Wilson lunched on bread and cheese and cider in a village inn, and

then walked slowly back towards Paramé. He would make sure whether the

boat had returned, and, if it had, would perhaps even pay a call on

Norah Culpepper. Again he stole through the coppice, and looked into

the boathouse. It was empty: the girl had not yet come back. He went

round to the front of the house. Mrs. Culpepper was again sitting in

the sunny garden, reading a book. Wilson approached the front door, and

knocked. Marie answered, and he asked if Mrs. Culpepper was at home.

The old servant, with a sharp look at him, as if she wondered on what

business he had come, went away to look for her mistress. It was plain

she recognised him, but she did not refer to their previous meeting.

After a minute she returned, and conducted him round the corner of the

house to where its mistress was sitting.

"I hope you will not think this an unpardonable intrusion," said

Wilson. "I am holiday-making in these parts, and, seeing you in the

garden, I came to pay my respects to you and your daughter. You will

remember my visit in the winter."

Mrs. Culpepper had seemed flustered, but she was reassured when he said

that he had not come on business.

"Unfortunately," she told him, "my husband and daughter are both away.

Do sit down, please."

Wilson took a chair beside her. "Is Miss Culpepper in England?" he

asked.

Mrs. Culpepper gave a start. "In England!" she said. "She ... oh, dear

no, she is only out on a pleasure trip ... in her boat."

"I thought she might be with her father in London."

"Dear me, no. We are stay-at-home folks, Norah and I."

"Surely Miss Culpepper sees something of London, now that Mr. Culpepper

is there so much. You should come yourself sometimes, Mrs. Culpepper."

"I much prefer staying quietly at home, Mr. Wilson."

"I saw your daughter not so long ago in England, I think. Let me see

now. Was it when I was at Weymouth, or Southampton?" Wilson drew a bow

at a venture.

Mrs. Culpepper fluttered a little, he thought, as she answered, "I

think you must be mistaken, Mr. Wilson. I am sure Norah has not been at

either of those places."

"I was not mistaken about seeing her, Mrs. Culpepper," said Wilson,

laughing; "though, upon my word, I have forgotten where it was. It

was some place on the south coast, I am sure. I'm trying to remember

where. Perhaps you know where she stayed, when she was in England. I

shall remember in a minute."

"Norah has been to England once or twice ... with her father. But I am

afraid I don't know quite where they went. Perhaps it was in London you

met her."

"No, it was not London. Somewhere on the south coast. Some small place,

I think. I had motored out from Southampton. She was in a boat--a

pretty motor-boat, Mrs. Culpepper. I remember perfectly. Your daughter

is not the kind of person one forgets. But for the life of me I can't

remember the name of the place. However, it doesn't matter."

Having failed, by his rather clumsy ruse, to get the name of the

place where Norah Culpepper was in the habit of landing in England,

Wilson quickly changed the subject, and talked of indifferent things

in the hope of disarming Mrs. Culpepper's suspicions. He had talked

her into quite a good humour before long. Then he returned to his

purpose by a more roundabout way. He began talking of the merits and

demerits of the various resorts, large and small, on the south coast

of England, watching Mrs. Culpepper eagerly to see if any name made

her start or betray uneasiness. She did not do either, but when he

mentioned Bournemouth and Poole he noticed that she abruptly changed

the subject, and at the first opportunity rose and gave him her hand,

thanking him pleasantly for his call, and again regretting the absence

of her husband and daughter. Wilson left her, by no means sure that

he had got the clue he wanted, but feeling that it was at least worth

while to make a few inquiries in the neighbourhood of Bournemouth and

Poole. There was an excellent harbour at Poole, and many motor-boats,

enough to make one more or less inconspicuous. A quotation--or rather a

misquotation--from one of his favourite authors came to his mind.

"Where does a man hide a pebble? On the beach. Where does a man hide a

leaf? In the forest," he repeated softly to himself, as he walked back

in the direction of St. Malo.

CHAPTER XXVI

OF AN OLD SALT, AND HIS DEALINGS WITH A YOUNG LADY

Wilson had sad news to break to his wife that evening. Holiday or no

holiday, he was going back to England at once. He hoped that he would

not be away more than a couple of days, but he could not be certain. He

had a clue which he must follow up at once.

That admirable woman received his news with no more than a sigh. She

had half expected some such development, and she had known all along

that his choice of a place for his holiday was not all disinterested

love for the coast or the people of France. "Get back as soon as you

can, dear," she said; "the children will be dull without you."

Wilson kissed his wife, and promised to lose no time in coming back.

Then he told her exactly what he had discovered, and what was the

purpose of his journey to England. Finally, he asked her what she

thought.

"I'm certain of one thing," she said, "and that is this. Mr. Pasquett

didn't kill Hugh Radlett, or any one else. When you brought him home,

dear, I had a good chance of telling what he was like. And I'm quite

sure Mr. Pasquett never killed anybody."

"It's odd, but that's just how I feel myself. I can't fancy him a

murderer----"

"Or the accomplice of a murderer," Mrs. Wilson put in.

"Or a murderer's accomplice," Wilson agreed. "And yet----Why did he

lie about his _alibi_? Why did he deliberately fake an _alibi_, as he

must have done?"

"Perhaps, dear, if he really was in England secretly at the time, he

was afraid he would be suspected, and made up his _alibi_ for that

reason."

"He was a fool if he did," said Wilson. "And yet--was he? If he was

doing a bit of smuggling with that Culpepper girl, it might be awkward

for him to say where he was."

"I never said he wasn't a smuggler, dear. I only said he wasn't a

murderer. There's a great difference."

"Quite. And that might account for the _alibi_ fake, especially if he

was in it with the Culpepper girl. But he didn't cross to England with

Norah Culpepper. How did he get into England? That's what I want to

know. There's no record of his entry at any of the steamship offices."

"If Miss Culpepper could cross the Channel unknown, so could he, I

suppose."

"Yes, that's so. But why did he cross? What was he doing on that secret

journey to England, if he wasn't mixed up with the murder? And how did

the Culpepper girl come to bring him back in her boat?"

"Was he in the smuggling business with her?"

"Possibly; but, in that case, why didn't they cross from France

together? No, I can't help feeling that Pasquett's journey had

something to do with the murder. Old Culpepper had, you see. He was

actually on the spot when the murder was committed. And Pasquett was

his business associate, as well as mixed up with his daughter. No,

it must all hang together, but I'm damned if I see how. You see,

Culpepper's story seems to prove that Rosenbaum did it."

"In the light of what you've found out, dear, do you think Mr.

Culpepper is to be regarded as a very reliable witness."

"No, of course not. His story is very likely all a fake, too. But, if

it is, what have we to go on? I can only follow this smuggling trail

blindly, in the hope that it will lead me somewhere."

* * * * *

Wilson caught the boat at St. Malo on the following day, and landed

in the late afternoon at Southampton. Thence he took train for

Bournemouth, where he put up at a hotel for the night. He rose early

the next day, and began an energetic inquiry among the boatmen, with

the object of seeing whether Norah Culpepper and her motor-boat were

known at all in those parts. He drew blank, and set out to walk along

the shore to Poole Harbour, which, he told himself, was the most likely

place. As he walked, he kept a keen look-out for any place likely to

furnish harbourage for a motor-boat that desired an inconspicuous

refuge. There was nothing till he had passed Canford Cliffs, and come

within a short distance of Poole itself. Then he struck inland, and

made for the town along the eastern side of the harbour.

Poole Harbour is a big expanse, and Wilson realised that his quest

was not easy. He wanted to find out whether a particular motor-boat,

whose owner had probably been at pains to make it as inconspicuous as

possible, had been seen anywhere in the harbour nearly nine months

before. And he had only a suspicion that it had ever been there at all.

Direct inquiries on this point were almost certain to be fruitless, but

there was fortunately another way of approach. To the best of Wilson's

belief, Norah Culpepper had been on one of her voyages to England only

two nights before. Obviously the right line of inquiry was to begin by

trying to trace her most recent visit, and then work back, if he could,

to the events of the previous November. But, first of all, he would

make a call on the revenue authorities and the coastguards, and see if

they could help him in any way.

The authorities at the port were quite unhelpful. They had no suspicion

that any smuggling was going on, and seemed to regard smuggling as an

obsolete occupation. Nor had they any knowledge of Norah Culpepper or

her boat. Wilson left them, and went towards the coastguard look-out,

where he found an old sailor in charge. He explained that what he

wanted was to get on the trail of a motor-boat, which he described,

manned by a girl and a Frenchman, which he believed to be in the habit

of making occasional visits to the harbour. The boat came, he said, all

the way from France.

The coastguardsman denied all knowledge of such a boat. No one, he

said, would be such a fool as to make voyages from St. Malo to Poole

in a small motor-boat. It could be done, he admitted, but it would be

dangerous work, even apart from the risk of being caught smuggling.

"No," he said, "there ain't no boat comes here from France. Not but

what," he added reflectively, "the boat sounds mighty like the young

lady from Lymington. She 'as a French chap as helps 'er manage."

Wilson's heart leapt up. A few further inquiries left no doubt in his

mind that "the young lady from Lymington" was really Norah Culpepper,

or that she had covered her journeys to Poole by pretending to come

from just along the coast.

"When did you last see that young lady?" he asked.

"A month ago or more," was the disappointing reply. "But one of the

others may have seen her since. I'll ask." He bawled to the two men

standing on the look-out, "Has either of ye seen that girl from

Lymington here lately? Her with the fast motor-boat?"

Wilson saw the two men exchange a few words. Then one came towards

them. "I saw her two nights ago," he said. "Why, what's up?"

"Then she's the woman I'm looking for," said Wilson. "I've explained to

your mate I'm an officer from Scotland Yard." The man whistled. "Now, I

want you to tell me, if you can, whether any of you saw her here on the

night of November 17th last, or on that or the following day."

The two men looked at each other. "Too long ago," said the old man, and

the other nodded. "I shouldn't remember if I had." "Nor should I," said

the other. "She comes here about once a month, I should say." The older

man agreed.

"Well," said Wilson, "if you can find out about November 17th, there'll

be something for you." Both men shook their heads. "But, even if you

can't," Wilson went on, "perhaps you know where she puts the boat when

she's here."

"Is it down at Peter's, Billy?" asked the younger man.

"Ay, Peter's," said the elder. "Maybe you don't know old Peter."

Wilson affirmed his ignorance.

"Peter's an old chap, used to be a fisherman, has a crazy old boathouse

up by Hamworthy," said the younger man. "He's too old to go out

himself, and he lets out boats off the beach."

"He might know 'bout November," said the other.

Wilson thanked the coastguardsmen, and set off in search of Peter, whom

he had been told he would find in a little cabin on the beach, near

his boats. He had no difficulty in locating it. "This is Peter's," was

scrawled in red on a plank fixed on the top of the cabin. "Boats for

hire," it said beneath, and there was a doggerel inscription scrawled

on the wall.

"If in a pretty boat you'd sail,

Upon the ocean's breast,

Remember this and do not fail,

OLD PETER HAS THE BEST."

"AND CHEAPEST" was written below, apparently as an

afterthought, a concession of the poet to the spirit of competitive

industry. Wilson approached the cabin. Its proprietor came out as he

drew near.

"Old Peter" did not look like a real sailor. He was more like a

landsman decked out as an advertisement of Lifebuoy Soap. On his head

was an enormous sou'wester, on his feet an enormous pair of sea-boots.

The space between was filled in with oilskins of an appearance

too nautical to be true, and by a great, shaggy, bearded face, in

which were set a pair of little, cold, calculating eyes with the

most unnautical appearance. In short, "Old Peter" was got up as the

authentic representation of the "Old Salt."

Wilson greeted this apparition. "Business brisk?" he asked. "Old Peter"

replied by moistening a finger and holding it up to catch the wind.

"A fine day for a sail, your honour," he said. He spoke with a strong

Irish brogue.

Wilson replied that he was looking for a young lady of his

acquaintance, who, he believed, kept her boat with him at Hamworthy. He

described Norah Culpepper. Did "Old Peter" know if she was in the town?

"Sure, and it's but two days ago she was here," was the answer. Wilson

pretended disappointment. "This is the second time I've missed her," he

said. "The other time was in the winter, the middle of last November."

"Your honour means the time she came here alone, an' the gentleman met

her and took her back with him."

"Yes. I was to have gone with them," Wilson improvised. "I'm an old

friend of hers."

"A fine young lady," said Old Peter. "An' she can handle a motor-car as

well as she can a boat."

"I didn't know she ever brought her car here."

"Why, sir, that very time you were speakin' of, she drove down the

gentleman in a motor-car to my bit of a place out at Hamworthy. In a

proper hurry, too, she was. She told me I was to get the car driven in

to Poole and sent back to the garage, and she and the gentleman went

off in the boat. She left me the money to pay the garage--and something

for meself, sir. A most open-handed young lady, by your honour's leave."

"When was it you say that happened?"

"Faith, and what does it matter, and it so long ago?"

Wilson took a note from his pocket, and held it in his hand as he

answered, "Oh, I wondered if you remembered. That's all."

Old Peter's eyes fastened on the note. "And why wouldn't I remember?"

he said. "Sure, it was the day one of me boats was stolen."

"What day was it?"

Old Peter consulted a dog's-eared memorandum book. "It was on the

eighteenth day of November."

"What time of day?"

"In the afternoon, your honour. I was just after havin' me afternoon

nap when they drove up."

"Do you know where they had come from?"

"I do not, but the gentleman at the garage said it was the day before

she had had the car, and she'd been after drivin' it a matter of two

hundred and fifty miles."

Wilson quickly thought out the distance from Poole to London. It

coincided nearly enough with the distance mentioned for the double

journey. He confirmed the information that Norah Culpepper came

to Poole in her boat about once a month, always, save on this one

occasion, accompanied by Etienne. They arrived usually in the morning,

and left in the late afternoon. As Wilson took his leave, the old man

said, fingering the note which Wilson had given him, "It's thirsty

weather, sir, an' I wouldn't like to be breakin' into this for the

matter of a drink." Wilson laughed, added a _pourboire_ to the note,

and made for the town.

At the garage where Norah Culpepper had hired her car he met with a

disappointment. The place had changed hands only two months before, and

the old proprietor had died. The man who had been his assistant had

left the town, and his whereabouts were unknown. No confirmation could

therefore be got of what Old Peter had told him. Wilson called at the

police station, and set the local police to work to discover some one

who had been at the garage at the time when the car was hired. But he

did not propose to wait in Poole till this was done. He caught the next

train for London. "Now for Mr. Culpepper," he said to himself.

CHAPTER XXVII

IN WHICH A DEVOUT COMMUNIST RECEIVES AN INTOLERABLE INSULT, BUT

TRUTH IS FOUND IN THE MOUTHS OF BABES

Mr. Alfred Culpepper has become a very much greater man since we last

met him. Then he was somewhat careless of his appearance. His clothes

fitted none too well, and he wore them negligently. He looked like what

he was, a business man in a small way, with no pretensions to be more

than a respectable member of the middle class.

Now all that is changed. Mr. Culpepper arrays his small person in a

faultlessly cut morning coat. His top hat is always fresh and glossy;

his gloves always look new. For is he not a director of the great

syndicate which is to make the fortunes of so many British investors?

Is he not the colleague and personal representative of John Pasquett,

the millionaire _entrepreneur_, now absent in Asiatic Russia? And does

it not behove such a man to dress the part, and to be prepared to stand

comparisons even with the great Lord Ealing--the best dressed man in

the whole _Directory of Directors_, to say nothing of _Who's Who?_

Lord Ealing, to be sure, finds Culpepper's airs and graces more than

a little ridiculous. He says that Culpepper looks like the last word

in shopwalkers. But he is careful not to say it in the little man's

hearing. He is always charming when they meet. And Culpepper is never

weary of speaking about his friend and colleague, the Earl of Ealing--a

business man and one of Nature's gentlemen, as well as Debrett's.

Yet we may surmise that little Mr. Culpepper is not unaware that Lord

Ealing is laughing at him, or that some people find his lapse into

dandyism ridiculous. Perhaps he even wishes to be thought a little

foolish--a valuable reputation in the City for a man who is, in fact,

peculiarly wide awake.

Superintendent Wilson had only seen Mr. Culpepper once or twice since

the Radlett affair dropped out of sight. But he had seen enough of

him to form the opinion that the little man had brains. As their last

meeting had been before Mr. Culpepper blossomed out as a swell, he was

more than a little surprised at the glossy appearance of Pasquett's

partner when, in the manner to be related, Culpepper walked into

General Bunker's office at Scotland Yard. "Why," he asked himself at

once, "is the fellow giving himself airs and playing the dandy? Not,

I'm sure, because his head is turned or for the fun of the thing. No,

he must have something up his sleeve." Wilson had no time, however, to

analyse his sensations. There were other matters to occupy him--matters

which brooked no delay.

For, on his arrival at Scotland Yard, direct from his adventures

at Poole, Wilson had met with a surprise. He had been greeted with

amazement by Inspector Blaikie on entering the office. "Why, I have

just wired off a despatch to you in France," Blaikie had said.

"Bunker's scored over us all. He's got Rosenbaum."

"Another of them? Good Lord," said Wilson, thinking of the indignant

Ivor Rose whom Bunker had mistaken for a Bolshevik. "What the devil do

you mean?"

"It's the right man this time," said Blaikie. "At least, I think so."

"Heaven help us. Has Bunker done something sensible at last?" said

Wilson. "How did he get him?"

"He'll never forgive me if I don't let him tell you himself," said

Blaikie. "Will you come along to his room?"

Wilson asked no further questions, but followed down the maze of

corridors to Bunker's office.

"Come in," said a loud, cheery voice, and they entered the General's

presence.

"Hallo, Wilson, that you? Thought you were abroad. Have you heard the

news?"

"Blaikie has just told me that you have arrested Rosenbaum."

"Nabbed him, begad. Smart work, what?"

"How did it happen?"

"Well, the fellow had the audacity to come back to this country."

"How did you get on his track?"

"Um--we didn't exactly get on his track. You see, things were getting

a bit dull, and I thought we'd brush 'em up a bit. Must keep people

thinkin' about the Red Peril, don't you know. So I just raided all the

Bolshie holes in London to see what I should find. Landed a big fish,

too, 'pon my word."

Wilson was a little relieved to find that only accident had delivered

Rosenbaum into General Bunker's hands. Fortunate accidents would

happen, even in the worst-regulated departments.

"I see. Sheer luck," he said unkindly.

Bunker was too elated to be angry. "No such thing, my boy," he

answered. "Sheer inspiration, I call it. What was it made me raid that

place just then, if it wasn't inspiration?"

"What place? Where did you get him?"

"At the Nineteen Seventeen Club, my boy," said Bunker, triumphantly.

"Always told you that place was a hotbed of Bolsheviks. They'd

positively made the fellow a member."

"Was he calling himself Rosenbaum?"

"Of course he wasn't. But I saw through him. He called himself Ivan

Slinski."

"How do you know he is Rosenbaum?"

"He says so himself. I made him confess it. Of course, when we arrested

him I hadn't the ghost of an idea who he was. But, as he was a Russian,

I knew he must be one of those scoundrels. So I had him in here and

talked to him like a father, all about murder and his vile principles,

and the gallows, and what'd be good for his soul. When I'd got fairly

out of him about his being one of a murder gang, suddenly he says, 'In

the name of God, I didn't do it. I am innocent. I swear I was never

within a mile of Sugden's Hotel that night.'

"You could have knocked me down with a feather when he said that. Of

course, I didn't know him from Adam till he owned up. But I twigged in

an instant who he must be when he started talking like that ("I leant

over and told him," whispered Blaikie to his chief; "I was there.")

So I said to him, 'Ivan Rosenbaum, all is discovered. You had better

confess everything.' Some stroke that, what." The General looked

triumphantly at his hearers.

Wilson turned to Blaikie. "You were there, were you?" he said.

"Absolutely caught the fellow out," Bunker went on. "He admitted then

he was Rosenbaum, but he persisted in saying he was innocent. Talked

some rot about murder being against his principles as a Communist. When

every one knows all Communists are murderers."

"I must see Rosenbaum," said Wilson.

"You shall, Wilson, you shall. He's almost due here now. I've sent for

that fellow Culpepper to identify him. I understand he saw him at the

hotel."

"He said he did," said Wilson. "Well, we shall see."

Inspector Blaikie struck in. "I arranged for the porter from Sugden's

Hotel to come here in half an hour's time, and Mr. Culpepper a quarter

of an hour later. I didn't tell them what for."

"Oh, you arranged it, did you?" said Wilson.

"Under my direction," said Bunker. "He's my prisoner."

"We won't quarrel over him," said Wilson. There was a knock at the

door. "Is that he?"

Bunker shouted, "Come in," and the prisoner entered between two

wardens. He was a tall, bushy-haired man, whose description tallied

with that given of Rosenbaum by Mr. Culpepper and the servants at

Sugden's Hotel.

"Would you like to question him?" asked Bunker of Wilson.

"If I may," said Wilson. "I understand your name is Ivan Rosenbaum?"

The prisoner replied sulkily, "Yes."

"You are an agent of Moscow?"

The prisoner refused to answer.

"On November 17th last you arrived at Sugden's Hotel in company with

Mr. Hugh Radlett?"

The prisoner suddenly became voluble. "It is a lie, an infamous lie. I

have never been to Sugden's Hotel in my life. I have met Mr. Radlett,

indeed, but it was on the ship. We have travelled together to England,

from Ostend, it is true. But the rest is lies, lies, all lies. Ah, it

is infamous."

"Not so fast, Mr. Rosenbaum. You admit that you accompanied Mr. Radlett

to England?"

"To England, yes. I have travelled with him at his invitation. But

at Dover, gentlemen, we part. I see him no more. I hear of him no

more till I read in your newspapers that he had been, how do you say,

assassinated."

"Yes, by Jove, and it was you who killed him," Bunker broke in.

Rosenbaum smiled a rather pitying smile at Bunker, and turned to

Wilson. "But, monsieur," he said, "I cannot make this gentleman

understand. It is absurd. I am a Communist--what you call a Bolshevik.

I avow it; I am proud of it. But do you not know that assassination is

against the principles of my party? Mass action, yes: assassination,

no--a thousand times no. Do you mistake me for a petit bourgeois

conspirator? I am a Communist, gentlemen." He struck an attitude of

proud defiance.

"What's the fellow talking about?" said Bunker. "Every one knows all

Communists are murderers, if not worse. Come, my man, you'd better

confess. You'll get justice here."

"I despise your justice. You insult my party--you insult our

Revolution. I will rise against you, yes. I will kill you in

the war you wage against our Soviet. But I will not murder you.

Murder--assassination--it is folly."

"Pardon, Mr. Rosenbaum," said Wilson. "I am loath to interrupt your

interesting lecture, but we have business to do. You came to England

with Mr. Radlett, you say, and you then stayed with him at Sugden's

Hotel. Is that so?"

"It is false. Am I not telling you? I travelled with Mr. Radlett on the

boat. I had met him at Moscow. He agreed to pass my luggage through

with his. We had agreed to travel together. But I left him at Dover. I

saw him no more. I never went to Sugden's Hotel. I can prove it. It is

an infamous fabrication of the bourgeoisie."

"You say you agreed to travel with Mr. Radlett. Where did you meet him?"

"I joined him at Ostend. I wanted to get into England, and he agreed to

help me by passing me through as his secretary. I had met him before at

Moscow and at Paris, where I had been living, and he had agreed to do

this. I was to wait for him at Ostend."

"So you travelled with him on the boat. When did you leave him?"

"As soon as my baggages were through the customs. I caught a train

to Croydon, where I was to stay with a friend. Mr. Radlett travelled

straight to London. I saw him no more."

"You say you can prove this. How?"

"By my friends, with whom I stayed the night in Croydon."

Bunker broke in, "What's the use of talkin' to the fellow, Wilson?

He'll laugh the other side of his face when the other chaps identify

him."

Then came a knock at the door before Wilson could answer, and Mr.

Sacheverell, the porter at Sugden's Hotel, was ushered into the room.

He had brought with him the boy in buttons who had been present at the

discovery of the crime. Thomas, laid up with influenza, had been unable

to come.

"Please sit down, Mr. Sacheverell," said Blaikie, placing a chair for

the porter. The boy stood beside him.

"Now, Mr. Sacheverell, and you, boy," said the General, "take a good

look at the prisoner."

The instruction was quite unnecessary. Both the porter and the boy were

staring at Rosenbaum as if they had seen a ghost.

"Tell me," said the General majestically to the porter, "have you ever

seen this man before?"

"Yessir," said the porter. "It's the foreign--gentleman what killed the

millionaire."

"Can you swear this is the man who stayed at Sugden's Hotel with Mr.

Radlett?"

"That's him, sir. I'd know him anywhere."

"Thank you," said the General. "And you, boy, do you confirm

this--ahem!--identification?"

The boy was still looking open-mouthed at the prisoner. "I dunno, sir,"

he said at last. "Leastways, it looks like 'im, but it ain't."

"Do you dare to tell me this is not the man?" roared the General.

"No, sir," said the boy. "'Cause t'other gent 'ad a crumpled ear, and

this gent ain't."

"What's that?" said Wilson, sitting suddenly upright. "You say the

other man had a crumpled ear. Do you mean Rosenbaum?"

"Yessir. I noticed it particular. This gent's got up all like 'im,

'xcept that, sir."

"You note that, Blaikie," said Wilson. He was plainly excited. The

Inspector looked at him with an expression of surprise. But Wilson said

no more.

"Boy," said General Bunker in a voice of thunder, "your evidence is

worthless."

"Please, sir, I'm sorry," said the boy. "I didn't mean no 'arm, sir."

"Mr.--er--Sacheverell's evidence is quite enough," said the General.

"At any rate," he added as there was another knock at the door, "we

shall soon have ample confirmation."

"Mr. Culpepper, sir," said an attendant, ushering that resplendent

little gentleman into the room.

Culpepper, as he entered, could not see the prisoner. But, as he caught

sight of the porter and the boy and the group of officials beyond them,

he gave a start. Smiling, however, he advanced into the room. Then it

was he saw the prisoner, standing between the two warders, and looking

curiously at him. "My God," he said, and sat down in the nearest chair.

"Mr. Culpepper," said the General, "do you recognise this scoundrel?"

Culpepper looked round with a bewildered air, and fixed at length a

frightened glance on the prisoner. "What does it all mean?" he said

helplessly.

"It means this," said Bunker, "that at last we have brought Mr.

Radlett's murderer to book. Again I ask you, is this the man you saw

with Radlett's murdered body in Sugden's Hotel?"

Culpepper cast another frightened look at Rosenbaum. "Yes," he

whispered.

"Is this the man who compelled you to pack the body in a trunk, after

threatening you with a revolver?"

"Yes," said Mr. Culpepper, still faintly.

"Did this man subsequently drug you, and conceal you in a cupboard?"

"Yes," said Mr. Culpepper, with more confidence.

"Lies, lies, all lies," shouted the prisoner, excitedly. "It is all a

plot."

Bunker roared him into silence.

"Are you prepared to swear to these facts in a court of law?" asked

Wilson.

"Y--yes, I suppose so," said Mr. Culpepper, with a return of panic.

"It's all right now, Mr. Culpepper," said the General condescendingly,

with contemptuous tolerance of the little man's terror. "He can't hurt

you, now. He is safe in my hands."

This speech ought presumably to have cheered Culpepper up, but it did

not seem to have that effect. He looked as miserable as ever, and

started violently again when Wilson suddenly put him a question.

"Has your daughter been to see you lately in England?"

Mr. Culpepper stared at the Superintendent in surprise. Bunker and the

Inspector did the same.

"Why--whatever has that got to do with it?" said the little man at last.

"Never you mind. Answer my question."

"N--no. Not for some time, that is."

"Was your daughter in England at the time of Mr. Radlett's murder?"

This time Culpepper looked really alarmed. "N--no. Certainly not," he

said. "She was in France, with my wife--and Mr. Pasquett."

"Why, Wilson, what on earth----" began the General.

"One moment, General," said the Superintendent. Then he turned again to

Culpepper.

"Have you been to Poole lately?" he asked.

"I d--don't know what you're talking about," wailed Mr. Culpepper.

"I--I've never been there in my life."

"Would it surprise you to learn that your daughter was in Poole three

days ago?"

"I--it would surprise me very much. She is in France with her mother. I

don't know what you mean."

"Would it surprise you to learn that your daughter was in Poole on the

night of the murder, and motored up to London early on the morning of

the discovery?"

"It's not true," Culpepper shouted, "she was in France with Mr.

Pasquett."

"Don't get excited, Mr. Culpepper. You maintain, then, that you had no

knowledge of your daughter's movements."

"I certainly have no knowledge of these absurd stories you are making

up."

"We shall see about that. Now, do you adhere to the story you told when

the crime was discovered, or do you wish to make any modification of

it? I warn you that anything you say may be used in evidence against

you."

"I protest, General Bunker. What am I charged with? Is there any charge

against me?"

"Really, Wilson," said the General, "I don't know where we are. Will

you kindly explain what all this has to do with identifying this

fellow?" He pointed to Rosenbaum, who, still standing between his two

warders, had been anxiously following the colloquy.

"All in good time, General," said Wilson. "You ask, quite fairly, what

you are charged with. I will tell you the exact position. There is no

charge against you at present, but, unless you are frank with us, you

will be charged with being an accessory to the murder."

"I, an accessory. Good God, what do you mean?"

"I mean," said Wilson, "that the whole story you told about the

murder was a tissue of lies from beginning to end. I mean that this

man Rosenbaum, whom you have pretended to identify, is not the

man who committed the murder, and that you knowingly made a wrong

identification. And, Mr. Culpepper, I know all about the uses you and

your daughter make of a certain villa at Paramé, and of a very handy

motor-boat you keep there. Is my meaning clear?"

Culpepper held his head down while Wilson was speaking, and avoided the

eyes of the men before him. He was evidently thinking hard.

"I have not the slightest idea what you are talking about," he said at

last. "The story I told after your Inspector found me at the hotel was

absolutely true. That man Rosenbaum"--he pointed at the prisoner--"I

positively identify as the man who committed the murder. And as for

your accusations against my daughter, I throw them back in your teeth."

The little man drew himself up proudly, and looked, not Wilson, but

General Bunker, full in the face. "Do I understand, General," he went

on, "that I am under arrest, or am I free to go?"

"'Pon my word, I don't know where we are," said the General. "You

say this man is Rosenbaum, and he says so himself. Isn't that plain

enough?" The question was addressed to Wilson, who replied, "Yes,

that's clear. Only, though this man is Rosenbaum, he is not the man who

committed the murder."

"Then, in heaven's name, who did commit the murder?"

"Not so fast, General. That's a long story. But I think Mr. Culpepper

could tell us if he chose."

"I tell you that man committed it," said Culpepper, nodding vigorously

towards Rosenbaum. "I ask you again. Am I free to go?"

"For the moment, yes, Mr. Culpepper," said Wilson. "But I must ask

you to hold yourself at the disposal of the police. I shall have more

to say to you. Meanwhile, I warn you to keep me informed of your

movements."

"I shall do nothing of the sort. There is no charge against me, I

believe."

"Oh, if you prefer it, and will wait until I complete a few

formalities, I shall be quite willing to arrest you. Would you like me

to do that?"

"This, sir, is an outrage. I shall go at once to my lawyers, and place

the matter in their hands." And Mr. Culpepper, as no one replied to

this challenge, beat a hasty retreat from the room. As the door closed

on him, Wilson seized the house 'phone, and gave swift orders that two

men were to follow him, and he must not be lost sight of for an instant.

"Now, Wilson, will you please explain?" said Bunker when Wilson laid

down the receiver.

"Hadn't we better dispose of Mr. Rosenbaum first? I don't think we need

him for my explanation."

Bunker turned to the warders. "Remove your prisoner to the cells," he

said. "Left turn. Quick march."

"I shall want to see Mr. Rosenbaum later," said Wilson, before the

little procession had left the room.

"I hope you will. You seem to be the only one who has any sense," said

Rosenbaum.

"Silence," roared the General. "Silence," repeated the warders, as they

passed through the doorway.

Bunker turned to the Superintendent. "And now, sir, what is this

cock-and-bull story of yours? I arrest a murderer for you, when your

incompetent department has failed to catch him, and all the thanks I

get is that you trump up some infernal story about his not being the

murderer, but another person of the same name and appearance. Culpepper

identifies him; you accuse him of lying. But that fellow, what's his

name--Sacheverell, identifies him, too. Was he lying? What do you say

to that, hey?" Bunker positively bristled at the Superintendent.

"Of course I'm sorry, Bunker, if this disappoints you. But, remember,

the boy didn't identify him."

"The boy. Pooh! Who cares for the boy?"

"The boy had noticed that the murderer had a crumpled ear. This man had

not. Did that strike you?"

"The boy was romancing, of course."

"Did it occur to you to ask yourself whether any one else connected

with this case had a crumpled ear?"

"My God?" said Inspector Blaikie, suddenly. "My God, do you mean that?"

"Well, Blaikie, who else has a crumpled ear?"

"John Pasquett," said Blaikie, very low. "Do you mean he did it?"

"I can prove that Pasquett was not in Paramé on the night of the

murder--in fact, that his _alibi_ was a fake. I can prove that he left

Poole in a motor-boat with Norah Culpepper on the day of the discovery,

and that he arrived at Paramé in the boat during the ensuing night."

"And I thought you'd given up the case," said Blaikie.

"So I had, Inspector. I only kept it in the back of my mind. And, as I

happened to be taking my summer holiday quite near Paramé----"

"Happened!" said Blaikie. "And I never guessed why you went there."

"I just thought I'd have another look round," said Wilson.

"Look here, Wilson," said the General, "it's easy enough for you to say

you can prove all these things, but I've got my man, and you haven't.

It's your man who's away in Russia now, ha ha. That's one up against

you."

"It is," said Wilson. "I quite admit it. All this ought to have been

found out at first. Blaikie and I are to blame that it wasn't found

out. But that's no reason for hanging the wrong man."

"I've still only your word for it that he is the wrong man."

"Let me tell you exactly what I have found out." Then Wilson gave

Blaikie and the General a concise account of his adventures and

discoveries, both at Paramé and at Poole. Blaikie listened open-mouthed

to the recital. He thought bitterly of the castles in Spain he had once

built on his own prowess in handling the case.

"But," said Bunker, when Wilson had done, "all this is no proof that

Pasquett committed the murder. Pasquett may have been in England;

but Rosenbaum was the murderer, even if Pasquett was concerned. You

can't get away from Sacheverell's identification, even if you doubt

Culpepper's."

"The Rosenbaum at the hotel," said Wilson, "had a crumpled ear."

"You mean he was really Pasquett," said Blaikie. "But somehow I can't

believe Pasquett is a murderer. He didn't seem like a murderer."

"How can he be a murderer?" said Bunker. "I met him at dinner at Lord

Ealing's--a very nice fellow. No, it was that Bolshie did it."

"Do you know," said Wilson, "that I, too, find it very hard to believe

that John Pasquett is a murderer. But I can't get away from that

crumpled ear. I'm very much afraid he is, though it upsets my judgment

of human nature."

"He had the motive," said Blaikie, reflectively. "He and no one else."

"Yes," said Wilson gravely.

"But you've proved nothing, really," said the General.

Wilson turned to him a little contemptuously. "Why do you suppose I let

Culpepper go?" he said. "If I had absolute proofs, shouldn't I have

arrested him at once? No, I let him go because I want more proofs, and

I rely on him to do something incriminating."

Blaikie nodded. "I thought that was it," he said.

"He'll certainly warn his daughter," said Wilson, "and we can fix to

have any letters or telegrams opened at Paramé and read before they

reach her. And, if I'm right, he'll probably try to warn Pasquett. And

he may run away himself."

As we shall see, Wilson was right in some of his guesses at what

Culpepper would do, and wrong in others. He was not yet master of the

little man's mind.

"Now, Blaikie," Wilson continued, "you must take this business of

watching Culpepper in hand. See about getting letters opened, and all

that, both at Paramé and here. And if he makes for France, you must go

after him, and arrest him if necessary. But try not to arrest him, as

long as he doesn't get clear away, until you can take him so as to make

it plain he's trying to escape. Otherwise, he'll only plead a business

journey. If he stays in England, and tries to brazen it out, I'll deal

with him myself. But you're in charge of watching him."

"And what the devil am I to do with Rosenbaum while you're at your

little games?" asked Bunker.

"Oh, hold him for the present. If we don't want him for the case, you

can always deport him as an undesirable alien. That's one advantage

with these Russians. There's no one to look after their interests. No

fuss about _habeas corpus_, eh, General?"

"It would be a jolly good thing for the country if _habeas corpus_ was

repealed altogether," said the General savagely.

"Oh, I don't know," replied Wilson. "It would come very expensive if we

let you imprison everybody. And what would you do for warders?"

"Don't play the fool," said Bunker. "You have no more public spirit

than--than the Prime Minister."

"Sorry," said Wilson. "It is a shame I spoilt your perfectly good

murderer. Come along, Blaikie."

Wilson and the Inspector left the General's room before, in his fury,

he could think of an appropriate reply.

CHAPTER XXVIII

TREATS OF CONDUCT MOST UNBECOMING IN A NEPHEW

At the very moment when Mr. Culpepper was confronted with Rosenbaum,

Arthur Wharton was in the middle of a very serious conversation with

his uncle. Immediately after his conversation with Pasquett, in which

he had expressed his determination, Arthur had sent off a long coded

message to his uncle, telling in outline the mysterious discoveries

he had made, expressing his grave doubts of "Pasquett's" identity,

and announcing that he and "Pasquett" were returning immediately

to England, where the latter had promised to produce incontestable

proofs of his bona fides. He was writing, he said, with Pasquett's

full knowledge and approval, and Pasquett's readiness to come back

with him to England appeared to show sincerity. But the facts that had

come to light in Siberia seemed to prove beyond dispute that the real

Pasquett was dead, and he--Arthur--was no longer prepared to trust his

own judgment, influenced as it was by his affection for Pasquett. The

thing, he said, must be cleared up thoroughly; but in view of the big

capital commitments into which the Anglo-Asiatic was entering, and of

the fact that, if "Pasquett" was not Pasquett, the whole concession

would be void, he had thought it incumbent on him to inform Lord Ealing

at once. A short enclosure from Pasquett only said that Arthur was

mistaken, and asked Lord Ealing to take no action till the writer had

met him.

How Lord Ealing received this message we are not privileged to know,

but we may safely conjecture that it disturbed him seriously. He would

be ruined now in real earnest if the concession fell through; for,

confident of its overwhelming success, he had "put his shirt on it,"

as the phrase goes. So, it appeared, had the investing public. The

shares of the Anglo-Asiatic and the new company boomed and boomed, and

Lord Ealing was well aware that failure now, especially accompanied

by revelations of a swindle, would be his ruin politically as well as

financially. The furious investors would revenge themselves upon him,

even if he was not the swindler.

We can only conjecture at Lord Ealing's sensations when he read

Arthur's message. But this we can say positively: he mentioned not

a word of the matter to any living soul. And we happen to know that

he sold out just enough of his shares in the new company to assure

himself of a competence if anything did go badly wrong. The proceeds

he invested carefully abroad, under an assumed name and through Mr.

Franklin, but he did not tell even his solicitor why he was taking this

step. This done, he awaited the arrival of his nephew and John Pasquett

with such patience as he could muster. The doubt about Pasquett's bona

fides was the more annoying, because the Government might fall at any

moment, and Lord Ealing had confidently looked for a high post in its

successor, unless some most untoward accident occurred. The breakdown

of the concession would be such an accident. It would blast all his

hopes, alike of fortune and of office.

Meanwhile, the two men travelled fast from Siberia to England, making

the greater part of the journey by aeroplane. In Paris they stopped a

day, for Pasquett said he hoped to find there certain friends who had

known him in America in the old days, and would be prepared to swear to

his identity. But his friends' apartment was shut up, and he could get

no word of their whereabouts. Arthur wired from Paris announcing his

arrival to Lord Ealing, and saying that he would come to see him on the

following day.

When Pasquett failed to find his old friends, Arthur had decided to go

straight on to London. He could not, he felt, do otherwise than see

Lord Ealing at once. Pasquett, on the other hand, said he would go on

to the Culpeppers' house at Paramé, both to fetch certain important

papers and because they would be certain to know where his friends

could be found. The two men therefore parted, not without a thought

on Arthur's part that, if Jack was not really Pasquett, he was giving

him a good chance of disappearing. He would not become partner to a

deliberate swindle; but the last thing he wanted was to have a share in

bringing his friend to justice. He hinted as tactfully as he could to

Pasquett that, if he was really some one else, the sooner he got clean

away the better. But Pasquett only laughed, and said he would follow

Arthur to London, with full proofs of his identity, within a few days.

Arthur Wharton, therefore, went to see his uncle alone, with only this

message from Pasquett. He found Lord Ealing looking far from well, a

good deal careworn. He had gone straight to Lord Ealing's house on his

arrival in England, and had been shown straight into his uncle's study.

He told Lord Ealing that he looked ill. But his uncle was in no mood

for polite inquiries. Without asking his nephew how he was, or how he

had enjoyed himself, he came straight to business. "Now, tell me the

whole story at once," he said, "about Pasquett, I mean. He is not with

you?"

Arthur explained how Pasquett had gone to Paramé in search of the

proofs of his identity, and would follow within a few days. "I wonder,"

said Lord Ealing. Arthur said nothing in reply to this comment, but

plunged into a full account of his discoveries, of which he had written

only a brief outline. Lord Ealing did not interrupt him once, save to

get a difficult point clear, until he had heard the whole story. But

several times he sighed.

"Now, Arthur," he said when the tale was told, "have you mentioned this

matter to any one besides myself and Pasquett?"

"Not a soul, uncle. I wanted to give Jack every chance to clear

himself."

"You did not even tell Alison?"

"No. No one knows a thing, except, of course, the Russian fellow who

gave me the information."

"You realise that it is vital that not a word should be said to any

one."

"Certainly, until we know for sure. Have you told the other directors?"

"My dear boy, I, like you, know when to say nothing. I have not

mentioned it to anybody."

"Of course, if Jack isn't Pasquett, it will all have to come out. The

concession----"

"Will it, Arthur? Will it have to come out? It seems to me it depends

on you and me."

Arthur felt his heart thumping inside him. His head whirled. "Oh,

uncle," he said, "but it must come out."

"Must it, Arthur? Suppose you and I say nothing about it?"

"But that would be swindling; we should have no right at all to the

property."

"Who would have a right to it, Arthur?"

"Oh, I don't know. Radlett's heirs, whoever they are. Some charity in

New York, isn't it? But how does that concern us?"

Lord Ealing spoke very earnestly. "Arthur, if this concession falls

through, I shall be ruined, through no fault of my own. Absolutely

ruined--politically, I mean. It is not only the money."

"I'm very sorry, uncle. But I can't help it, can I?"

"Yes, you can. By saying nothing."

"By taking part in a swindle. It's impossible," said Arthur, flushing.

"It's only a charity," said Lord Ealing. "And you and I are not

swindling, as you call it. Most charities do more harm than good.

You've often told me you have no time for charities. Let me see. Wasn't

it 'Curse your charity' you used to say in your Socialist days? I tell

you, if you care anything for your principles, you'll keep quiet.

I know, and you know--it's obvious on the face of what you've told

me--that this fellow has been swindling us. He's no more John Pasquett

than you or I."

"I don't know that yet, uncle."

"Yes, you do; but you won't admit it. Well, just suppose it for a

moment. Now, you, in the name of justice, say we must blurt out this

swindle to all the world. I say it's our duty to hold our tongues.

If we speak out, it's not only you that will lose a good salary,

and I that will be ruined financially and have my political career

blasted--oh, yes, I shall. I know. You don't care for that. You talk

about abstract justice and your conscience."

"I never mentioned either."

"But that's what is in your mind. Well, I ask you to think not of

yourself or of me, but of the thousands--the tens of thousands, of

people--poor people many of them, widows and orphans--who have put

their money--perhaps their little all--into this enterprise. Think of

them. Think what will happen to them when we have to tell the world

that John Pasquett is not John Pasquett, and to admit that we have no

right to the concession. All their money will be lost. Not just my

money and your money. All their money--the savings of their lifetimes.

Think of that. And it is you--you--who will be robbing them--if you

speak."

Lord Ealing spoke with the moving eloquence which had often stirred a

listening multitude in one of his great political harangues, or even

raised a faint cheer in the House of Lords itself. His lordship was

always deeply moved himself when he heard his voice at its best. He

paused only to admire his own eloquence, and to give his concluding

words their full effect.

"You will be guilty, Arthur, of all this, and you will be guilty

of more than this. Is not this man--whether he be Pasquett or

Pearson--your friend? Have I not seen your affection for him? Can I not

see it now, when you are planning to expose him to the most terrible

punishment? Would you send him to prison to mark your love for him?

Would you betray your comrade for an impracticable theory that would

ruin the world to-morrow if it were everywhere followed to its dreadful

and logical conclusion! I ask you, Arthur, would you send your friend

to imprisonment--perhaps--who knows?--to death?"

"To death? No, not to death," said Arthur, becoming melodramatic

against his will under the influence of his uncle's rhetoric.

Lord Ealing returned suddenly from the heights to a plain,

matter-of-fact tone. "My dear Arthur, has it escaped your acute mind

that, if this man is not John Pasquett, it is more than probable he had

a hand in Hugh Radlett's most opportune removal from the scene?"

"You would hush _that_ up, if it were true?" said Arthur.

"Ah, I see it has not escaped your notice. Most certainly I would. I

should so act as to further the greatest happiness of the greatest

number," said Lord Ealing, virtuously. "And for you, if you care

nothing for the poor people who have trusted us with their money, are

you prepared to risk sending your friend to the gallows?"

"Oh, God, I don't know. Don't talk to me," said Arthur, miserably. "I

don't see what else I can do."

Lord Ealing saw his advantage, and pressed it home. "I must talk to

you, Arthur, because you are proposing to do a wantonly foolish and

unnecessary thing. If you keep quiet, and say nothing, not a soul,

except some purely hypothetical (I am not sure what Lord Ealing meant

by "hypothetical," but it sounded well)--some purely hypothetical

charity in New York will be a penny piece the worse. If you speak out,

you will ruin a great many innocent people, you will strike a severe

blow at your country's trade, and you will ruin your best friend, to

say nothing of your uncle and yourself. Can't you see what a fool you

are?" added Lord Ealing, letting a note of irritation creep into his

voice for the first time. He sought to correct it by saying, quite

tenderly, "My dear Arthur, if your poor mother had been alive----"

"You dare mention my mother, and I'll hit you," said Arthur, with a

sort of schoolboy ferocity. "And let me tell you what I think of you. I

think you're an infernal scoundrel, though you are my uncle. I can see

through you. You don't care a tinker's curse for Jack or for the widows

and orphans you've been talking so much about. All you care for is your

own beastly money and your own beastly reputation. D'you hear?"

Lord Ealing stared at his nephew. Could this possibly be the effect of

his fine words? "I hear, you young fool," he said. "All the servants

will hear, too, if you shout like that."

"And now," Arthur went on, more quietly but with intense anger, "I'll

tell you what I'm going to do. I'm going to resign from all your damned

companies at once, and I'm going to have no more to do with you--ever.

But you're quite right. You've got me. I can't let Jack down, even if

he has--whatever he has done. So, if it turns out he's a--impostor,

I shan't tell. You understand me? I see you cheering up already,

damn you. No, I shall keep quiet, but it won't be for your sake, you

smug-faced hypocrite."

Arthur was usually so mild-spoken a person that this outburst was

equally astonishing to Lord Ealing and to himself. Lord Ealing had

gasped as the flood-gates of Arthur's eloquence opened, and helplessly

let the torrent flow. But, as he realised the meaning of his nephew's

words, and that he and the concession were safe, after all, he regained

his self-possession on the instant.

"Resign and be damned to you," he said, "for a foolish young prig.

Arthur, you're an intellectual and a moral snob. Send Pasquett to me

when he comes. You can get your salary from the office when you like

and hand over to Mr. Benjamin. And now, get out." He walked to the bell

and rang. An attendant appeared. "Show Mr. Wharton out," said Lord

Ealing. Arthur went without another word. All the speech had gone out

of him. He felt like a limp rag. He was sweating all over as he left

his uncle's presence.

Lord Ealing poked the fire slowly as he stood in his great study alone.

"Lord, that was a narrow shave," he said.

CHAPTER XXIX

IN WHICH MR. CULPEPPER WRITES A LETTER TO HIS DAUGHTER, AND LORD

EALING IS A LITTLE PREVIOUS

Arthur Wharton went straight from his uncle's presence to the nearest

telegraph office, and wired to Norah Culpepper at Paramé, telling her

that Pasquett was not to come to London till he had seen him, and

saying that he would start for Paramé at once on receiving news that

Pasquett was still there, and would await his arrival. Within a few

hours he got his reply, saying that Pasquett would wait for him, and

adding that all was well. Arthur's telegram got through before the

police surveillance over the house at Paramé had been established.

Norah Culpepper's reply was copied by the French police and wired on

to Scotland Yard. But, as we shall see, it did not mention Pasquett's

name. Scotland Yard, therefore, was still in ignorance of Pasquett's

return from Russia.

Other things, however, occurred to attract Superintendent Wilson's

special attention to the villa at Paramé. As he had expected, Mr.

Culpepper made a move. Seriously alarmed by the turn affairs had taken,

the little man at first thought of making an immediate escape from

the country. Once in France, he would be better able to watch events,

to hide himself, and to make a final escape if this should prove to

be necessary. Accordingly, he laid his plans. Less than an hour after

he left Scotland Yard, Mr. Culpepper's confidential clerk might have

been noted on his way to Hendon Aerodrome with strictly private letters

for the French branch of the firm and for Miss Norah Culpepper. He

bargained for a passage to St. Malo, and was fortunate enough to find

another gentleman who wanted to go the same way. He was unaware that

this gentleman had followed him all the way from his master's office.

It was a fine day, and the aeroplane made a good passage. But at St.

Malo the fellow-passenger caught a French policeman, and exchanged

a few hurried words with him. Mr. Culpepper's clerk, much to his

surprise, found himself seized and brought up for investigation by the

authorities, already informed by telephone from England of Scotland

Yard's requirements. They told the clerk that he was suspected of being

an escaped embezzler, and that he must wait till the English police

arrived to identify him. But they took his letters from him, and the

telegraph speedily made Superintendent Wilson master of their contents.

There were two letters. One, addressed to Culpepper's Paris manager,

instructed him to raise all the ready money he could by any means

realise in twenty-four hours, and pay it over to Mrs. Culpepper, who

would call in person for it the next day. It was needed, the letter

said, for a big speculation. French money would do. The other letter,

addressed to Norah Culpepper, deserves to be quoted in full:

"MY DEAR NORAH,--The weather here does not suit me at all, and

I propose to take a change at once. Will you ask your mother to

go to Paris immediately and call at my office, where Simon will

give her the ready money we shall need for our visit. Tell her

to get it all. And I want you to motor over and pick me up, not

at the old place--there are too many people there for it to be

convenient--but at the place you came to once before, which will

mean a shorter journey. Give my love to your mother, and tell her

that, though I am not at all well, the doctor thinks it may blow

over even yet. But it is best to be on the safe side. Wire reply to

me at X.'s.

"Your loving father,

"A. C."

Wilson chuckled as he read this little effusion. "Very neat, upon my

word," he said to Blaikie, tossing the copy across the table. "That

proves my guess was right. If Culpepper's whole story had not been a

lie he wouldn't be planning to run away now."

"Unfortunately," said Blaikie, "this letter doesn't tell us much."

"All we want, Inspector. All we want. It gives me confirmation of my

theory. And Culpepper can't escape. This letter has never reached its

destination, and he'll be hanging on in hope of an answer. Not that our

men would let him get out of the country if he tried. But I'll tell you

what, Blaikie. I've still some work to do here, but you had better get

over to Paramé at once and see that girl doesn't get away. I'll put

Purvis in charge of watching Culpepper on this side, and let you know

if he makes a further move. Don't arrest the girl till I come, unless

you have to, but on no account let her escape. Get a warrant made out,

and start at once. I'll probably join you to-morrow. And, before you

go, give orders to have Culpepper arrested. We can do that safely, now

he has given himself away."

"Then I'm not to arrest any one till you come?"

"Not unless you must. Of course, in any extremity, use your own

judgment. But there's not likely to be any difficulty. There has been

nothing to give Miss Culpepper the alarm."

Blaikie hurried off to make his arrangements. He got warrants for the

arrest of both Alfred and Norah Culpepper, and placed the execution of

the former in the hands of one of his subordinates. Then he went to

Hendon, where he had already ordered an aeroplane to be in readiness.

He was in Paramé in the early afternoon.

His subordinate did not have such good luck. Mr. Culpepper somehow

managed to slip out of his office unnoticed, using a stair which

communicated with another building. He did not return, and there was no

sign of him at his home. That astute gentleman was in fact, lying low,

having made arrangements whereby any answer from Paramé would reach

him indirectly, through the office of a friend. His sister at Enfield,

in reply to police inquiries, stoutly denied all knowledge of where he

was. Night fell, and day dawned again, but Mr. Culpepper had not been

found by the police.

Wilson meanwhile, immediately after despatching Inspector Blaikie to

Paramé, went to have his promised conversation with Rosenbaum, who was

still in durance under the control of the Special Branch. His object

was to make quite sure that Rosenbaum had not been present at Sugden's

Hotel when the murder was committed, and, what was even more important,

to clear up the mysterious connection which must somehow exist between

Rosenbaum and the chief actors in the crime. Rosenbaum _had_ travelled

to England with Radlett, and if it was not Rosenbaum who was with

Radlett at the hotel, it was undoubtedly some one got up to look like

him. If it was Pasquett, why had he dressed up as Rosenbaum, and how on

earth had Radlett come to acquiesce in the deception?

Secondly, Wilson meant to see Lord Ealing, and to tell him of the

dreadful suspicion under which his partner in the great concession

lay. He wanted to do this, not out of friendliness for Lord Ealing,

but because he hoped, by giving some information, to get some more and

perhaps even to make Lord Ealing give himself away.

Wilson saw Rosenbaum first. Sensibly treated, the fellow was willing

enough to talk. He denied being an agent of the Third International,

and persisted that he had come to England on both occasions solely to

visit friends. This was obviously untrue, but lack of frankness on

this point did not matter to Wilson, who was only concerned with the

Radlett case. With regard to this, Rosenbaum was very ready to talk.

He soon convinced Wilson that he was telling the absolute truth, and

that his horror at being suspected of the murder was perfectly genuine.

He had not been near Sugden's Hotel, and had never heard of it, till

he saw its name mentioned in the papers together with his own. He had

thought then of giving himself up, but he said he had been afraid to

do so, as the English police were so hard on Russians. Radlett he had

met in Moscow, and had told of his desire to visit his friends in

England. Radlett had offered to take him on as his secretary, and at a

subsequent meeting in Paris had arranged to meet him at Ostend. He had

crossed with Radlett, and they had parted on leaving the boat. He had

told Radlett he would use an assumed name during his stay, but had not

said what name.

Of Pasquett, Rosenbaum had never heard. Radlett had not mentioned

his name. He could not conceive how it had occurred that Radlett had

arrived at Sugden's Hotel in company with another man disguised as

himself. He had no idea who that man could be. He had escaped from

Aberdeen in a Russian ship, as the police had already discovered. That

was absolutely all he knew of the affair. He refused to say why, having

once escaped from England, he had come back nine months later.

Wilson left him, convinced that he had learnt all Rosenbaum had to

tell. He 'phoned to Lord Ealing's office, but was told that his

lordship was at Berkeley Square. Then Wilson got into communication

with him, and asked for an immediate interview. Was he right in

thinking that there was a distinct hesitation in Lord Ealing's reply?

At all events, he was asked to go round to Berkeley Square at once.

Wilson went. The impression that Lord Ealing was anxious was not

removed when the two men met. There was a noticeable perturbation about

the great man's manner as he asked Wilson to sit down. In fact, Lord

Ealing was in a panic. Had Arthur "split," after all?

"There is some very grave news which I think I ought to communicate

to you at once," Wilson began. "It is about Mr. Pasquett. At least,

it concerns him." Was he right? Did Lord Ealing give a start of fear

at the name, and with difficulty control his agitation? "I suppose,

my lord, you have never doubted that Mr. Pasquett is--absolutely all

right."

This time Lord Ealing was in better command of himself. "All right?" he

said. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, you have never suspected Mr. Pasquett's bona fides?"

"Bona fides?" said Lord Ealing, repeating the Superintendent's words in

order to gain time and further information.

"What I mean," said Wilson, "is that I have convincing evidence that

Mr. Pasquett is not--what he seems. I have to-day secured evidence

which seems to indicate--well--impersonation."

Wilson was referring to Pasquett's impersonation of Rosenbaum, but Lord

Ealing very naturally mistook his meaning.

After this speech, he could no longer doubt. Arthur had split: all was

over. What had he better do? Attempt to brazen it out? That would be

useless. The only course was to make a virtue of necessity. He would

tell the Superintendent, and pretend he had been going to tell him

in any case. He would represent his interview with Arthur as having

been all a joke. In short, he would play the noble victim--swindled by

Pasquett's villainy. Perhaps, after all, he might save his reputation

out of the wreck. All this flashed through Lord Ealing's mind. There

was scarcely a perceptible pause before he answered.

"I was coming to tell you the whole story at once, Superintendent. My

nephew has only been here to-day. Of course, until his arrival, I had

not the remotest idea."

It was Wilson's turn to be surprised. What had Arthur Wharton to do

with it? How had he found out that Pasquett was concerned in the

murder? Had some one else been doing some private detecting on his own?

Wilson determined to let Lord Ealing talk.

"Of course," his lordship went on, "the news will have to be made

public at once. But I thought it only right to inform you first, as you

will doubtless wish to take action before anything is published. So

glaring an imposture----"

"Imposture!" thought Wilson. "Does he mean Rosenbaum or something else?"

"So glaring an imposture will mean a long term of imprisonment, even if

the fellow is not actually concerned in the murder. And it looks very

much as if he was. At least, that is my opinion."

Wilson nodded, though he still could not make out what Lord Ealing

meant.

"Of course," Lord Ealing went on, "this has been a great shock to me

and to my nephew. Doubtless he has told you." His lordship looked

keenly at Wilson as he said this, in the hope of discovering whether

Arthur had given him, as well as Pasquett, away. But Wilson's face

remained quite impassive, and he went on.

"I was thunderstruck, and shocked--shocked beyond measure. I had liked

the man, I confess, and now, to discover that he is a mere impostor----"

"Impostor," thought Wilson. "A funny name to give to the crime."

"Stuns me--yes, stuns me. Arthur's discoveries, however, leave, I am

afraid, no room for doubt. The man is not John Pasquett. He is a mere

vulgar adventurer, who has deceived us all."

"What's that you say?" exclaimed Wilson, surprised into betraying

himself. "Not John Pasquett? What do you mean?"

"Hasn't my nephew told you, then?" gasped Lord Ealing.

"I have not seen your nephew, my lord, and I shall be glad if you

will explain what you mean. Do I understand you to say that you have

discovered that the man who calls himself John Pasquett is not John

Pasquett at all?"

"Well--er--my nephew--that is--I mean--my nephew suspects

that--doubtless a foolish suspicion--Arthur has taken an idea into his

head----"

"Lord Ealing, will you kindly tell me in plain English what you mean?"

"My nephew," began Lord Ealing, controlling himself with a great

effort, "has been here to-day. He----" Lord Ealing stopped suddenly,

clutched the table before him, and sank into a chair. "One of my heart

attacks," he gasped. "Get me some brandy. Will you ring?" It was

magnificent acting; indeed, it was only half acting. Lord Ealing did

feel distinctly unwell. But he also wanted to gain time.

Wilson did not ring the bell. Instead, he produced a flask from his

pocket, and administered a stiff dose of brandy to the great man. Then

he said, "When you feel well enough, please go on with your story. I

will wait."

This remark brought on a fresh paroxysm. "My doctor says," Lord Ealing

gasped, "dangerous in any excitement--these attacks--might be fatal. I

must lie down." He tottered to a sofa, lay down, and closed his eyes.

Wilson was in a difficult position. He had no doubt that, if he chose

to wait, he could in the end make Lord Ealing speak. But Lord Ealing

was a very great man, and even Wilson hesitated to bully him. After

all, he had committed no punishable crime, so far as Wilson knew.

Though his reluctance to speak was very suspicious. That heart attack

did not deceive the Superintendent.

Wilson walked to the window, and stood there for a minute thinking.

What Lord Ealing knew, apparently Arthur Wharton knew, too. It would

pay him better to get it out of the nephew than to pump the uncle.

Also, it would probably be much easier. He would seek Arthur Wharton

at once, and catch him, if possible, before Lord Ealing had time to

communicate with him. He went to the bell, and rang.

"His lordship has been taken ill," he said to the footman who answered

his summons. "Will you look after him? I must go at once. Good-morning,

my lord. I am sorry you are unwell. I will return when you are better."

He left the house, and, seeing a policeman at the corner, warned him

to keep a watch and note carefully if Lord Ealing went out. He had a

shrewd idea that his lordship's faintness would soon pass. Having set

his guard, he hailed a taxi. Stopping at a call office, he gave orders

to place a detective to shadow Lord Ealing. Then, hurrying back to his

taxi, he drove straight to Arthur Wharton's flat.

CHAPTER XXX

IN WHICH ARTHUR KEEPS HIS WORD UNDER DIFFICULTIES, AND THE

SUPERINTENDENT HAS A SUDDEN IDEA

Lord Ealing's indisposition lasted but a moment after the departure of

the Superintendent. "It's all right, Pardoe, I'm better now," he said

to the footman, rising to his feet. "Get me a brandy and soda, will

you, and order the car at once." He moved swiftly to the telephone, and

rang up Arthur Wharton's flat.

Arthur was putting together a few things in readiness for his departure

to Paramé when his telephone bell rang. "Is that you, Arthur?" came the

voice. "This is your uncle speaking. I must see you at once. It's very

urgent. I'm coming round now in my car." Arthur was replying angrily

that he had no desire to meet his uncle, when he realised that Lord

Ealing had rung off.

He had half a mind to go out, or to refuse to see his uncle. On

the other hand, he had better know what Lord Ealing wanted. He was

still irresolute when there came a ring at his front door bell. He

was alone in the flat, so he went to the door himself, and admitted

Superintendent Wilson. Arthur looked at him with evident alarm.

"May I come in? I want a word with you," said Wilson, who was fully

alive to the fact that he had no time to lose, as Lord Ealing might

follow at any minute. "Your uncle, whom I have just left, informs me

that you have something to tell me about Mr. Pasquett."

Arthur looked at the Superintendent with an air of consternation. "My

uncle told you," he exclaimed incredulously. "No, I have nothing to

say," he added, lamely.

"Nothing to say, Mr. Wharton? Your uncle told me positively that you

had discovered that the man who calls himself Pasquett is an impostor."

"Lord Ealing said that? It is not true," said Arthur, quite determined

now to fight his friend's battle against all odds, even if his uncle,

for some inconceivable reason, had let the cat out of the bag.

"Do you mean you did not tell Lord Ealing that Pasquett is not what he

pretends to be?"

"Certainly, I did not."

"Just what did you tell Lord Ealing, Mr. Wharton?"

"I told him nothing--nothing that concerns the police," said Arthur,

with a somewhat unsuccessful assumption of dignity.

"Come, come, Mr. Wharton. This won't do. You must be frank with me. I

am investigating a criminal matter, and----"

"I have absolutely nothing to say. That is my last word."

There came another ring at the bell. "One moment," said Arthur, "I

must go to the door." Wilson guessed whom he would find there. It was

annoying to be interrupted so; but it was also a little amusing. He

stole to the door and opened it an inch or so. He could hear plainly

what was said. He heard Lord Ealing greet his nephew and ask to come

in. "Superintendent Wilson's here," whispered Arthur in reply. "Damn!"

whispered Lord Ealing. "Come out here where he can't hear us." They

moved out on to the landing, out of Wilson's hearing. Lord Ealing

continued. "For God's sake don't tell him anything."

"But he says you told him and sent him to see me."

"It's all a mistake, Arthur. I mustn't come in if he's here. I half

gave it away. You mustn't say anything. But he knows something, too.

Find out what he knows. Only keep your own mouth shut."

"I will, but not for your sake. Go away," said Arthur, and shut the

front door in his uncle's face. Wilson softly closed his door, and

returned to his seat as he heard the front door bang.

"Only a tradesman," said Arthur, coming back into the room.

Wilson said nothing. He waited for Arthur. There was a long pause.

At length Arthur spoke. "What are you waiting for? I told you I had

nothing to say."

"I am waiting for you to change your mind, Mr. Wharton. After all, I

know already. Lord Ealing has--let the cat out of the bag. I only want

your confirmation."

"Then you won't get it," said Arthur.

"Mr. Wharton, I will be quite frank with you. I went to Lord Ealing

to-day intending to give him certain very important information about

Mr. Pasquett. Before I could tell him, your uncle jumped to the

conclusion that I had seen you, and that you had told me what you are

now refusing to tell. From what he let slip, I gathered quite clearly

that you believed yourself to have clear proofs that the man calling

himself John Pasquett is not John Pasquett at all, but an impostor who

has assumed his name."

"That's not true," said Arthur. "I mean, I have no such proofs."

"That is as may be, Mr. Wharton. Now I am going to tell you what I

meant to tell Lord Ealing this afternoon, and then you can decide

whether you still refuse to give me your information."

"I don't want to hear," said Arthur.

"I have clear proofs," Wilson went on unperturbed, "first, that Hugh

Radlett was not murdered by the man Rosenbaum; secondly, that Pasquett

was in London on the night of the murder when he pretended he was in

France; and, thirdly, that it was Pasquett who masqueraded as Rosenbaum

at Sugden's Hotel."

Arthur sat very gloomily, saying nothing. When Wilson made his second

and third points, he tightened his grip on the arms of the chair in

which he sat, and his face went very white; but he made no other sign.

"I believe," Wilson went on, "that you are a friend of Pasquett's, and

I want to tell you frankly that it is with the very greatest reluctance

that I have come to suspect him of--murder. I have ascertained

positively that he fled from London to France on the day when the crime

was discovered. Shall I give you my proofs, and tell you the full

story?"

Arthur still made no answer. Wilson therefore recounted, as shortly as

he could, the gist of the discoveries he had made. "Now, Mr. Wharton,"

he concluded, "you must know that it is your duty to aid the ends of

justice. Will you not tell me what it is you have found out?"

"No," said Arthur miserably. "I'm sorry, but I won't."

"You will have to, later. It is all bound to come out. Why not tell me

now?"

"Sorry, Superintendent. It's no use. I won't. I've nothing to tell

you."

Wilson rose. "Very well, Mr. Wharton. If you won't, you won't. But you

are making quite unwarrantable difficulties. May I use your telephone?"

Without waiting for permission, Wilson lifted the receiver and called

Scotland Yard. "I want you to send a man round here at once," he said,

giving the address of Arthur's flat. "He is not to lose sight of Mr.

Arthur Wharton, who lives here. Do you get that?" He hung up the

receiver. "You see what you bring on yourself," he said. "I am bound to

have you watched. Why not tell me?"

"No," said Arthur.

"When did you come back from Siberia, Mr. Wharton? I thought you were

still there, till Lord Ealing told me."

"I only arrived back to-day," said Arthur.

"I suppose Mr. Pasquett did not come with you? Is he still in Siberia?"

asked Wilson.

"No--I mean, he's not with me. He's still out of England--in Siberia,"

said Arthur. "He's in charge of everything there, you know."

"Well, if you won't tell me what you know, I suppose you won't," said

Wilson. "Good-bye, Mr. Wharton." He held out his hand.

"Good-bye," said Arthur miserably, without taking it. Wilson found his

own way out of the flat, and went back at once to Scotland Yard.

There he found more news awaiting him. On his desk lay a copy of the

telegram sent by Norah Culpepper to Arthur Wharton. "Will wait. Come at

once. Proofs ready," it ran. There was no signature, but it had come

from Paramé. Wilson looked at the wire with a good deal of perplexity.

"What proofs?" he asked himself. "And who 'will wait'? And why is

young Wharton to go to Paramé? Upon my word, this case gets more

complicated every time one looks at it."

Wilson sat and thought. Surely this telegram must be an answer to one

sent by Wharton himself. He rang up the telegraph authorities, and

asked them to make search for such a message. They promised to look,

and inform him at once of the result. Then, having received word of the

fact that Culpepper had been lost sight of, and having said a few hard

things to the man who had let him go, and instructed him to pursue his

search if he valued his job, Wilson put the case temporarily out of his

mind, and ran through a pile of correspondence that had lain on the

table awaiting him.

He was still deep in this, when a message came through from the Central

Telegraph Office. "We've found that telegram you wanted," came a voice

over the 'phone. "It was sent by Wharton to N. Culpepper, Paramé. It

runs like this, 'If Jack there tell him not come London yet. Am coming

Paramé immediately. Await my arrival. Wharton.'"

Wilson started with surprise as he heard these words. Rapidly thanking

his informant, he replaced the receiver and looked at his watch. The

message could only mean one thing. Pasquett had come back from Siberia

with Arthur Wharton: he was in Paramé at that very moment. There was

not a minute to be lost. But the time! It was too late even to start

for Paramé till the next morning. He must wire to Blaikie, telling

him to arrest Pasquett and Miss Culpepper at once. But Blaikie had no

warrant for Pasquett's arrest. Never mind. The French police would

agree to detain him till Wilson could arrive with the warrant on the

following day. Hastily, Wilson wrote a wire and sent it off. "Pasquett

at Paramé," he dictated, over the telephone. "Arrest him and Miss

Culpepper at once. Am following with warrant early to-morrow. Wilson."

Then, late as it was, Wilson made up his mind to try to get his case

complete before leaving for Paramé. He rang up Sugden's Hotel, and

asked where Thomas, the attendant attached to Radlett's suite at the

time of the tragedy, was to be found. The man, it appeared, was ill in

bed at the hotel. "I'm coming round," said Wilson to the manager, "and

I want you to keep that boy for me--the one who came to Scotland Yard

this morning. I shall need him."

The Superintendent drove to the hotel, and interviewed Thomas in the

garret where he lay ill. "I have only one question to ask you," he

said. "You remember the man Rosenbaum. Did you notice anything peculiar

about his ears?"

"Just a minute, sir," said Thomas, closing his eyes, "I can see it

in my memory better that way," he explained. "Yes, sir," he replied

confidently. "Rosenbaum had a malformation of the left ear."

Wilson's heart leapt. It was the left ear, then.

"What sort of a malformation?" he asked.

"The top part was sort of crumpled up. I noticed it when I saw him at

the writing-table."

Wilson thanked the man, hoped he would soon be well again, and left

him. It was Pasquett's left ear that he had described. Descending the

stairs, he sought the manager. "About that boy," he said. "I want to

borrow him for a day or two. To identify the murderer."

Mr. Mounteagle protested that it was most inconvenient, but at length

he gave way, and sent for the boy, who appeared, wondering what he had

done wrong.

"Now, my lad," said Wilson, "you remember the man with the crumpled

ear."

"I should think I did," said the boy. "'Im as did the other gent in."

"I want you to come with me and identify him."

The boy looked at the manager, who nodded.

"What do you say to a little trip to France?" said Wilson.

The boy first looked at him incredulously, and then, seeing that he was

serious, forgot all discipline and executed a sort of war dance round

the room. "Hip, hip, hooray," he said. "What price me now. _Parlay voo

frongsay?_ Beggin' your pardon, sir," he added, seeing the horrified

face of the manager.

"Boy," said Mr. Mounteagle, in a voice of mingled anger and torment,

"think where you are. This is _Sugden's Hotel_."

Wilson arranged that the boy should meet him at Hendon in the morning,

as he meant to fly over to France. This added further to his delight.

It was a very happy youth who was hurried off to bed in preparation for

the great adventure of the morrow.

* * * * *

Before leaving Sugden's Hotel, Superintendent Wilson 'phoned to the

aerodrome to make sure of an early passage. When he mentioned his

destination, the man at the other end laughed. "How many more of you?"

he asked. "There's five special planes gone off to St. Malo to-day

already."

"This is Scotland Yard speaking," said Wilson. "Please tell me who the

passengers were."

The man went away to consult a book. "The first was one of your men,"

he said, "Inspector Blaikie. The second was a Mr. Wharton, then came

another of your men, Detective-Sergeant Slocombe. The fourth was Lord

Ealing. He left half an hour ago, with Sergeant Merrilees close behind

him."

Wilson thanked the man for his information. "We shall indeed meet at

Philippi," he said to himself.

* * * * *

His day's work, however, was not yet done. As he walked away from

Sugden's Hotel towards Scotland Yard, where he meant to pass the

night on the folding bed he kept at his office, he was thinking hard

about the case. Although by this time its main outlines seemed fairly

clear, he was not yet satisfied. Logically, his proofs seemed nearly

complete. He could prove positively that Pasquett was the "Rosenbaum"

of the hotel, and that would assure him of a verdict. But what on earth

was this story of Pasquett not being Pasquett, but some one quite

different? That meant forgery as well as murder. It was quite possible.

Not one of them had known Pasquett, or what he looked like, till he

turned up some days after the crime. And, if Pasquett was not Pasquett,

that would explain how he had been able to palm himself off on Radlett

as Rosenbaum. Or, at least, it would help to explain. It was still a

mystery how Radlett, having parted from one Rosenbaum at the customs

office, had turned up with a quite different Rosenbaum at the hotel.

But stay. It was not true that no one had known Pasquett till he turned

up after the crime. The Culpeppers had known him. But, of course, they

were in the plot.

It was at this point in his thinking that Wilson suddenly stood still

in the street, and said, quite unconscious that he was speaking aloud,

"My God, what a fool I've been! I never thought of that." A passer-by,

who had stopped under the impression he was being addressed, said,

"I beg your pardon," and looked at Wilson oddly when he said it was

nothing.

He thought of that a great deal more during the rest of his walk and

after his arrival at Scotland Yard. And it caused him to do quite a

number of things. In the first place, he sent for the trunk which he

had found at the house in Grosvenor Walk, and made a minute examination

of the inside, sweeping it out carefully and studying the sweepings

through a microscope. Then he sent for a car, and drove straight to

Grosvenor Walk itself. The house was now occupied, and Wilson, stating

his vocation, asked to be allowed to examine the garden. He was

admitted, and what he did was to walk about with an electric torch,

which he switched particularly on to the pleasant rockery which the

previous tenant had stocked with rare Alpine plants. What he found

there apparently pleased him; for he returned in a few minutes with

something heavy wrapped up in his evening paper. He then went back to

Scotland Yard, and locked his find carefully away in his safe.

Next he sent for all the papers found in Radlett's room after the

crime, and sat up half the night studying them. He paid particular

attention to Radlett's story of his life, printed earlier in this

narrative, and again the result of his researches seemed to please him

vastly. It was past one o'clock when, having filed the papers carefully

away, he lay down on his bed to get a few hours' sleep. The last thing

his eyes lighted on as he switched off the electric current was the

trunk. He chuckled softly, as he turned over and composed himself to

sleep.

CHAPTER XXXI

IN WHICH A LOVER'S IDYLL IS RUDELY INTERRUPTED, BUT JOHN PASQUETT

IS EQUAL TO THE OCCASION

Norah Culpepper was singing a little French song as she tended her

roses in the garden at Paramé.

"Il était un roi d'Yvetot,

Peu connu dans l'histoire,

Se levant tard, se couchant tôt,

Dormant fort bien sans gloire.

Et couronné par Jeanneton

D'un simple bonnet de coton,

Dit-on."

The singer paused.

"Oh, oh, oh, oh, ah, ah, ah, ah!

Quel bon petit roi c'était là

La, la."

answered a man's voice from the roadway.

Norah turned sharply round, and put her hand to her breast. "Jack," she

said.

"Darling," said Pasquett, freshly arrived from Paris. They embraced.

"I thought you were in Siberia," she said, when her mouth became

disengaged.

"This is a little surprise for you," said Pasquett. "And it's not for

long. I must go to England to-morrow."

"You'll come back. You're not going to Siberia again."

"I'm taking you with me this time, my dear. Will you come?"

They kissed again. "What a baby it is," she said.

They went on like that for some time.

"The Rustons are staying in Paramé," she said at length.

"I'm in luck," said Pasquett. "They're the very people I'm looking for."

"I thought you came to see me?"

"Don't be a goose. But I want them, too. Want them badly."

"Whatever for?"

"You know young Arthur Wharton. He's got it into his head that I'm not

John Pasquett at all, but some one else."

"Some one else. Who else? Not----"

"Oh, no. No one in particular. You see, unfortunately, he came across

my death certificate in Siberia."

Norah laughed. "Oh, that." Then she became serious. "Does it matter?"

"No, only I have to prove to the young ass that I really am who I am.

That's what I want the Rustons for."

"Won't I do?"

"He might not believe you. He knows you're in love with me."

"You're mighty sure about it, Mister Pasquett."

"Quite, darling. So's every one who sees you with me. Are the Rustons

in?"

"They're out for the day. They'll be back this evening."

"Then we can have an hour or two to ourselves. Except that I must find

that old photo album."

"What? The one with all the photos of you? I've got that."

"You would have."

"Yes, I love it. There's every conceivable photo of you in long frocks,

short frocks, in your little blouse and knickers, right till you become

a big grown man. I keep it under my pillow every night."

"Liar."

"Well, perhaps not every night. What do you want it for?"

"To show young Arthur. No one could mistake the evolution of my beauty.

It's proof positive."

"You always did have an enormous mouth. And that absurd ear." Norah

kissed his left ear, little conscious that it had already betrayed her

lover to the observant eyes of the boy in buttons. "I love my cow with

the crumpled horn," she chanted.

All of a sudden she became serious. "My dear," she said, "I quite

forgot. You know that man, Superintendent Wilson. He's been here again."

"Been here? Whatever for? When was he here?"

"Only a day or two ago. He saw mother, and I'm sure he's been poking

about here for something."

"What could he know, darling? Surely they've dropped the case--unless

Lord Ealing has put the cops on me. And that won't matter if it's only

the question of identity that's worrying them."

"Mother says he would talk about nothing but south coast

watering-places, and how he'd seen me at one of them. Of course, she

didn't give anything away. And there was a little boy who I'm sure was

spying on me, and when I asked him who he was he said his name was

Pasquett."

"It may have been, darling. I'm not the only Pasquett in the world. And

why should he say it was if it wasn't?"

"I don't know, but I feel sure there was something wrong. Mr. Wilson

pretended he was just taking a holiday over here, and had dropped in

for a friendly call."

"Perhaps he was, darling. Don't you get worried. I don't see how they

can possibly know anything. And they think I'm safe in Siberia."

Norah hoped Jack was right, but she could not help worrying. Her lover,

on the other hand, seemed too pleased to be with her again to attend

very closely to anything else. He laughed at her fears. Even Norah soon

put them by in her joy at her lover's return. Even criminals--if these

friends of ours are criminals--must make love very like ordinary people.

The Rustons came round that evening. They were very old acquaintances

of Pasquett's, who had introduced them to the Culpeppers in Paris. They

had known him in America, and could swear to his identity. Moreover,

they knew where others who had known Pasquett in the old days could be

found. The Thomas's in Fulham would readily confirm what they said. Mr.

and Mrs. Ruston agreed to travel to London on the morrow with Pasquett,

and put matters right with Arthur Wharton and Lord Ealing.

But, when the morrow came, Pasquett found it hard to leave Norah so

soon. "Why not one day more?" he asked himself. He could travel the

next day. Arthur would not expect him sooner. So he was still in

Paramé when Arthur Wharton's telegram reached him on the afternoon

following his arrival. He and Norah were out in the motor-boat when it

came. They returned very late for dinner and found it. "Hurrah, another

day's reprieve," said Pasquett. "But I wonder what all the fuss is

about."

The happy party at Paramé was quite unconscious that day of the evils

gathering round it. Norah did, indeed, notice the aeroplanes flying

over the sea, and supposed "there must be a race on, or something."

Pasquett was far too busy enjoying himself to bother his head about

aeroplanes. "I dare say," he said.

They did not know that the first aeroplane, starting from Croydon,

deposited at St. Malo Mr. Culpepper's confidential clerk and the

detective who was his travelling companion. They did not know that a

vitally important letter for Norah from her father was lying in the

police station at St. Malo, or that its contents had been communicated

to Scotland Yard. They did not know that the unfortunate clerk lay a

few miles off in prison, unable to send out any message. They did not

know that, in swift succession, Inspector Blaikie, Arthur Wharton,

another detective, Lord Ealing, and yet another detective were flying

across the Channel to disturb their tranquillity. They did not know

that before evening, there was a detective in the copse behind the

house, another hiding behind a boat on the beach, and a French police

patrol boat lying in readiness round the next headland. They knew very

little indeed, except that they were in love with each other.