post office in Putney, whence he sent an express note to Dorise, telling
her his change of address. He though it wiser not to post it.
Hence it was on the morning following Louise’s arrival at Shapley, he
received a letter from Dorise, enclosing one she had received under
cover for him. He had told Dorise to address him as “Mr. Carlton Symes.”
It was on dark-blue paper, such as is usually associated with the law or
officialdom. Written in a neat, educated hand, it read:
“DEAR MR. HENFREY,--I hear that you have left Abingdon Road, and am
greatly interested to know the reason. You will, no doubt, recognize me
as the friend who sent a car for you at Monte Carlo. Please call at the
above address at the earliest possible moment. Be careful that you are
not watched. Say nothing to anybody, wherever you may be. Better call
about ten-thirty P.M., and ask for me. Have no fear. I am still your
friend,
“GEORGE PETERS.”
The address given was 14, Ellerston Street, Mayfair.
Hugh knew the street, which turned off Curzon Street, a short
thoroughfare, but very exclusive. Some smart society folk lived there.
But who was George Peters? Was it not The Sparrow who had sent him the
car with the facetious chauffeur to that spot in Monte Carlo? Perhaps
the writer was the White Cavalier!
During the morning Hugh strolled down the hill and through the woods
with Louise. The latter was dressed in a neat country kit, a tweed
suit, a suede tam-o’-shanter, and carried a stout ash-plant as a
walking-stick. They were out together until luncheon time.
Meanwhile, Benton sat with his hostess, and had a long confidential
chat.
“You see, Molly,” he said, as he smoked lazily, “I thought it an
excellent plan to bring them together, and to let them have an
opportunity of really knowing each other. It’s no doubt true that he’s
over head and ears in love with the Ranscomb girl, but Lady Ranscomb has
set her mind on having Sherrard as her son-in-law. She’s a clever woman,
Lady Ranscomb, and of course, in her eyes, Hugh is for ever beneath a
cloud. That he went to the woman’s house at night is quite sufficient.”
“Well, if I know anything of young men, Charles, I don’t think you’ll
ever induce that boy to marry Louise,” remarked the handsome adventuress
whom nobody suspected.
“Then if he doesn’t, we’ll just turn him over to Scotland Yard. We
haven’t any further use for him,” said Benton savagely. “It’s the money
we want.”
“And I fear we shall go on wanting it, my dear Charles,” declared the
woman, who was so well versed in the ways of men. “Louise likes him. She
has told me so. But he only tolerates her--that’s all! He’s obsessed by
the mystery of old Henfrey’s death.”
“I wonder if that was the reason he went that night to see Yvonne?”
exclaimed Benton in a changed voice, as the idea suddenly occurred to
him. “I wonder if--if he suspected something, and went boldly and asked
her?”
“Ah! I wonder!” echoed the woman. “But Yvonne would surely tell him
nothing. It would implicate her far too deeply if she did. Yvonne is a
very shrewd person. She isn’t likely to have told the old man’s son very
much.”
“No, you’re right, Molly,” replied the man. “You’re quite right! I don’t
think we have much to fear on that score. We’ve got Hugh with us, and
if he again turns antagonistic the end is quite easy--just an anonymous
line to the police.”
“We don’t want to do that if there is any other way,” the woman said.
“I don’t see any other way,” replied the adventurer. “If he won’t marry
Louise, then the money passes out of our reach.”
“I don’t like The Sparrow taking such a deep interest in his welfare,”
growled the woman beneath her breath.
“And I don’t like the fact that Yvonne is still alive. If she were
dead--then we should have nothing to fear--nothing!” Benton said grimly.
“But who fired the shot if Hugh didn’t?” asked Mrs. Bond.
“Personally, I think he did. He discovered something--something we don’t
yet know--and he went to the Villa Amette and shot her in revenge for
the old man’s death. That’s my firm belief.”
“Then why has The Sparrow taken all these elaborate precautions?”
“Because he’s afraid himself of the truth coming out,” said Benton.
“He certainly has looked after Hugh very well. I had some trouble to
persuade the lad to come down here, for he evidently believes that The
Sparrow is his best friend.”
“He may find him his enemy one day,” laughed the woman. And then they
rose and strolled out into the grounds, across the lawn down to the
great pond.
When at half-past seven they sat down to dinner, Hugh suddenly remarked
that he found it imperative to go to London that evening, and asked Mrs.
Bond if he might have the car.
Benton looked up at him quickly, but said nothing before Louise.
“Certainly; Mead shall take you,” was the woman’s reply, though she was
greatly surprised at the sudden request. Both she and Benton instantly
foresaw that his intention was to visit Dorise in secret. For what other
reason could he wish to run the risk of returning to London?
“When do you wish to start?” asked his hostess.
“Oh! about nine--if I may,” was the young man’s reply.
“Will you be back to-night?” asked the girl who, in a pretty pink dinner
frock, sat opposite him.
“Yes. But it won’t be till late, I expect,” he replied.
“Remember, to-morrow we are going for a run to Bournemouth and back,”
said the girl. “Mrs. Bond has kindly arranged it, and I daresay she will
come, too.”
“I don’t know yet, dear,” replied Mrs. Bond. The truth was that she
intended that the young couple should spend the day alone together.
Benton was filled with curiosity.
As soon as the meal was over, and the two ladies had left the room, he
poured out a glass of port and turning to the young fellow, remarked:
“Don’t you think it’s a bit dangerous to go to town, Hugh?”
“It may be, but I must take the risk,” was the other’s reply.
“What are you going up for?” asked Benton bluntly.
“To see somebody--important,” was his vague answer. And though the elder
man tried time after time to get something more definite from him, he
remained silent. Had not his unknown friend urged him to say nothing to
anybody wherever he might be?
So at nine Mead drove up the car to the door, and Hugh, slipping on his
light overcoat, bade his hostess good-night, thanked her for allowing
him the use of the limousine, and promised to be back soon after
midnight.
“Good-night, Hugh!” cried Louise from the other end of the fine old
hall. And a moment later the car drove away in the darkness.
Along the Hog’s Back they went, and down into Guildford. Then up the
long steep High Street, past the ancient, overhanging clock at the
Guildhall, and out again on the long straight road to Ripley and London.
As soon as they were beyond Guildford, he knocked at the window, and
afterwards mounted beside Mead. He hated to be in a car alone, for he
himself was a good driver and used always to drive his father’s old
“‘bus.”
“I’ll go to the Berkeley Hotel,” he said to the man. “Drop me there, and
pick me up outside there at twelve, will you?”
The man promised to do so, and then they chatted as they continued on
their way to London. Mead, a Guildfordian, knew every inch of the road.
Before entering Mrs. Bond’s service he had, for a month, driven a lorry
for a local firm of builders, and went constantly to and from London.
They arrived at the corner of St. James’s Street at half-past ten. Hugh
gave Mead five shillings to get his evening meal, and said:
“Be back here at midnight, Mead. I expect I’ll be through my business
long before that. But it’s a clear night, and we shall have a splendid
run home.”
“Very well, sir. Thank you,” replied his hostess’s chauffeur.
Hugh Henfrey, instead of entering the smart Society hotel, turned up
the street, and, walking quickly, found himself ten minutes later in
Ellerston Street before a spacious house, upon the pale-green door of
which was marked in Roman numerals the number fourteen.
By the light of the street lamp he saw it was an old Georgian town
house. In the ironwork were two-foot-scrapers, relics of a time long
before macadam or wood paving.
The house, high and inartistic, was a relic of the days of the dandies,
when country squires had their town houses, and before labour found
itself in London drawing-rooms. Consumed by curiosity, Hugh pressed the
electric button marked “visitors,” and a few moments later a smart young
footman opened the door.
“Mr. George Peters?” inquired Hugh. “I have an appointment.”
“What name, sir?” the young, narrow-eyed man asked.
“Henfrey.”
“Oh, yes, sir! Mr. Peters is expecting you,” he said. And at once he
conducted him along the narrow hall to a room beyond.
The house was beautifully appointed. Everywhere was taste and luxury.
Even in the hall there were portraits by old Spanish masters and many
rare English sporting prints.
The room into which he was shown was a long apartment furnished in the
style of the Georgian era. The genuine Adams ceiling, mantelpiece,
and dead white walls, with the faintly faded carpet of old rose and
light-blue, were all in keeping. The lights, too, were shaded, and over
all was an old-world atmosphere of quiet and dignified repose.
The room was empty, and Hugh crossed to examine a beautiful little
marble statuette of a girl bather, with her arms raised and about to
dive. It was, no doubt, a gem of the art of sculpture, mounted upon a
pedestal of dark-green marble which revolved.
The whole conception was delightful, and the girl’s laughing face was
most perfect in its portraiture.
Of a sudden the door reopened, and he was met by a stout, rather wizened
old gentleman with white bristly hair and closely cropped moustache, a
man whose ruddy face showed good living, and who moved with the brisk
alertness of a man twenty years his junior.
“Ah! here you are, Mr. Henfrey!” he exclaimed warmly, as he offered his
visitor his hand. Upon the latter was a well-worn black glove--evidently
to hide either some disease or deformity. “I was wondering if you
received my letter safely?”
“Yes,” replied Hugh, glancing at the shrewd little man whose gloved
right hand attracted him.
“Sit down,” the other said, as he closed the door. “I’m very anxious to
have a little chat with you.”
Hugh took the arm-chair which Mr. Peters indicated. Somehow he viewed
the man with suspicion. His eyes were small and piercing, and his face
with its broad brow and narrow chin was almost triangular. He was a man
of considerable personality, without a doubt. His voice was high pitched
and rather petulant.
“Now,” he said. “I was surprised to learn that you had left your safe
asylum in Kensington. Not only was I surprised--but I confess, I was
alarmed.”
“I take it that I have to thank you for making those arrangements for
my escape from Monte Carlo?” remarked Hugh, looking him straight in the
face.
“No thanks are needed, my dear Mr. Henfrey,” replied the elder man.
“So long as you are free, what matters? But I do not wish you to
deliberately run risks which are so easily avoided. Why did you leave
Abingdon Road?”
“I was advised to do so by a friend.”
“Not by Miss Ranscomb, I am sure.”
“No, by a Mr. Benton, whom I know.”
The old man’s eyebrows narrowed for a second.
“Benton?” he echoed. “Charles Benton--is he?”
“Yes. As he was a friend of my late father I naturally trust him.”
Mr. Peters paused.
“Oh, naturally,” he said a second later. “But where are you living now?”
Hugh told him that he was the guest of Mrs. Bond of Shapley Manor,
whereupon Mr. Peters sniffed sharply, and rising, obtained a box of good
cigars from a cupboard near the fireplace.
“You went there at Benton’s suggestion?”
“Yes, I did.”
Mr. Peters gave a grunt of undisguised dissatisfaction, as he curled
himself in his chair and examined carefully the young man before him.
“Now, Mr. Henfrey,” he said at last. “I am very sorry for you. I happen
to know something of your present position, and the great difficulty in
which you are to-day placed by the clever roguery of others. Will you
please describe to me accurately exactly what occurred on that fateful
night at the Villa Amette? If I am to assist you further it is necessary
for you to tell me everything--remember, _everything_!”
Hugh paused and looked the stranger straight in the face.
“I thought you knew all about it,” he said.
“I know a little--not all. I want to know everything. Why did you
venture there at all? You did not know the lady. It was surely a very
unusual hour to pay a call?” said the little man, his shrewd eyes fixed
upon his visitor.
“Well, Mr. Peters, the fact is that my father died in very suspicious
circumstances, and I was led to believe the Mademoiselle was cognizant
of the truth.”
The other man frowned slightly.
“And so you went there with the purpose of getting the truth from her?”
he remarked, with a grunt.
Hugh nodded in the affirmative.
“What did she tell you?”
“Nothing. She was about to tell me something when the shot was fired by
someone on the veranda outside.”
“H’m! Then the natural surmise would be that you, suspecting that woman
of causing your father’s death, shot her because she refused to tell you
anything?”
“I repeat she was about to disclose the circumstances--to divulge her
secret, when she was struck down.”
“You have no suspicion of anyone? You don’t think that her manservant--I
forget the fellow’s name--fired the shot? Remember, he was not in the
room at the time!”
“I feel confident that he did not. He was far too distressed at the
terrible affair,” said Hugh. “The outrage must have been committed by
someone to whom the preservation of the secret of my father’s end was of
most vital importance.”
“Agreed,” replied the man with the black glove. “The problem we have to
solve is who was responsible for your father’s death.”
“Yes,” said Hugh. “If that shot had not been fired I should have known
the truth.”
“You think, then, that Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo would have told you
the truth?” asked the bristly-haired man with a mysterious smile.
“Yes. She would.”
“Well, Mr. Henfrey, I think I am not of your opinion.”
“You think possibly she would have implicated herself if she had told me
the truth?”
“I do. But the chief reason I asked you to call and see me to-night is
to learn for what reason you have been induced to go on a visit to this
Mrs. Bond.”
“Because Benton suggested it. He told me that Scotland Yard knew of my
presence in Kensington, making further residence there dangerous.”
“H’m!” And the man with the black glove paused again.
“You don’t like Benton, do you?”
“I have no real reason to dislike him. He has always been very friendly
towards me--as he was to my late father. The only thing which causes
me to hold aloof from him as much as I can is the strange clause in my
father’s will.”
“Strange clause?” echoed the old man. “What clause?”
“My father, in his will, cut me off every benefit he could unless I
married Benton’s adopted daughter, Louise. If I marry her, then I obtain
a quarter of a million. I at first thought of disputing the will, but
Mr. Charman, our family solicitor, says that it is perfectly in order.
The will was made in Paris two years before his death. He went over
there on some financial business.”
“Was Benton with him?” asked Mr. Peters.
“No. Benton went to New York about two months before.”
“H’m! And how soon after your father’s return did he come home?”
“I think it was about three months. He was in America five months
altogether, I believe.”
The old man, still curled in his chair, smoked his cigar in silence.
Apparently he was thinking deeply.
“So Benton has induced you to go down to Shapley in order that you may
be near his adopted daughter, in the hope that you will marry her! In
the meantime you are deeply in love with Lady Ranscomb’s daughter.
I know her--a truly charming girl. I congratulate you,” he added,
as though speaking to himself. “But the situation is indeed a very
complicated one.”
“For me it is terrible. I am living under a cloud, and in constant fear
of arrest. What can be done?”
“I fear nothing much can be done at present,” said the old man, shaking
his head gravely. “I quite realize that you are victim of certain
enemies who intend to get hold of your father’s fortune. It is for us to
combat them--if we can.”
“Then you will continue to help me?” asked Hugh eagerly, looking into
the mysterious face of the old fellow who wore the black glove.
“I promise you my aid,” he replied, putting out his gloved hand as
pledge.
Then, as Hugh took it, he looked straight into those keen eyes, and
asked:
“You have asked me many questions, sir, and I have replied to them all.
May I ask one of you--my friend?”
“Certainly,” replied the older man.
“Then am I correct in assuming that you are actually the person of whom
I have heard so much up and down Europe--the man of whom certain men
and women speak with admiration, and with bated breath--the man known in
certain circles as--as _Il Passero_?”
The countenance of the little man with the bristly white hair and the
black glove relaxed into a smile, as, still holding Hugh’s hand in
friendship, he replied:
“Yes. It is true. Some know me as ‘The Sparrow!’”
NINETEENTH CHAPTER
THE SPARROW
Hugh Henfrey was at last face to face with the most notorious criminal
in Europe!
The black-gloved hand of the wizened, bristly-haired old man was the
hand that controlled a great organization spread all over Europe--an
organization which only knew Il Passero by repute, but had never seen
him in the flesh.
Yet there he was, a discreet, rather petulant old gentleman, who lived
at ease in an exclusive West End street, and was entirely unsuspected!
When “Mr. Peters” admitted his identity, Hugh drew a long breath. He
was staggered. He was profuse in his thanks, but “The Sparrow” merely
smiled, saying:
“It is true that I and certain of my friends make war upon Society--and
more especially upon those who have profiteered upon those brave fellows
who laid down their lives for us in the war. Whatever you have heard
concerning me I hope you will forgive, Mr. Henfrey. At least I am the
friend of those who are in distress, or who are wrongly judged--as you
are to-day.”
“I have heard many strange things concerning you from those who have
never met you,” Hugh said frankly. “But nothing to your detriment.
Everyone speaks of you, sir, as a gallant sportsman, possessed of an
almost uncanny cleverness in outwitting the authorities.”
“Oh, well!” laughed the shrewd old man. “By the exercise of a little
wit, and the possession of a little knowledge of the _personnel_ of the
police, one can usually outwit them. Curious as you may think it, a very
high official at Scotland Yard dined with me here only last night. As I
am known as a student of criminology, and reputed to be the author of
a book upon that subject, he discussed with me the latest crime problem
with which he had been called upon to deal--the mysterious murder of a
young girl upon the beach on the north-east coast. His frankness rather
amused me. It was, indeed, a quaint situation,” he laughed.
“But does he not recognize you, or suspect?” asked Hugh.
“Why should he? I have never been through the hands of the police in my
life. Hence I have never been photographed, nor have my finger prints
been taken. I merely organize--that is all.”
“Your organization is most wonderful, Mr.--er--Mr. Peters,” declared the
young man. “Since my flight I have had opportunity of learning something
concerning it. And frankly, I am utterly astounded.”
The old man’s face again relaxed into a sphinx-like smile.
“When I order, I am obeyed,” he said in a curious tone. “I ordered your
rescue from that ugly situation in Monte Carlo. You and Miss Ranscomb no
doubt believed the tall man who went to the ball at Nice as a cavalier
to be myself. He did not tell you anything to the contrary, because I
only reveal my identity to persons whom I can trust, and then only in
cases of extreme necessity.”
“Then I take it, sir, that you trust me, and that my case is one of
extreme necessity?”
“It is,” was The Sparrow’s reply. “At present I can see no solution of
the problem. It will be best, perhaps, for you to remain where you
are for the present,” he added. He did not tell the young man of his
knowledge of Benton and his hostess.
“But I am very desirous of seeing Miss Ranscomb,” Hugh said. “Is there
any way possible by which I can meet her without running too great a
risk?”
The Sparrow reflected in silence for some moments.
“To-day is Wednesday,” he remarked slowly at last. “Miss Ranscomb is in
London. That I happen to know. Well, go to the Bush Hotel, in Farnham,
on Friday afternoon and have tea. She will probably motor there and take
tea with you.”
“Will she?” cried Hugh eagerly. “Will you arrange it? You are, indeed, a
good Samaritan!”
The little old man smiled.
“I quite understand that this enforced parting under such circumstances
is most unfortunate for you both,” he said. “But I have done, and will
continue to do, all I can in your interest.”
“I can’t quite make you out, Mr. Peters,” said the young man. “Why
should you evince such a paternal interest in me?”
The Sparrow did not at once reply. A strange expression played about his
lips.
“Have I not already answered that question twice?” he asked. “Rest
assured, Mr. Henfrey, that I have your interests very much at heart.”
“You have some reason for that, I’m sure.”
“Well--yes, I have a reason--a reason which is my own affair.” And he
rose to wish his visitor “good-night.”
“I’ll not forget to let Miss Ranscomb know that you will be at Farnham.
She will, no doubt, manage to get her mother’s car for the afternoon,”
he said. “Good-night!” and with his gloved fingers he took the young
man’s outstretched hand.
The instant he heard the front door close he crossed to the telephone,
and asking for a number, told the person who answered it to come round
and see him without a moment’s delay.
Thus, while Hugh Henfrey was seated beside Mead as Mrs. Bond’s car went
swiftly towards Kensington, a thin, rather wiry-looking man of middle
age entered The Sparrow’s room.
The latter sprang to his feet quickly at sight of his visitor.
“Ah! Howell! I’m glad you’ve come. Benton and Molly Maxwell are
deceiving us. They mean mischief!”
The man he addressed as Howell looked aghast.
“Mischief?” he echoed. “In what way?”
“I’ve not yet arrived at a full conclusion. But we must be on the alert
and ready to act whenever the time is ripe. You know what they did over
that little affair in Marseilles not so very long ago? They’ll repeat,
if we’re not very careful. That girl of Benton’s they are using as a
decoy--and she’s a dangerous one.”
“For whom?”
“For old Henfrey’s son.”
The Sparrow’s visitor gave vent to a low whistle.
“They intend to get old Henfrey’s money?”
“Yes--and they will if we are not very wary,” declared the little,
bristly-haired old gentleman known as The Sparrow. “The boy has been
entirely entrapped. They made one _faux pas_, and it is upon that
we may--if we are careful--get the better of them. I don’t like the
situation at all. They have a distinctly evil design against the boy.”
“Benton and Molly are a combination pretty hard to beat,” remarked Mr.
Howell. “But I thought they were friends of ours.”
“True. They were. But after the little affair in Marseilles I don’t
trust them,” replied The Sparrow. “When anyone makes a slip, either
by design or sheer carelessness, or perhaps by reason of inordinate
avarice, then I always have to safeguard myself. I suspect--and my
suspicion usually proves correct.”
His midnight visitor drew a long breath.
“What we all say of you is that The Sparrow is gifted with an extra
sense,” he said.
The little old man with the gloved hand smiled contentedly.
“I really don’t know why,” he said. “But I scent danger long before
others have any suspicion of it. If I did not, you would, many of you
who are my friends, have been in prison long ago.”
“But you have such a marvellous memory.”
“Memory!” he echoed. “Quite wrong. I keep everything filed. I work
yonder at my desk all day. See this old wardrobe,” and he crossed to a
long, genuine Jacobean wardrobe which stood in a corner and, unlocking
it, opened the carved doors. “There you see all my plans arranged and
docketed. I can tell you what has been attempted to-night. Whether the
coup is successful I do not yet know.”