start his

team again. "Good-day to you."

"Much obliged," said the horseman, and, when he had turned off into a

side road, the van continued its journey till it reached the railway

station. A quarter of an hour later it caught the eleven o'clock goods

train and set off for the small seaside town of Barworth, on the south

coast, where it was shipped on board a steamer which had arrived that

morning from London.

Once it was safely transferred from the railway truck to the deck, Carne

was accosted by a tall, swarthy individual, who, from his importance,

seemed to be both the owner and the skipper of the vessel. They went

down into the saloon together, and a few moments later an observer, had

one been there, might have seen a cheque for a considerable sum of money

change hands.

An hour later the _Jessie Branker_ was steaming out to sea, and a

military-looking individual, not at all to be compared with the

industrious mechanic who had shipped the furniture van on board the

vessel bound for Spain, stood on the platform of the station waiting for

the express train to London. On reaching the metropolis he discovered

it surging beneath the weight of a great excitement. The streets

re-echoed with the raucous cries of the newsvenders:

"The Derby favorite stolen--Vulcanite missing from his stable!"

Next morning an advertisement appeared in every paper of consequence,

offering "A reward of Five Hundred Pounds for any information that might

lead to the conviction of the person or persons who on the morning of

May 28th had stolen, or caused to be stolen, from the Pitman Training

Stables, the Derby favorite, Vulcanite, the property of the Right

Honorable the Earl of Calingforth."

The week following, Knight of Malta, owned by Simon Carne, Esq., of

Dorchester House, Park Lane, won the Derby by a neck in a scene of

intense excitement, the Mandarin being second, and The Filibuster third.

It is a strange fact that to this day not a member of the racing world

has been able to solve the mystery surrounding the disappearance of one

of the greatest horses that ever set foot on an English race-course.

To-day, if Simon Carne thinks of that momentous occasion when, amid the

shouting crowd of Epsom, he led his horse back a winner, he smiles

softly to himself and murmurs beneath his breath:

"Valued at twenty thousand pounds, and beaten in the Derby by a

furniture van."

*CHAPTER V.*

*A SERVICE TO THE STATE.*

It was the day following that upon which Simon Carne, presented by the

Earl of Amberley, had made his bow before the Heir Apparent at the

second levee of the season, that Klimo entered upon one of the most

interesting cases which had so far come into his experience. The clock

in his consulting-room had just struck one when his elderly housekeeper

entered and handed him a card, bearing the name of Mrs. George Jeffreys,

14 Bellamer Street, Bloomsbury. The detective immediately bade his

servant admit the visitor, and, almost before he had given the order,

the lady in question stood before him.

She was young not more than twenty-four at most, a frail wisp of a girl,

with light brown hair and eyes that spoke for her nationality as plain

as any words. She was neatly but by no means expensively dressed, and

showed evident signs of being oppressed by a weight of trouble. Klimo

looked at her, and in that glance took in everything. In spite of the

fact that he was reputed to possess a heart as hard as any flint, it was

noticeable that his voice, when he spoke to her was not as gruff as that

in which he usually addressed his visitors.

"Pray sit down," he said, "and tell me in as few words as possible what

it is you desire that I should do for you. Speak as clearly as you can,

and, it you want my help, don't hesitate to tell me everything."

The girl sat down as ordered, and immediately commenced her tale.

"My name is Eileen Jeffreys," she said. "I am the wife of an English

Bank Inspector, and the daughter of Septimus O'Grady, of Chicago,

U.S.A."

"I shall remember," replied Klimo. "And how long have you been

married?"

"Two years," answered the girl. "Two years next September. My husband

and I met in America, and then came to England to settle."

"In saying good-bye to your old home, you left your father behind, I

presume?"

"Yes, he preferred to remain in America."

"May I ask his profession?"

"That, I'm afraid, foolish as it may seem to say so, I cannot tell you,"

answered the girl, with a slightly heightened color. "His means of

earning a living were always kept a secret from me."

"That was rather strange; was it not?" said Klimo. "Had he private

resources?"

"None that I ever heard of," replied the girl.

"Did no business men ever come to see him?"

"But very few people came to us at all. We had scarcely any friends."

"Of what nationality were the friends who did come?"

"Mostly Irish, like ourselves," answered Mrs. Jeffreys.

"Was there ever any quarrel between your father and your husband, prior

to your leaving America?"

"Never any downright quarrel," said the girl. "But I am sorry to say

they were not always the best of friends. In those days my father was a

very difficult man to get on with."

"Indeed?" said Klimo. "Now, perhaps you had better proceed with your

story."

"To do that, I must explain that at the end of January of this present

year, my father, who was then in Chicago, sent us a cablegram to say he

was leaving for England that very day, and that, upon his arrival in

England, if we had no objection, he would like to take up his residence

with us. He was to sail from New York on the Saturday following, and,

as you know, the passage takes six days or thereabouts. Arriving in

England he came to London and put up at our house in Bellamer Street,

Bloomsbury. That was during the first week in February last, and off

and on he has been living with us ever since."

"Have you any idea what brought him to England?"

"Not the least," she answered deliberately, after a few seconds' pause,

which Klimo did not fail to notice.

"Did he do business with any one that you are aware of?"

"I cannot say. On several occasions he went away for a week at a time

into the Midlands, but what took him there I have no possible idea. On

the last occasion he left us on the fifteenth of last month, and

returned on the ninth of this, the same day that my husband was called

away to Marseilles on important banking business. It was easy to see

that he was not well. He was feverish, and within a short time of my

getting him to bed he began to wander in his mind, declaring over and

over again that he bitterly repented some action he had taken, and that

if he could once consider himself safe again would be quit of the whole

thing forever.

"For close upon a fortnight I continued to nurse him, until he was so

far recovered as to recognize me once more. The day that he did so I

took in at the door this cablegram, from which I may perhaps date the

business that has brought me to you."

She took a paper from her pocket and handed it to Klimo, who glanced at

it, examined the post-mark and the date, and then placed it upon the

desk before him It was from Chicago, and ran as follows:

O'Grady,

14 Bellamer Street, London, England.

Why no answer? Reply chances of doing business.

NERO.

"Of course, it was impossible for me to tell what this meant. I was not

in my father's confidence, and I had no notion who his mysterious

correspondent might be. But as the doctor had distinctly stated that to

allow him to consider any business at all would bring on a relapse and

probably kill him, I placed the message in a drawer, and determined to

let it remain there until he should be well enough to attend to it

without danger to himself. The week following he was not quite so well,

and fortunately there was complete silence on the part of his

correspondents. Then this second message arrived. As you will see it

is also from Chicago and from the same person.

Reply immediately, or remember consequences. Time presses, if do not

realize at present price, market will be lost. NERO.

"Following my previous line of action, I placed this communication also

in the drawer, and determined to let Nero wait for a reply. By doing

so, however, I was incurring greater trouble than I dreamt of. Within

forty-eight hours I received the following message, and upon that I made

up my mind and came off at once to you. What it means I do not know,

but that it bodes some ill to my father I feel certain. I had heard of

your fame, and as my husband is away from home, my father unable to

protect himself, and I am without friends at all in England, I thought

the wisest course I could pursue would be to consult you."

"Let me look at the last cablegram," said Klimo, putting his hand from

the box, and taking the slip of paper.

The first and second message were simplicity itself; this, however, was

a complete enigma. It was worded as follows:

Uneasy--Alpha--Omega--Nineteen--Twelve--today--five

--lacs--arrange--seventy--eight--Brazils --one--twenty--nine.

NERO.

Klimo read it through, and the girl noticed that he shook his head over

it.

"My dear young lady," he said, "I am afraid that it would be safer for

you not to tell me any further, for I fear it is not in my power to help

you."

"You will not help me now that I have told you my miserable position?

Then there is nothing before me but despair. Oh, sir, is your decision

quite irrevocable? You cannot think how I have counted on your

assistance."

"I regret exceedingly that I am compelled to disappoint you," he

answered. "But my time is more than occupied as it is, and I could not

give your case my attention, even if I would."

His decision had been too much for her fortitude, and before he could

prevent it, her head was down upon her hands and she had begun to weep

bitterly. He attempted to comfort her, but in vain; and when she left

him, tears were still coursing down her cheeks. It was not until she had

been gone about ten minutes, and he had informed his housekeeper that he

would see no more clients that day, that he discovered that she had left

her precious cablegrams behind her.

Actuated by a feeling of curiosity, he sat down again and spread the

three cablegrams out upon his writing-table. The first two, as I have

said, required no consideration, they spoke for themselves, but the

third baffled him completely. Who was this Septimus O'Grady who lived

in Chicago, and whose associates spent their time discussing the wrongs

of Ireland? How was it that, being a man innocent of private means, he

engaged in no business?

Then another question called for consideration. If he had no business,

what brought him to London and took him so repeatedly into the Midlands?

These riddles he set aside for the present and began to pick the last

cablegram to pieces. That its author was not easy in his mind when he

wrote it was quite certain.

Then who and what were the Alpha and Omega mentioned? What connection

had they with Nero; also what did nineteen and twelve mean when coupled

with To-day? Further, why should five lacs arrange seventy-eight

Brazils? And what possible sense could be made out of the numbers

one--twenty--and nine? He read the message from beginning to end again,

after that from the end to the beginning, and, like a good many other

men in a similar position, because he could not understand it, found

himself taking a greater interest in it. This feeling had not left him

when he had put off disguise as Klimo and was Simon Carne once more.

While he was eating his lunch the thought of the lonely Irishman lying

ill in a house, where he was without doubt an unwelcome guest,

fascinated him strangely, and when he rose from the table he found he

was not able to shake off the impression it had given him. That the

girl had some notion of her father's business he felt as certain as of

his own name, even though she had so strenuously denied the fact.

Otherwise why should she have been so frightened by what might have been

simply innocent business messages in cypher? That she was frightened

was as plain as the sun then shining into his room. Despite the fact

that he had resolved not to take up the case, he went into his study,

and took the cablegrams from the drawer in which he had placed them.

Then drawing a sheet of paper towards him, he set to work upon the

puzzle.

"The first word requires no explanation," he said as he wrote it down.

"For the two next, Alpha and Omega, we will, for the sake of argument,

write The Beginning and The End, and as that tells us nothing, we will

substitute for them The First and The Last. Now, who or what are The

First and The Last? Are they the first and last words of a code, or of

a word, or do they refer to two individuals who are the principal folk

in some company or conspiracy? If the latter, it is just possible they

are the people who are so desperately uneasy. The next two words,

however, are too much for me altogether."

Uninteresting as the case appeared at first sight, he soon discovered

that he could think of nothing else. He found himself puzzling over it

during an afternoon concert at the Queen's Hall, and he even thought of

it while calling upon the wife of the Prime Minister afterwards. As he

drove in the Park before dinner, the wheels of his carriage seemed to be

saying "Alpha and Omega, nineteen, twelve" over and over again with

pitiless reiteration, and by the time he reached home once more he would

gladly have paid a ten-pound note for a feasible solution of the enigma,

if only to get its weight off his mind.

While waiting for dinner he took pen and paper and wrote the message out

again, this time in half-a-dozen different ways. But the effect was the

same, none of them afforded him any clue. He then took the second

letter of each word, after that the third, then the fourth, and so on

until he had exhausted them. The result in each case was absolute

gibberish, and he felt that he was no nearer understanding it than when

Mrs. Jeffrey's had handed it to him nearly eight hours before.

During the night he dreamt about it, and when he woke in the morning its

weight was still upon his mind. "Nineteen--twelve," it is true, had

left him, but he was not better off for the reason that "Seventy--eight

Brazils" had taken its place. When he got out of bed he tried it again.

But at the end of half-an-hour his patience was exhausted.

"Confound the thing," he said, as he threw the paper from him, and

seated himself in a chair before his looking-glass in order that his

confidential valet, Belton, might shave him. "I'll think no more of it.

Mrs. Jeffreys must solve the mystery for herself. It has worried me too

much already."

He laid his head back upon the rest and allowed his valet to run the

soap brush over his chin. But, however much he might desire it, his Old

Man of the Sea was not to be discarded so easily; the word "Brazils"

seemed to be painted in letters of fire upon the ceiling. As the razor

glided over his cheek he thought of the various constructions to be

placed upon the word--the Country--Stocks--and even nuts--Brazil nuts,

Spanish nuts, Barcelona nuts, walnuts, cob nuts--and then, as if to make

the nightmare more complete, no less a thing than Nutall's Dictionary.

The smile the last suggestion caused him came within an ace of leaving

its mark upon his cheek. He signed to the man to stay his hand.

"Egad!" he cried, "who knows but this may be the solution of the

mystery? Go down to the study, Belton, and bring me Nuttall's

Dictionary."

He waited with one side of his face still soaped until his valet

returned, bringing with him the desired volume. Having received it he

placed it upon the table and took up the telegram.

"Seventy--eight Brazils," it said, "one--twenty--nine."

Accordingly he chose the seventieth page, and ran his fingers down the

first column. The letter was B, but the eighth word proved useless. He

thereupon turned to the seventy-eighth page, and in the first column

discovered the word _Bomb_. In a second the whole aspect of the case

changed, and he became all eagerness and excitement. The last words on

the telegram were "one-twenty-nine," yet it was plain that there were

barely a hundred upon the page. The only explanation, therefore, was

that the word "One" distinguished the column, and the "twenty-nine"

referred to the number of the word in it.

Almost trembling with eagerness he began to count. Surely enough the

twenty-ninth word was Bomb. The coincidence was, to say the least of

it, extraordinary. But presuming that it was correct, the rest of the

message was simplicity itself. He turned the telegram over, and upon

the back transcribed the communication as he imagined it should be read.

When he had finished, it ran as follows:

Owing to O'Grady's silence, the Society in Chicago is growing uneasy.

Two men, who are the first and last, or, in other words, the principal

members, are going to do something (Nineteen-twelve) to-day with fifty

thousand somethings, so arrange about the bombs.

Having got so far, all that remained to be done was to find out to what

"nineteen-twelve" referred. He turned to the dictionary again, and

looked for the twelfth word upon the nineteenth page. This proved to be

"Alkahest," which told him nothing. So he reversed the proceedings and

looked for the nineteenth word upon the twelfth page; but this proved

even less satisfactory than before. However much the dictionary might

have helped him hitherto, it was plainly useless now. He thought and

thought, but without success. He turned up the almanac, but the dates

did not fit in.

He then wrote the letters of the alphabet upon a sheet of paper, and

against each placed its equivalent number. The nineteenth letter was S,

the twelfth L. Did they represent two words, or were they the first and

the last letters of a word? In that case, what could it be. The only

three he could think of were _soil_, _sell_ and _sail_. The two first

were hopeless, but the last seemed better. But how would that fit in?

He took up his pen and tried it.

Owing to O'Grady's silence, the Society in Chicago is growing uneasy.

Two men, who are the first and last, or, in other words, the principal

members, sail to-day with fifty thousand somethings, probably pounds or

dollars, so prepare bombs.

NERO.

He felt convinced that he had hit it at last. Either it was a very

extraordinary coincidence, or he had discovered the answer to the

riddle. If this solution were correct, one thing was certain, he had

got in his hands, quite by chance, a clue to one of the biggest Fenian

conspiracies ever yet brought to light. He remembered that at that

moment London contained half the crowned heads, or their

representatives, of Europe. What better occasion could the enemies of

law and order desire for striking a blow at the Government and society

in general? What was he to do?

To communicate with the police and thus allow himself to be drawn into

the affair, would be an act of the maddest folly; should he therefore

drop the whole thing, as he had at first proposed, or should he take the

matter into his own hands, help Mrs. Jeffreys in her trouble by shipping

her father out of harm's way, outwit the Fenians, and appropriate the

fifty thousand pounds mentioned in the cablegram himself?

The last idea was distinctly a good one. But, before it could be done,

he felt he must be certain of his facts. Was the fifty thousand referred

to money or was it something else? If the former, was it pounds or was

it dollars? There was a vast difference, but in either case, if only he

could hit on a safe scheme, he would be well repaid for whatever risk he

might run. He decided to see Mrs. Jeffreys without loss of time.

Accordingly, after breakfast, he sent her a note asking her to call upon

him, without fail, at twelve o'clock.

Punctuality is not generally considered a virtue possessed by the sex of

which Mrs. Jeffreys was so unfortunate a member, but the clock upon

Klimo's mantelpiece had scarcely struck the hour before she put in an

appearance. He immediately bade her be seated.

"Mrs. Jeffreys," he began with a severely judicial air, "it is with much

regret I find that while seeking my advice yesterday you were all the

time deceiving me. How was it that you failed to tell me that your

father was connected with a Fenian Society whose one aim and object is

to destroy law and order in this country."

The question evidently took the girl by surprise. She became deathly

pale, and for a moment Klimo thought she was going to faint. With a

marvelous exhibition of will, however, she pulled herself together and

faced her accuser.

"You have no right to say such a thing," she began. "My father is----."

"Pardon me," he answered quietly, "but I am in the possession of

information which enables me to understand exactly _what_ he is. If you

answer me correctly it is probable that after all I will take your case

up, and will help you to save your father's life, but if you decline to

do so, ill as he is, he will be arrested within twenty-four hours, and

then nothing on earth can save him from condign punishment. Which do

you prefer?"

"I will tell you everything," she said quickly. "I ought to have done

so at first, but you can understand why I shrank from it. My father has

for a long time past been ashamed of the part he has been playing, but

he could not help himself. He was too valuable to them, and they would

not let him slip. They drove him on and on, and it was his remorse and

anxiety that broke him down at last."

"I think you have chosen the better course in telling me this. I will

ask my questions, and you can answer them. To begin with, where are the

headquarters of the Society?"

"In Chicago."

"I thought as much. And is it possible for you to tell me the names of

the two principal members?"

"There are many members, and I don't know that one is greater than

another."

"But there must be some who are more important than others. For

instance, the pair referred to in this telegram as Alpha and Omega?"

"I can only think," she answered, after a moment's thought, "that they

must be the two men who came oftenest to our house, Messrs. Maguire and

Rooney."

"Can you describe them, or, better still, have you their photographs?"

"I have a photograph of Mr. Rooney. It was taken last year."

"You must send it to me as soon as you get home," he said; "and now give

me as close a description as possible of the other person to whom you

refer, Mr. Maguire."

Mrs. Jeffreys considered for a few moments before she answered.

"He is tall, standing fully six feet, I should think," she said at last,

"with red hair and watery blue eyes, in the left of which there is a

slight cast. He is broad-shouldered and, in spite of his long residence

in America, speaks with a decided brogue. I know them for desperate

men, and if they come over to England may God help us all. Mr. Klimo,

you don't think the police will take my father?"

"Not if you implicitly obey my instructions," he answered.

Klimo thought for a few seconds, and then continued: "If you wish me to

undertake this business, which I need hardly tell you is out of my usual

line, you will now go home and send me the photograph you spoke of a few

moments since. After that you will take no sort of action until you

hear from me again. For certain reasons of my own I shall take this

matter up, and will do my utmost to save your father. One word of

advice first, say nothing to anybody, but pack your father's boxes and

be prepared to get him out of England, if necessary, at a moment's

notice."

The girl rose and made as if she would leave the room, but instead of

doing so she stood irresolute. For a few moments she said nothing, but

fumbled with the handle of her parasol and breathed heavily. Then the

pluck which had so far sustained her gave way entirely, and she fell

back on her chair crying as if her heart would break. Klimo instantly

left his box and went round to her. He made a figure queer enough to

please any one, in his old-fashioned clothes, his skull-cap, his long

grey hair reaching almost to his shoulders, and with his smoked glass

spectacles perched upon his nose.

"Why cry, my dear young lady?" said Klimo. "Have I not promised to do my

best for you? Let us, however, understand each other thoroughly. If

there is anything you are keeping back you must tell me. By not speaking

out you are imperilling your own and your father's safety."

"I know that you must think that I am endeavoring to deceive you," she

said; "but I am so terribly afraid of committing myself that I hardly

know what to tell and what not to tell. I have come to you, having no

friends in the whole world save my husband, who is in Marseilles, and my

father, who, as I have said, is lying dangerously ill in our house.

"Of course I know what my father has been. Surely you cannot suppose

that a grown-up girl like myself could be so dense as not to guess why

few save Irishmen visited our house, and why at times there were men

staying with us for weeks at a time, who lived in the back rooms and

never went outside our front door, and who, when they did take their

departure, sneaked out in the dead of night.

"I remember a time in the fall of the last year that I was at home, when

there were more meetings than ever, and when these men, Maguire and

Rooney, almost lived with us. They and my father were occupied day and

night in a room at the top of the house, and then, in the January

following, Maguire came to England. Three weeks later the papers were

full of a terrible dynamite explosion in London, in which forty innocent

people lost their lives. Mr. Klimo, you must imagine for yourself the

terror and shame that seized me, particularly when I remembered that my

father was a companion of the men who had been concerned in it.

"Now my father repents, and they are edging him on to some fresh

outrage. I cannot tell you what it is, but I know this, that if Maguire

and Rooney are coming to England, something awful is about to happen,

and if they distrust him, and there is any chance of any one getting

into trouble, my father will be made the scapegoat.

"To run away from them would be to court certain death. They have

agents in almost every European city, and, unless we could get right

away to the other side of the world, they would be certain to catch us.

Besides my father is too ill to travel. The doctors say he must not be

disturbed under any pretence whatever."

"Well, well!" said Klimo, "leave the matter to me, and I will see what

can be done. Send me the photograph you spoke of, and let me know

instantly if there are any further developments."

"Do you mean that after all I can rely upon you helping me?"

"If you are brave," he answered, "not without. Now, one last question,

and then you must be off. I see in the last telegram, mention made of

fifty lacs; I presume that means money?"

"A lac is their term for a thousand pounds," she answered without

hesitation.

"That will do," said Klimo. "Now go home and don't worry yourself more

than you can help. Above all, don't let any one suspect that I have any

interest in the case. Upon your doing that will in a great measure

depend your safety."

She promised to obey him in this particular as in the others, and then

took her departure.

When Klimo had passed into the adjoining house, he bade his valet

accompany him to his study.

"Belton," he said, as he seated himself in a comfortable chair before

his writing-table, "I have this morning agreed to undertake what

promises to be one of the most dangerous, and at the same time most

interesting, cases that has yet come under my notice. A young lady, the

wife of a respectable Bank Inspector, has been twice to see me lately

with a very sad story. Her father, it would appear, is an Irish

American, with the usual prejudice against this country. He has been for

some time a member of a Fenian Society, possibly one of their most

active workers. In January last the executive sent him to his country to

arrange for an exhibition of their powers.

"Since arriving here the father has been seized with remorse, and the

mental strain and fear thus entailed have made him seriously ill. For

weeks he has been lying at death's door in his daughter's house. Hearing

nothing from him the Society has telegraphed again and again, but

without result. In consequence, two of the chief and most dangerous

members are coming over here with fifty thousand pounds at their

disposal, to look after their erring brother, to take over the

management of affairs, and to commence the slaughter as per arrangement.

"Now as a peaceable citizen of the City of London, and a humble servant

of Her Majesty the Queen, it is manifestly my duty to deliver these

rascals into the hands of the police. But to do that would be to

implicate the girl's father, and to kill her husband's faith in her

family; for it must be remembered he knows nothing of the father's

Fenian tendencies. It would also mix me up in a most undesirable matter

at a time when I have the best reasons for desiring to keep quiet.

"Well, the long and the short of the matter is that I have been thinking

the question out, and I have arrived at the following conclusion. If I

can hit upon a workable scheme I shall play policeman and public

benefactor, checkmate the dynamiters, save the girl and her father, and

reimburse myself to the extent of fifty thousand pounds. Fifty thousand

pounds, Belton, think of that. If it hadn't been for the money I should

have had nothing at all to do with it."

"But how will you do it, sir?" asked Belton, who had learnt by

experience never to be surprised at anything his master might say or do.

"Well, so far," he answered, "it seems a comparatively easy matter. I

see that the last telegram was dispatched on Saturday, May 26th, and

says, or purports to say, 'sail to-day.' In that case, all being well,

they should be in Liverpool some time to-morrow, Thursday. So we have a

clear day at our disposal in which to prepare a reception for them.

To-night I am to have a photograph of one of the men in my possession,

and to-morrow I shall send you to Liverpool to meet them. Once you have

set eyes on them you must not lose sight of them until you have

discovered where they are domiciled in London. After that I will take

the matter in hand myself."

"At what hour do you wish me to start for Liverpool, sir?" asked Belton.

"First thing to-morrow morning," his master replied. "In the meantime

you must, by hook or crook, obtain a police inspector's, a sergeant's

and two constables' uniforms with belts and helmets complete. Also I

shall require three men in whom I can place absolute and implicit

confidence. They must be big fellows with plenty of pluck and

intelligence, and the clothes you get must fit them so that they shall

not look awkward in them. They must also bring plain clothes with them,

for I shall want two of them to undertake a journey to Ireland. They

will each be paid a hundred pounds for the job, and to ensure their

silence afterwards. Do you think you can find me the men without

disclosing my connection with the matter?"

"I know exactly where to put my hand upon them, sir," remarked Belton,

"and for the sum you mention it's my belief they'd hold their tongues

forever, no matter what pressure was brought to bear upon them."

"Very good. You had better communicate with them at once, and tell them

to hold themselves in readiness for I may want them at any moment. On

Friday night I shall probably attempt the job, and they can get back to

town when and how they like.

"Very good sir. I'll see about them this afternoon without fail."

Next morning, Belton left London for Liverpool, with the photograph of

the mysterious Rooney in his pocket-book. Carne had spent the afternoon

with a fashionable party at Hurlingham, and it was not until he returned

to his house that he received the telegram he had instructed his valet

to send him. It was short, and to the point.

Friends arrived. Reach Euston nine o'clock.

The station clocks wanted ten minutes of the hour when the hansom

containing a certain ascetic-looking curate drove into the yard. The

clergyman paid his fare, and, having inquired the platform upon which

the Liverpool express would arrive, strolled leisurely in that

direction. He would have been a clever man who would have recognized in

this unsophisticated individual either deformed Simon Carne of Park

Lane, or the famous detective of Belverton Street.

Punctual almost to the moment the train put in an appearance and drew up

beside the platform. A moment later the curate was engulfed in a sea of

passengers. A bystander, had he been sufficiently observant to notice

such a thing, would have been struck by the eager way in which he looked

about him, and also by the way in which his manner changed directly he

went forward to greet the person he was expecting. To all appearances

they were both curates, but their social positions must have been widely

different if their behavior to each other could have been taken as any

criterion. The new arrival, having greeted his friend, turned to two

gentlemen standing beside him, and after thanking them for their company

during the journey, wished them a pleasant holiday in England, and bade

them good-bye. Then, turning to his friend again, he led him along the

platform towards the cab rank.

During the time Belton had been speaking to the two men just referred

to, Carne had been studying their faces attentively. One, the taller of

the pair, if his red hair and watery blue eyes went for anything, was

evidently Maguire, the other was Rooney, the man of the photograph.

Both were big, burly fellows, and Carne felt that if it ever came to a

fight, they would be just the sort of men to offer a determined

resistance.

Arm in arm the curates followed the Americans towards the cab rank.

Reaching it, the latter called up a vehicle, placed the bags they

carried upon the roof, and took their places inside. The driver had

evidently received his instructions, for he drove off without delay.

Carne at once called up another cab, into which Belton sprang without

ceremony. Carne pointed to the cab just disappearing through the gates

ahead.

"Keep that hansom in sight, cabby," he said: "but whatever you do don't

pass it."

"All right, sir," said the man, and immediately applied the whip to his

horse.

When they turned into Seymour Street, scarcely twenty yards separated

the two vehicles, and in this order they proceeded across the Euston

Road, by way of Upper Woburn Place and Tavistock Square.

The cab passed through Bloomsbury Square, and turned down one of the

thoroughfares leading therefrom, and made its way into a street flanked

on either side by tall, gloomy-looking houses. Leaning over the apron,

Carne gazed up at the corner house, on which he could just see the plate

setting forth the name of the street. What he saw there told him all he

wanted to know.

They were in Bellamer Street, and it was plain to him that the men had

determined to thrust themselves upon the hapless Mrs. Jeffreys. He

immediately poked his umbrella through the shutter, and bade the cabman

drive on to the next corner, and then pull up. As soon as the horse

came to a standstill, Carne jumped out, and, bidding his companion drive

home, crossed the street, and made his way back until he arrived at a

spot exactly opposite the house entered by the two men.

His supposition that they intended to domicile themselves there was

borne out by the fact that they had taken their luggage inside, and had

dismissed their cab. There had been lights in two of the windows when

the cab had passed, now a third was added, and this he set down as

emanating from the room allotted to the new arrivals.

For upwards of an hour and a half Carne remained standing in the shadow

of the opposite houses, watching the Jeffrey's residence. The lights in

the lower room had by this time disappeared and within ten minutes that

on the first floor followed suit. Being convinced, in his own mind,

that the inmates were safely settled for the night, he left the scene of

his vigil, and, walking to the corner of the street, hailed a hansom and

was driven home. On reaching No. 1, Belverton Street, he found a letter

lying on the hall table addressed to Klimo. It was in a woman's

handwriting, and it did not take him long to guess that it was from Mrs.

Jeffreys. He opened it and read as follows:

"_Bellamer Street,_

"_Thursday Evening._

"DEAR MR. KLIMO,

"I am sending this to you to tell you that my worst suspicions have been

realized. The two men whose coming I so dreaded, have arrived, and have

taken up their abode with us. For my father's sake I dare not turn them

out, and to-night I have heard from my husband to say that he will be

home on Saturday next. What is to be done? If something does not happen

soon, they will commence their dastardly business in England, and then

God help us all. My only hope is in Him and you.

"Yours ever gratefully,

"EILEEN JEFFREYS."

Carne folded up the letter with a grave face, and then let himself into

Porchester House and went to bed to think out his plan of action. Next

morning he was up betimes, and by the breakfast hour had made up his

mind as to what he was going to do. He had also written and dispatched

a note to the girl who was depending so much upon him. In it he told

her to come and see him without fail that morning. His meal finished,

he went to his dressing-room and attired himself in Klimo's clothes, and

shortly after ten o'clock entered the detective's house. Half-an-hour

later Mrs. Jeffreys was ushered into his presence. As he greeted her he

noticed that she looked pale and wan. It was evident she had spent a

sleepless night.

"Sit down," he said, "and tell me what has happened since last I saw

you."

"The most terrible thing of all has happened," she answered. "As I told

you in my note, the men have reached England, and are now living in our

house. You can imagine what a shock their arrival was to me. I did not

know what to do. For my father's sake I could not refuse them

admittance, and yet I knew that I had no right to take them in during my

husband's absence. Be that as it may, they are there now, and to-morrow

night George returns. If he discovers their identity, and suspects

their errand, he will hand them over to the police without a second

thought, and then we shall be disgraced forever. Oh, Mr. Klimo, you

promised to help me, can you not do so? Heaven knows how badly I need

your aid."

"You shall have it. Now listen to my instructions. You will go home and

watch these men. During the afternoon they will probably go out, and

the instant they do so, you must admit three of my servants and place

them in some room where their presence will not be suspected by our

enemies. A friend, who will hand you my card, will call later on, and

as he will take command, you must do your best to help him in every

possible way."

"You need have no fear of my not doing that," she said. "And I will be

grateful to you till my dying day."

"Well, we'll see. Now, good-bye."

After she had left him, Klimo returned to Porchester House and sent for

Belton. He was out, it appeared, but within half-an-hour he returned

and entered his master's presence.

"Have you discovered the bank?" asked Carne.

"Yes, sir, I have," said Belton. "But not till I was walked off my

legs. The men are as suspicious as wild rabbits, and they dodged and

played about so, that I began to think they'd get away from me

altogether. The bank is the 'United Kingdom,' Oxford Street branch."

"That's right. Now what about the uniforms?"

"They're quite ready, sir, helmets, tunics, belts and trousers

complete."

"Well then, have them packed as I told you yesterday, and ready to

proceed to Bellamer Street with the men, the instant we get the

information that the folk we are after have stepped outside the house

door."

"Very good, sir. And as to yourself?"

"I shall join you at the house at ten o'clock, or thereabouts. We must,

if possible, catch them at their supper."

London was half through its pleasures that night, when a tall,

military-looking man, muffled in a large cloak, stepped into a hansom

outside Porchester House, Park Lane, and drove off in the direction of

Oxford Street. Though the business which was taking him out would have

presented sufficient dangers to have deterred many men who consider

themselves not wanting in pluck, it did not in the least oppress Simon

Carne; on the contrary, it seemed to afford him no small amount of

satisfaction. He whistled a tune to himself as he drove along the

lamplit thoroughfares, and smiled as sweetly as a lover thinking of his

mistress when he reviewed the plot he had so cunningly contrived.

He felt a glow of virtue as he remembered that he was undertaking the

business in order to promote another's happiness, but at the same time

reflected that, if fate were willing to pay him fifty thousand pounds

for his generosity, well, it was so much the better for him. Reaching

Mudie's Library, his coachman drove by the way of Hart Street into

Bloomsbury Square, and later on turned into Bellamer Street.

At the corner he stopped his driver and gave him some instructions in a

low voice. Having done so, he walked along the pavement as far as No.

14, where he came to a standstill. As on the last occasion that he had

surveyed the house, there were lights in three of the windows, and from

this illumination he argued that his men were at home. Without

hesitation he went up the steps and rang the bell. Before he could have

counted fifty it was opened by Mrs. Jeffreys herself, who looked

suspiciously at the person she saw before her. It was evident that in

the tall, well-made man with iron-grey moustache and dark hair, she did

not recognize her elderly acquaintance, Klimo, the detective.

"Are you Mrs. Jeffreys?" asked the new-comer, in a low voice.

"I am," she answered. "Pray, what can I do for you?"

"I was told by a friend to give you this card."

He thereupon handed to her a card on which was written the one word

"Klimo." She glanced at it, and, as if that magic name were sufficient

to settle every doubt, beckoned to him to follow her. Having softly

closed the door she led him down the passage until she arrived at a door

on her right hand. This she opened and signed to him to enter. It was

a room that was half office half library.

"I am to understand that you come from Mr. Klimo?" she said, trembling

under the intensity of her emotion. "What am I to do?"

"First be as calm as you can. Then tell me where the men are with whom

I have to deal."

"They are having their supper in the dining-room. They went out soon

after luncheon, and only returned an hour ago."

"Very good. Now, if you will conduct me upstairs, I shall be glad to

see if your father is well enough to sign a document I have brought with

me. Nothing can be done until I have arranged that."

"If you will come with me I will take you to him. But we must go

quietly, for the men are so suspicious that they send for me to know the

meaning of every sound. I was dreadfully afraid your ring would bring

them out into the hall."

Leading the way up the stairs she conducted him to a room on the first

floor, the door of which she opened carefully. On entering, Carne found

himself in a well-furnished bedroom. A bed stood in the center of the

room, and on this lay a man. In the dim light, for the gas was turned

down till it showed scarcely a glimmer, he looked more like a skeleton

than a human being. A long white beard lay upon the coverlet, his hair

was of the same color, and the pallor of his skin more than matched

both. That he was conscious was shown by the question he addressed to

his daughter as they entered.

"What is it, Eileen?" he asked faintly. "Who is this gentleman, and why

does he come to see me?"

"He is a friend, father," she answered. "One who has come to save us

from these wicked men."

"God bless you, sir," said the invalid, and as he spoke he made as if he

would shake him by the hand. Carne, however, checked him.

"Do not move or speak," he said, "but try and pull yourself together

sufficiently to sign this paper."

"What is the document?"

"It is something without which I can take no sort of action. My

instructions are to do nothing until you have signed it. You need not

be afraid; it will not hurt you. Come, sir, there is no time to be

wasted. If these rascals are to be got out of England our scheme must

be carried out to-night."

"To do that I will sign anything. I trust your honor for its contents.

Give me pen and ink."

His daughter supported him in her arms, while Carne dipped a pen in the

bottle of ink he had brought with him and placed it in the tremulous

fingers. Then, the paper being supported on a book, the old man

laboriously traced his signature at the place indicated. When he had

done so he fell back upon the pillow completely exhausted.

Carne blotted it carefully, then folded the paper up, placed it in his

pocket and announced himself ready for the work. The clock upon the

mantlepiece showed him that it was a quarter to eleven, so that if he

intended to act that night he knew he must do so quickly. Bidding the

invalid rest happy in the knowledge that his safety was assured, he

beckoned the daughter to him.

"Go downstairs," he said in a whisper, "and make sure that the men are

still in the dining room."

She did as he ordered her, and in a few moments returned with the

information that they had finished their supper and had announced their

intention of going to bed.

"In that case we must hurry," said Carne. "Where are my men concealed?"

"In the room at the end of that passage," was the girl's reply.

"I will go to them. In the meantime you must return to the study

downstairs, where we will join you in five minutes' time. Just before

we enter the room in which they are sitting, one of my men will ring the

front-door bell. You must endeavor to make the fellows inside believe

that you are trying to prevent us gaining admittance. We shall arrest

you, and then deal with them. Do you understand?"

"Perfectly."

She slipped away, and Carne hastened to the room at the end of the

passage. He scratched with his finger-nail upon the door, and a second

later it was opened by a sergeant of police. On stepping inside he

found two constables and an inspector awaiting him. "Is all prepared,

Belton?" he inquired.

"Quite prepared, sir."

"Then come along, and step as softly as you can."

As he spoke he took from his pocket a couple of papers, and led the way

along the corridor and down the stairs. With infinite care they made

their way along the hall until they reached the dining-room door, where

Mrs. Jeffreys joined them. Then the street bell rang loudly, and the

man who had opened the front door a couple of inches shut it with a

bang. Without further hesitation Carne called upon the woman to stand

aside, while Belton threw open the dining-room door.

"I tell you, sir, you are mistaken," cried the terrified woman.

"I am the best judge, of that," said Carne roughly, and then, turning to

Belton, he added: "Let one of your men take charge of this woman."

On hearing them enter the two men they were in search of had risen from

the chairs they had been occupying on either side of the fire, and stood

side by side upon the hearth-rug, staring at the intruders as if they

did not know what to do.

"James Maguire and Patrick Wake Rooney," said Carne, approaching the two

men, and presenting the papers he held in his hand, "I have here

warrants, and arrest you both on a charge of being concerned in a Fenian

plot against the well-being of Her Majesty's Government. I should

advise you to submit quietly. The house is surrounded, constables are

posted at all the doors, and there is not the slightest chance of

escape."

The men seemed too thunderstruck to do anything, and submitted quietly

to the process of handcuffing. When they had been secured, Carne turned

to the inspector and said:

"With regard to the other man who is ill upstairs, Septimus O'Grady, you

had better post a man at his door."

"Very good, sir."

Then turning to Messrs. Maguire and Rooney, he said: "I am authorized by

Her Majesty's Government to offer you your choice between arrest and

appearance at Bow Street, or immediate return to America. Which do you

choose? I need not tell you that we have proof enough in our hands to

hang the pair of you if necessary. You had better make up your minds as

quickly as possible, for I have no time to waste."

The men stared at him in supreme astonishment.

"You will not prosecute us?"

"My instructions are, in the event of your choosing the latter

alternative, to see that you leave the country at once. In fact, I

shall conduct you to Kingstown myself to-night, and place you aboard the

mail-boat there."

"Well, so far as I can see, it's Hobson's choice," said Maguire. "I'll

pay you the compliment of saying that you're smarter than I thought

you'd be. How did you come to know we were in England?"

"Because your departure from America was cabled to us more than a week

ago. You have been shadowed ever since you set foot ashore. Now

passages have been booked for you on board the outgoing boat, and you

will sail in her. First, however, it will be necessary for you to sign

this paper, pledging yourselves never to set foot in England again."

"And supposing we do not sign it?"

"In that case I shall take you both to Bow Street forthwith, and you

will come before the magistrates in the morning. You know what that

will mean."

For some moments they remained silent. Then Maguire said sullenly:

"Bedad, sir, since there's nothing else for it, I consent."

"And so do I," said Rooney. "Where's the paper?"

Carne handed them a formidable-looking document, and they read it in

turn with ostentatious care. As soon as they had professed themselves

willing to append their signatures to it, the sham detective took it to

a writing-table at the other end of the room, and then ordered them to

be unmanacled, so that they could come up in turn and sign. Had they

been less agitated it is just possible they would have noticed that two

sheets of blotting paper covered the context, and that only a small

space on the paper, which was of a bluish-grey tint, was left uncovered.

Then placing them in charge of the police officials, Carne left the room

and went upstairs to examine their baggage. Evidently he discovered

there what he wanted to know, for when he returned to the room his face

was radiant.

Half-an-hour later they had left the house in separate cabs. Rooney was

accompanied by Belton and one of his subordinates, now in plain clothes,

while Carne and another took charge of Maguire. At Euston they found

special carriages awaiting them, and the same procedure was adopted in

Ireland. The journey to Queenstown proved entirely uneventful; not for

one moment did the two men suspect the trick that was being played upon

them; nevertheless, it was with ill-concealed feelings of satisfaction

that Carne and Belton bade them farewell upon the deck of the

outward-bound steamer.

"Good-bye," said Maguire, as their captors prepared to pass over the

side again. "An' good luck to ye. I'll wish ye that, for ye've treated

us well, though it's a scurvy trick ye've played us in turning us out of

England like this. First, however, one question. What about O'Grady?"

"The same course will be pursued with him, as soon as he is able to

move," answered the other. "I can't say more."

"A word in your ear first," said Rooney. He leant towards Carne. "The

girl's a good one," he said. "An' ye may do what ye can for her, for she

knows naught of our business."

"I'll remember that if ever the chance arises," said Carne. "Now,

good-bye."

"Good-bye."

On the Wednesday morning following, an elderly gentleman, dressed in

rather an antiquated fashion, but boasting an appearance of great

respectability, drove up in a brougham to the branch of the United

Kingdom Bank in Oxford Street, and presented a cheque for no less a sum

than forty-five thousand pounds, signed with the names of Septimus

O'Grady, James Maguire, and Patrick Rooney, and bearing the date of the

preceding Friday.

The cheque was in perfect order, and, in spite of the largeness of the

amount, it was cashed without hesitation.

That afternoon Klimo received a visit from Mrs. Jeffreys. She came to

express her gratitude for his help, and to ask the extent of her debt.

"You owe me nothing but your gratitude. I will not take a half-penny.

I am quite well enough rewarded now," said Klimo with a smile.

When she had gone he took out his pocket-book and consulted it.

"Forty-five thousand pounds," he said with a chuckle. "Yes, that is

good. I did not take her money, but I have been rewarded in another

way."

Then he went into Porchester House and dressed for the Garden Party at

Marlborough House, to which he had been invited.

*CHAPTER VI.*

*A VISIT IN THE NIGHT.*

One bright summer morning Simon Carne sat in his study, and reflected on

the slackness of things in general. Since he had rendered such a signal

service to the State, as narrated in the previous chapter, he had done

comparatively nothing to raise himself in his own estimation. He was

thinking in this strain when his butler entered, and announced "Kelmare

Sahib." The interruption was a welcome one, and Carne rose to greet his

guest with every sign of pleasure on his face.

"Good-morning, Kelmare," he said, as he took the other's outstretched

hand; "I'm delighted to see you. How are you this morning?"

"As well as a man can hope to be under the circumstances," replied the

new arrival, a somewhat _blase_ youth, dressed in the height of fashion.

"You are going to the Greenthorpe wedding, of course. I hear you have

been invited."

"You are quite right; I have," said Carne, and presently produced a card

from the basket, and tossed it across the table.

The other took it up with a groan.

"Yes," he said, "that's it, by Jove! And a nice-looking document it is.

Carne, did you ever hate anybody so badly that it seemed as if it would

be scarcely possible to discover anything you would not do to hurt

them?"

"No," answered Carne, "I cannot say that I have. Fate has always found

me some way or another in which I might get even with my enemies. But

you seem very vindictive in this matter. What's the reason of it?"

"Vindictive!" said Kelmare, "of course I am; think how they have treated

me. A year ago, this week, Sophie Greenthorpe and I were engaged. Old

Greenthorpe had not then turned his business into a limited liability

company, and my people were jolly angry with me for making such a

foolish match; but I did not care. I was in love, and Sophie

Greenthorpe is as pretty a girl as can be found in the length and

breadth of London. But there, you've seen her, so you know for

yourself. Well, three months later, old Greenthorpe sold his business

for upwards of three million sterling. On the strength of it he went

into the House, gave thirty thousand to the funds of his party, and

would have received a baronetcy for his generosity, had his party not

been shunted out of power.

"Inside another month all the swells had taken them up; dukes and earls

were as common at the old lady's receptions as they had been scarce

before and I began to understand that, instead of being everybody to

them as I had once been, the old fellow was beginning to think his

daughter might have done much better than become engaged to the third

son of an impecunious earl.

"Then Kilbenham came upon the scene. He's a fine-looking fellow and a

marquis, but, as you know as well as I do, a real bad hat. He hasn't a

red cent in the world to bless himself with, and he wanted

money--well--just about as badly as a man _could_ want it. What's the

result? Within six weeks I am thrown over, and she has accepted

Kilbenham's offer of marriage. Society says--'What a good match!' and,

as if to endorse it, you receive an invitation to the ceremony."

"Forgive me, but you are growing cynical now," said Carne, as he lit a

fresh cigar.

"Haven't I good cause to be?" asked Kelmare. "Wait till you've been

treated as I have, and then we'll see how you'll feel. When I think how

every man you meet speaks of Kilbenham, and of the stories that are

afloat concerning him, and hear the way old Greenthorpe and his

pretensions are laughed at in the clubs, and sneered at in the papers,

and am told that they are receiving presents of enormous value from all

sorts and conditions of people, from Royalty to the poor devils of

workmen he still under-pays just because Kilbenham is a marquis and she

is the daughter of a millionaire, why, I can tell you it is enough to

make any one cynical."

"In the main, I agree with you," said Carne. "But, as life is made up

of just such contradictions, it seems to me absurd to butt your head

against a stone wall, and then grumble because it hurts and you don't

make any impression on it. Do you think the presents are as wonderful

as they say? I want to know, because I've not given mine yet. In these

days one gives as others give. If they have not received anything very

good, then a pair of electro-plated entree dishes will meet the case.

If the reverse--well--diamonds, perhaps, or an old Master that the

Americans are wild to buy, and can't."

"Who is cynical now, I should like to know?" said Kelmare. "I was told

this morning that up to the present, with the superb diamonds given by

the bride's father, they have totalled a value of something like twenty

thousand pounds."

"You surprise me," answered Carne.

"I am surprised myself," said Kelmare, as he rose to go. "Now, I must

be off. I came in to see if you felt inclined for a week's cruise in

the Channel. Burgrave has lent me his yacht, and somehow I think a

change of air will do me good."

"I am very sorry," said Carne, "but it would be quite impossible for me

to get away just now. I have several important functions on hand that

will keep me in town."

"I suppose this wedding is one of them?"

"To tell the honest truth, I had scarcely thought of it," replied Carne.

"Must you be off? Well, then, good-bye."

When Kelmare had disappeared, Carne went back to his study, and seated

himself at his writing-table. "Kelmare is a little over-sensitive," he

said, "and his pique is spoiling his judgment. He does not seem to

realize that he has come very well out of a jolly bad business. I am

not certain which I pity most--Miss Greenthorpe, who is a heartless

little hussy, or the Marquis of Kilbenham who is a thorough-paced

scoundrel. The wedding, however, promises to be a fashionable one,

and--"

He stopped midway, rose, and stood against the mantel-piece, staring

into the empty fireplace. Presently he flipped the ash of his cigar, and

turned round. "It never struck me in that light before," he said, as he

pressed the button of the electric bell in the wall beside him. When it

was answered, he ordered his carriage, and a quarter of an hour later

was rolling down Regent Street.

Reaching a well-known jeweler's shop, he pulled the check string, and,

the door having been opened, descended, and went inside. It was not the

first time he had had dealings with the firm, and as soon as he was

recognized the proprietor hastened forward himself to wait upon him.

"I want a nice wedding present for a young lady," he said, when the

other had asked what he could have the pleasure of showing him.

"Diamonds, I think, for preference."

A tray containing hairpins, brooches, rings, and aigrettes set with

stones was put before him, but Carne was not satisfied. He wanted

something better, he said--something a little more imposing. When he

left the shop a quarter of an hour later he had chosen a diamond

bracelet, for which he had paid the sum of one thousand pounds.

As Carne rolled down the street, he took the bracelet from its case and

glanced at it. He had long since made up his mind as to his line of

action, and having done so, was now prepared to start business without

delay. On leaving the shop, he had ordered his coachman to drive home;

but on second thoughts he changed his mind, and, once more pulling the

check string, substituted Berkeley Square for Park Lane.

"I must be thoroughly convinced in my own mind," he said "before I do

anything, and the only way to do that will be to see old Greenthorpe

himself without delay. I think I have a good and sufficient excuse in

my pocket. At any rate, I'll try it."

On reaching the residence in question, he instructed his footman to

inquire whether Mr. Greenthorpe was at home, and if so, if he would see

him. An answer in the affirmative was soon forthcoming, and a moment

later Carne and Greenthorpe were greeting each other in the library.

"Delighted to see you, my dear sir," the latter said as he shook his

guest warmly by the hand, at the same time hoping that old Sir Mowbray

Mowbray next door, who was a gentleman of the old school, and looked

down on the plutocracy, could see and recognize the magnificent equipage

standing before his house. "This is most kind of you, and indeed I take

it as most friendly too."

Carne's face was as smiling and fascinating as it was wont to be, but an

acute observer might have read in the curves of his lips a little of the

contempt he felt for the man before him. Matthew Greenthorpe's face and

figure betrayed his origin as plainly as any words could have done. If

this had not been sufficient, his dress and the profusion of

jewelry--principally diamonds--that decked his person would have told

the tale. In appearance he was short, stout, very red about the face,

and made up what he lacked in breeding by an effusive familiarity that

sometimes bordered on the offensive.

"I am afraid," said Carne, when his host had finished speaking, "that I

ought to be ashamed of myself for intruding on you at such an early

hour. I wanted, however, to thank you personally for the kind

invitation you have sent me to be present at your daughter's wedding."

"I trust you will be able to come," replied Mr. Greenthorpe a little

anxiously, for he was eager that the world should know that he and the

now famous Simon Carne were on familiar terms.

"That is exactly what has brought me to see you," said Carne. "I regret

to say I hardly know yet whether I shall be able to give myself that

pleasure or not. An important complication has arisen in connection

with some property in which I am interested, and it is just possible

that I shall be called to the Continent within the next few days. My

object in calling upon you this morning was to ask you to permit me to

withhold my answer until I am at liberty to speak more definitely as to

my arrangements."

"By all means, by all means," answered his host, placing himself with

legs wide apart upon the hearthrug, and rattling the money in his

trouser pockets. "Take just as long as you like so long as you don't say

you can't come. Me and the missus--hem!--I mean Mrs. Greenthorpe and

I--are looking forward to the pleasure of your society, and I can tell

you we sha'n't think our company complete if we don't have you with us."

"I am extremely flattered," said Carne sweetly, "and you may be sure it

will not be my fault if I am not among your guests."

"Hear, hear, to that, sir," replied the old gentleman. "We shall be a

merry party, and, I trust, a distinguished one. We _did_ hope to have

had Royalty present among us, but, unfortunately, there were special

reasons, that I am hardly privileged to mention, which prevented it.

However, the Duke of Rugby and his Duchess, the father and mother of my

future son-in-law, you know, are coming; the Earl of Boxmoor and his

countess have accepted; Lord Southam and his lady, half-a-dozen baronets

or so, and as many Members of Parliament and their wives as you can

count on one hand. There'll be a ball the night before, given by the

Mayor at the Assembly Rooms, a dinner to the tenants at the conclusion

of the ceremony, and a ball in my own house after the young couple have

gone away. You may take it from me, my dear sir, that nothing on a

similar scale has even been seen at Market Stopford before."

"I can quite believe it," said Carne. "It will mark an epoch in the

history of the country."

"It will do more than that, sir. The festivities alone will cost me a

cool five thousand pounds. At first _I_ was all for having it in town,

but I was persuaded out of it. After all, a country house is better

suited to such jinks. And we mean to do it well."

He took Carne familiarly by the button of his coat, and, sinking his

voice to an impressive whisper, asked him to hazard a guess how much the

whole affair, presents and all, would cost.

Carne shook his head. "I have not the very remotest notion," he said.

"But if you wish me to guess, I will put it at fifty thousand pounds."

"Not enough by half, sir--not enough by half. Why, I'll let you into a

secret that even my wife knows nothing about."

As he spoke, he crossed the room to a large safe in the wall. This he

unlocked and having done so took from it an oblong box, wrapped in

tissue paper. This he placed on the table in the center of the room,

and then, having looked out into the hall to make sure that no one was

about, shut and locked the door. Then, turning to Carne, he said:

"I don't know what you may think, sir, but there are some people I know

as try to insinuate that if you have money you can't have taste. Now,

I've got the money"--here he threw back his shoulders, and tapped

himself proudly on the chest--"and I'm going to convince you, sir, that

I've got as pretty an idea of taste as any man could wish to have. This

box will prove it."

So saying he unwrapped the tissue paper, and displayed to Carne's

astonished gaze a large gilded casket, richly chased, standing upon four

massive feet.

"There, sir, you see," he said, "an artistic bit of workmanship, and

I'll ask you to guess what it's for."

Carne, however, shook his head. "I'm afraid I'm but a poor hand at

guessing, but, if I must venture an opinion, I should say a jewel case."

Thereupon Mr. Greenthorpe lifted the lid.

"And you would be wrong, sir. I will tell you what it is for. That box

has been constructed to contain exactly fifty thousand sovereigns and on

her wedding day it will be filled, and presented to the bride, as a

token of her father's affection. Now, if that isn't in good taste, I

shall have to ask you to tell me what is."

"I am astonished at your munificence," said Carne. "To be perfectly

candid with you, I don't know that I have ever heard of such a present

before."

"I thought you'd say so. I said to myself when I ordered that box, 'Mr.

Carne is the best judge of what is artistic in England, and I'll take

his opinion about it.'"

"I suppose your daughter has received some valuable presents?"

"Valuable, sir? Why, that's no name for it. I should put down what has

come in up to the present at, not a penny under twenty thousand pounds.

Why, you may not believe it, sir, but Mrs. Greenthorpe has presented the

young couple with a complete toilet-set of solid gold. I doubt if such

another has been seen in this country before."

"I should say it would be worth a burglar's while to pay a visit to your

house on the wedding day," said Carne with a smile.

"He wouldn't get much for his pains," said the old gentleman warmly. "I

have already provided for that contingency. The billiard-room will be

used as a treasure-chamber for the time being, as there is a big safe

like that over yonder in the wall. This week bars are being placed on

all the windows, and on the night preceding, and also on the wedding

day, one of my gardeners will keep watch in the room itself, while one

of the village policemen will mount guard at the door in the passage.

Between them they ought to be sufficient to keep out any burglars who

may wish to try their hands upon the presents. What do you think?"

At that moment the handle of the door turned, and an instant later the

bride-elect entered the room. On seeing Simon Carne she paused upon the

threshold with a gesture of embarrassment, and made as if she would

retreat. Carne, however, was too quick for her. He advanced and held

out his hand.

"How do you do, Miss Greenthorpe," he said, looking her steadily in the

face. "You father has just been telling me of the many beautiful

presents you have received. I am sure I congratulate you most heartily.

With your permission I will add my mite to the list. Such as it is, I

would beg your acceptance of it."