Title: The Just Men Of Cordova (1917)
Author: Edgar Wallace
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Title: The Just Men Of Cordova (1917)
Author: Edgar Wallace





CONTENTS:

I THREE MEN OF CORDOVA
II COLONEL BLACK, FINANCIER.
Ill AN ADVENTURE IN PIMLICO
IV THE MEN WHO SAT IN JUDGMENT.
V THE EARL OF VERLOND
VI THE POLICEMAN AND A LADY
VII DR. ESSLEY MEETS A MAN
VIII COLONEL BLACK HAS A SHOCK
IX LORD VERLOND GIVES A DINNER
X A POLICEMAN'S BUSINESS XI TO LINCOLN RACES
XII THE RACE
XIII WHO ARE THE FOUR?
XIV WILLIE JAKOBS TELLS
XV SIR ISAAC'S FEARS
XVI COLONEL BLACK MEETS A JUST MAN
CHAPTER THE LAST. JUSTICE





CHAPTER I-THREE MEN OF CORDOVA


The man who sat at the marble-topped table of the Cafe of the Great
Captain--if I translate the sign aright--was a man of leisure. A tall
man, with a trim beard and grave grey eyes that searched the street
absently as though not quite certain of his quest. He sipped a coffee con
leche and drummed a little tune on the table with his slender white
hands.

He was dressed in black, which is the conventional garb in Spain, and his
black cloak was lined with velvet. His cravat was of black satin, and his
well-fitting trousers were strapped under his pointed boots, in the
manner affected by certain caballero.

These features of his attire were the most striking, though he was
dressed conventionally enough--for Cordova. He might have been a
Spaniard, for grey eyes are a legacy of the Army of Occupation, and many
were the unions between Wellington's rollicking Irishmen and the
susceptible ladies of the Estremadura.

His speech was flawless. He spoke with the lisp of Andalusia, clipping
his words as do the folk of the South. Also, there was evidence of his
Southern origin in his response to the whining beggar that shuffled
painfully to him, holding out crooked fingers for largess.

"In the name of the Virgin, and the Saints, and the God who is above all,
I beseech you, senor, to spare me ten centimes."

The bearded man brought his far-seeing eyes to focus on the palm.

"God will provide," he said, in the slurred Arabic of Spanish Morocco.

"Though I live a hundred years," said the beggar monotonously, "I will
never cease to pray for your lordship's happiness."

He of the velvet-lined cloak looked at the beggar.

The mendicant was a man of medium height, sharp-featured, unshaven, after
the way of his kind, terribly bandaged across his head and one eye.

Moreover, he was lame. His feet were shapeless masses of swathed
bandages, and his discoloured hands clutched a stick fiercely.

"Senor and Prince," he whined, "there is between me and the damnable
pangs of hunger ten centimes, and your worship would not sleep this night
in comfort thinking of me tossing in famine."

"Go in peace," said the other patiently.

"Exalted," moaned the beggar, "by the chico that lay on your mother's
knee"--he crossed himself--"by the gallery of the Saints and the blessed
blood of martyrs, I beseech you not to leave me to die by the wayside,
when ten centimes, which is as the paring of your nails, would lead me to
a full stomach."

The man at the table sipped his coffee unmoved.

"Go with God," he said.

Still the man lingered.

He looked helplessly up and down the sunlit street. He peered into the
cool dark recess of the cafe, where an apathetic waiter sat at a table
reading the Heraldo.

Then he leant forward, stretching out a slow hand to pick a crumb of cake
from the next table.

"Do you know Dr. Essley?" he asked in perfect English.

The cavalier at the table looked thoughtful.

"I do not know him. Why?" he asked in the same language.

"You should know him," said the beggar; "he is interesting."

He said no more, shuffling a painful progress along the street. The
caballero watched him with some curiosity as he made his way slowly to
the next cafe. Then he clapped his hands sharply, and the apathetic
waiter, now nodding significantly over his Heraldo, came suddenly to
life, collected the bill, and a tip which was in proportion to the size
of the bill. Though the sky was cloudless and the sun threw blue shadows
in the street, those same shadows were immensely cold, for these were the
chilly days before the first heat of spring.

The gentleman, standing up to his full height--he was well over the
six-feet mark--shook his cloak and lightly threw one end across his
shoulder; then he began to walk slowly in the direction taken by the
beggar.

The way led him through narrow streets, so narrow that in the walls on
either side ran deep recesses to allow the boxes of cartwheels to pass.
He overtook the man in the Calle Paraiso, passed him, threading the
narrow streets that led to San Fernando. Down this he went, walking very
leisurely, then turned to the street of Carrera de Puente, and so came to
the shadows of the mosque-cathedral which is dedicated to God and to
Allah with delightful impartiality. He stood irresolutely before the
gates that opened on to the courtyards, seemed half in doubt, then turned
again, going downhill to the Bridge of Calahorra. Straight as a die the
bridge runs, with its sixteen arches that the ancient Moors built. The
man with the cloak reached the centre of the bridge and leant over,
watching with idle interest the swollen yellow waters of the
Guadalquivir.

Out of the corner of his eye he watched the beggar come slowly through
the gate and walk in his direction. He had a long time to wait, for the
man's progress was slow. At last he came sidling up to him, hat in hand,
palm outstretched. The attitude was that of a beggar, but the voice was
that of an educated Englishman.

"Manfred," he said earnestly, "you must see this man Essley. I have a
special reason for asking."

"What is he?"

The beggar smiled.

"I am dependent upon memory to a great extent," he said, "the library at
my humble lodgings being somewhat limited, but I have a dim idea that he
is a doctor in a suburb of London, rather a clever surgeon."

"What is he doing here?"

The redoubtable Gonsalez smiled again.

"There is in Cordova a Dr. Cajalos. From the exalted atmosphere of the
Paseo de Gran Capitan, wherein I understand you have your luxurious
suite, no echo of the underworld of Cordova comes to you. Here "--he
pointed to the roofs and the untidy jumble of buildings at the farther
end of the bridge--"in the Campo of the Verdad, where men live happily on
two pesetas a week, we know Dr. Cajalos. He is a household word--a
marvellous man, George, performing miracles undreamt of in your
philosophy: making the blind to see, casting spells upon the guilty, and
creating infallible love philtres for the innocent! He'll charm a wart or
arrest the ravages of sleeping sickness."

Manfred nodded. "Even in the Paseo de la Gran Capitan he is not without
honour," he said with a twinkle in his eye. "I have seen him and
consulted him."

The beggar was a little astonished. "You're a wonderful man," he said,
with admiration in his voice. "When did you do it?"

Manfred laughed softly.

"There was a certain night, not many weeks ago, when a beggar stood
outside the worthy doctor's door, patiently waiting till a mysterious
visitor, cloaked to his nose, had finished his business."

"I remember," said the other, nodding. "He was a stranger from Ronda, and
I was curious--did you see me following him?"

"I saw you," said Manfred gravely. "I saw you from the corner of my eye."

"It was not you?" asked Gonsalez, astonished.

"It was I," said the other. "I went out of Cordova to come into Cordova."

Gonsalez was silent for a moment.

"I accept the humiliation," he said. "Now, since you know the doctor, can
you see any reason for the visit of a commonplace English doctor to
Cordova? He has come all the way without a halt from England by the
Algeciras Express. He leaves Cordova to-morrow morning at daybreak by the
same urgent system, and he comes to consult Dr. Cajalos."

"Poiccart is here: he has an interest in this Essley--so great an
interest that he comes blandly to our Cordova, Baedeker in hand, seeking
information of the itinerant guide and submitting meekly to his
inaccuracies."

Manfred stroked his little beard, with the same grave thoughtful
expression in his wise eyes as when he had watched Gonsalez shuffling
from the Cafe de la Gran Capitan. "Life would be dull without Poiccart,"
he said.

"Dull, indeed--ah, senor, my life shall be your praise, and it shall rise
like the smoke of holy incense to the throne of Heaven."

He dropped suddenly into his whine, for a policeman of the town guard was
approaching, with a suspicious eye for the beggar who stood with
expectant hand outstretched.

Manfred shook his head as the policeman strolled up.

"Go in peace," he said.

"Dog," said the policeman, his rough hand descending on the beggar's
shoulder, "thief of a thief, begone lest you offend the nostrils of this
illustrious."

With arms akimbo, he watched the man limp away, then he turned to
Manfred.

"If I had seen this scum before, excellency," he said fiercely, "I should
have relieved your presence of his company."

"It is not important," said Manfred conventionally.

"As for me," the policeman went on, releasing one hand from his hip to
curl an insignificant moustache, "I have hard work in protecting rich and
munificent caballeros from these swine. And God knows my pay is poor, and
with three hungry mouths to fill, not counting my wife's mother, who
comes regularly on feast days and must be taken to the bull-fight, life
is hard. More especially, senor, since she is one of those damned proud
Andalusian women who must have a seat in the shade at two pesetas*. For
myself, I have not tasted rioja since the feast of Santa Therese--"

[*At a bull-fight the seats in the sun are the cheaper, those in the
shade being double the price.]

Manfred slipped a peseta into the hand of the uniformed beggar. The man
walked by his side to the end of the bridge, retailing his domestic
difficulties with the freedom and intimacy which is possible nowhere else
in the world. They stood chattering near the principal entrance to the
Cathedral.

"Your excellency is not of Cordova?" asked the officer.

"I am of Malaga," said Manfred without hesitation.

"I had a sister who married a fisherman of Malaga," confided the
policeman. "Her husband was drowned, and she now lives with a senor whose
name I forget. She is a pious woman, but very selfish. Has your
excellency been to Gibraltar?"

Manfred nodded. He was interested in a party of tourists which was being
shown the glories of the Puerta del Perdon.

One of the tourists detached himself from his party and came towards
them. He was a man of middle height and strongly built. There was a
strange reserve in his air and a saturnine imperturbability in his face.

"Can you direct me to the Passeo de la Gran Capitan?" he asked in bad
Spanish.

"I am going that way," said Manfred courteously; "if the senor would
condescend to accompany me--"

"I shall be grateful," said the other.

They chatted a little on divers subjects--the weather, the delightful
character of the mosque-cathedral.

"You must come along and see Essley said the tourist suddenly. He spoke
in perfect Spanish.

"Tell me about him." said Manfred. "Between you and Gonsalez, my dear
Poiccart, you have piqued my curiosity."

"This is an important matter," said the other earnestly. "Essley is a
doctor in a suburb of London. I have had him under observation for some
months. He has a small practice--quite a little one--and he attends a few
cases. Apparently he does no serious work in his suburb, and his history
is a strange one. He was a student at University College, London, and
soon after getting his degree left with a youth named Henley for
Australia. Henley had been a hopeless failure and had been badly ploughed
in his exams., but the two were fast friends, which may account for their
going away together to try their luck in a new country. Neither of them
had a relation in the world, except Henley, who had a rich uncle settled
somewhere in Canada, and whom he had never seen. Arrived in Melbourne,
the two started off up country with some idea of making for the new gold
diggings, which were in full swing at that time. I don't know where the
diggings were; at any rate, it was three months before Essley
arrived--alone, his companion having died on the road!"

"He does not seem to have started practising," Poiccart went on, "for
three or four years. We can trace his wanderings from mining camp to
mining camp, where he dug a little, gambled a lot, and was generally
known as Dr. S.--probably an abbreviation of Essley. Not until he reached
Western Australia did he attempt to establish himself as a doctor. He had
some sort of a practice, not a very high-class one, it is true, but
certainly lucrative. He disappeared from Coolgardie in 1900; he did not
reappear in England until 1908."

They had reached the Passeo by now. The streets were better filled than
they had been when Manfred had followed the beggar.

"I've some rooms here," he said. "Come in and we will have some tea."

He occupied a flat over a jeweller's in the Calle Moreria. It was a
well-furnished apartment, "and especially blessed in the matter of
light," explained Manfred as he inserted the key. He put a silver kettle
on the electric stove.

"The table is laid for two?" questioned Poiccart.

"I have visitors," said Manfred with a little smile. "Sometimes the
begging profession becomes an intolerable burden to our Leon and he
enters Cordova by rail, a most respectable member of society, full of a
desire for the luxury of life--and stories. Go on with yours, Poiccart; I
am interested."

The "tourist" seated himself in a deep arm-chair. "Where was I?" he
asked. "Oh, yes. Dr. Essley disappeared from Coolgardie, and after an
obliteration of eight years reappeared in London."

"In any exceptional circumstances?"

"No, very ordinarily. He seems to have been taken up by the newest kind
of Napoleon."

"A Colonel Black?" asked Manfred, raising his eyebrows.

Poiccart nodded.

"That same meteor," he said. "At any rate, Essley, thanks to what
practice he could steal from other practitioners in his own
suburb--somewhere in the neighbourhood of Forest Hill--and what practice
Napoleon's recommendation gives him, seems to be fairly well off. He
first attracted my attention--"

There came a tap at the door, and Manfred raised his finger warningly. He
crossed the room and opened the door. The concierge stood outside, cap in
hand; behind him and a little way down the stairs was a
stranger--obviously an Englishman.

"A senor to see your excellency," said the concierge.

"My house is at your disposal," said Manfred, addressing the stranger in
Spanish.

"I am afraid I do not speak good Spanish," said the man on the stairs.

"Will you come up?" asked Manfred, in English.

The other mounted the stairs slowly.

He was a man of fifty. His hair was grey and long. His eyebrows were
shaggy, and his under-jaw stuck out and gave his face an appearance which
was slightly repulsive. He wore a black coat and carried a big, soft
wideawake in his gloved hand.

He peered round the room from one to the other.

"My name," he said, "is Essley."

He pronounced the word, lingering upon the double "ss" till it sounded
like a long hiss.

"Essley," he repeated as though he derived some satisfaction from the
repetition--"Dr. Essley."

Manfred motioned him to a chair, but he shook his head.

"I'll stand," he said harshly. "When I have business, I stand." He looked
suspiciously at Poiccart. "I have private business," he said pointedly.

"My friend has my complete confidence," said Manfred.

He nodded grudgingly. "I understand," he said, "that you are a scientist
and a man of considerable knowledge of Spain."

Manfred shrugged his shoulders. In his present role he enjoyed some
reputation as a quasi-scientific litterateur, and under the name of "de
la Monte" had published a book on Modern Crime.

"Knowing this," said the man, "I came to Cordova, having other business
also--but that will keep."

He looked round for a chair and Manfred offered one, into which he sat,
keeping his back to the window.

"Mr. de la Monte," said the doctor, leaning forward with his hands on his
knees and speaking very deliberately, "you have some knowledge of crime."

"I have written a book on the subject," said Manfred, which is not
necessarily the same thing."

"I had that fear," said the other bluntly. "I was also afraid that you
might not speak English. Now I want to ask you a plain question and I
want a plain answer."

"So far as I can give you this, I shall be most willing," said Manfred.

The doctor twisted his face nervously, then--"Have you ever heard of the
Four Just Men?" he asked.

There was a little silence.

"Yes," said Manfred calmly, "I have heard of them."

"Are they in Spain?" The question was put sharply.

"I have no exact knowledge," said Manfred. "Why do you ask?"

"Because--" The doctor hesitated. "Oh, well--I am interested. It is said
that they unearth villainy that the law does not punish; they--they
kill--eh?" His voice was sharper, his eyelids narrowed till he peered
from one to the other through slits.

"Such an organization is known to exist," said Manfred, "and one knows
that they do happen upon unpunished crime--and punish."

"Even to--to killing?"

"They even kill," said Manfred gravely.

"And they go free!"--the doctor leapt to his feet with a snarl and flung
out his hands in protest--"they go free! All the laws of all nations
cannot trap them! A self-appointed tribunal--who are they to judge and
condemn? Who gave them the right to sit in judgment? There is a law, if a
man cheats it--"

He checked himself suddenly, shook his shoulders and sank heavily into
the chair again.

"So far as I can secure information upon the subject," he said roughly,
"these men are no longer an active force--they are outlawed--there are
warrants for them in every country."

Manfred nodded.

"That is very true," he said gently; "but whether they are an active
force, time must reveal."

"There were three?"--the doctor looked up quickly--"and they usually find
a fourth--an influential fourth."

Manfred nodded again. "So I understand."

Dr. Essley twisted uncomfortably in his chair. It was evident that the
information or assurance he expected to receive from this expert in crime
was not entirely satisfactory to him.

"And they are in Spain?" he asked.

"So it is said."

"They are not in France; they are not in Italy; they are not in Russia;
nor in any of the German States," said the doctor resentfully. "They must
be in Spain."

He brooded awhile in silence.

"Pardon me," said Poiccart, who had been a silent listener, "but you seem
very interested in these men. Would it be offensive to you if I asked you
to satisfy my curiosity as to why you should be anxious to discover their
whereabouts?"

"Curiosity also," said the other quickly; "in a sense I am a modest
student of crime, as our friend de la Monte is."

"An enthusiastic student," said Manfred quietly.

"I hoped that you would be able to give me some help," Essley went on,
unmindful of the significant emphasis of the other's tones; "beyond the
fact that they may be in Spain, which, after all, is conjectural, I have
learnt nothing."

"They may not even be in Spain," said Manfred, as he accompanied his
visitor to the door; "they may not even be in existence--your fears may
be entirely groundless."

The doctor whipped round, white to the lips. "Fears?" he said, breathing
quickly. "Did you say fears?"

"I am sorry," laughed Manfred easily; my English is perhaps not good."

"Why should I fear them?" demanded the doctor aggressively. "Why should
I? Your words are chosen very unwisely, sir. I have nothing to fear from
the Four Just Men--or from any other source."

He stood panting in the doorway like a man who is suddenly deprived of
breath. With an effort he collected himself, hesitated a moment, and then
with a stiff little bow left the room.

He went down the stairs, out to the street, and turned into the Passeo.
There was a beggar at the corner who raised a languid hand. "Por deos--"
he whined.

With an oath, Essley struck at the hand with his cane, only to miss it,
for the beggar was singularly quick and, for all the discomforts he was
prepared to face, Gonsalez had no desire to endure a hand seamed and
wealed--those sensitive hands of his were assets to Gonsalez.

The doctor pursued a savage way to his hotel. Reaching his room, he
locked the door and threw himself into a chair to think. He cursed his
own folly--it was madness to have lost his temper even before so
insignificant a person as a Spanish dilettante in science. There was the
first half of his mission finished--and it was a failure. He took from
the pocket of his overcoat, hanging behind the door, a Spanish Baedeker.
He turned the leaves till he came to a map of Cordova. Attached to this
was a smaller plan, evidently made by somebody who knew the topography of
the place better than he understood the rules of cartography.

He had heard of Dr. Cajalos first from a Spanish anarchist he had met in
some of his curious nocturnal prowlings in London. Under the influence of
good wine this bold fellow had invested the wizard of Cordova with
something approaching miraculous powers--he had also said things which
had aroused the doctor's interest to an extraordinary degree. A
correspondence had followed: the visit was the result.

Essley looked at his watch. It was nearly seven o'clock. He would dine,
then go to his room and change. He made a hasty ablution in the growing
darkness of the room--curiously enough he did not switch on the light;
then he went to dinner. He had a table to himself and buried himself in
an English magazine he had brought with him. Now and again as he read he
would make notes in a little book which lay on the table by the side of
his plate.

They had no reference to the article he read; they had little association
with medical science. On the whole, they dealt with certain financial
aspects of a certain problem which came into his mind.

He finished his dinner, taking his coffee at the table. Then he rose, put
the little notebook in his pocket, the magazine under his arm, and made
his way back to his room. He turned on the light, pulled down the blinds,
and drew a light dressing-table beneath the lamp. He produced his
note-book again and, with the aid of a number of closely-written sheets
of paper taken from his valise, he compiled a little table. He was
completely engrossed for a couple of hours. As if some invisible and
unheard alarum clock warned him of his engagement, he closed the book,
locked his memoranda in the valise, and struggled into his coat. With a
soft felt hat pulled down over his eyes, he left the hotel and without
hesitation took the path which led down to the Calahorra Bridge. The
streets through which he passed were deserted, but he had no hesitation,
knowing well the lawful character of these unprepossessing little Spanish
suburbs.

He plunged into a labyrinth of narrow streets--he had studied his plan to
some purpose--and only hesitated when he reached a cul-de-sac which was
more spacious than the street from which it opened. One oil lamp at the
farther end added rather to the gloom. Tall, windowless houses rose on
either side, and each was pierced by a door. On the left door the doctor,
after a moment's hesitation, knocked twice.

Instantly it opened noiselessly. He hesitated.

"Enter," said a voice in Spanish; "the senor need not fear."

He stepped into the black void and the door closed behind him. "Come this
way," said the voice. In the pitch darkness he could make out the
indistinct figure of a little man.

The doctor stepped inside and surreptitiously wiped the sweat from his
forehead. The old man lit a lamp, and Essley took stock of him. He was
very little, scarcely more than four feet in height. He had a rough white
beard and head as bald as an egg. His face and hands were alike grimy,
and his whole appearance bore evidence of his aversion to water.

A pair of black twinkling eyes were set deeply in his head, and the
puckering lines about them revealed him as a man who found humour in
life. This was Dr. Cajalos, a famous man in Spain, though he had no
social standing.

"Sit down," said Cajalos; "we will talk quietly, for I have a senora of
high quality to see me touching a matter of lost affection."

Essley took the chair offered to him and the doctor seated himself on a
high stool by the table. A curious figure he made, with his dangling
little legs, his old, old face and his shining bald pate.

"I wrote to you on the subject of certain occult demonstrations," began
the doctor, but the old man stopped him with a quick jerk of the hand.

"You came to see me, senor, because of a drug I have prepared," he said,
"a preparation of--*"

[* In the story, as it appeared in serial form, the name of the poison
occurred. It has been represented to the author (and he agrees) that it
is wholly undesirable that the name of this drug should appear in a work
of fiction. It is one well known to oculists and its action is faithfully
described in these pages.]

Essley sprang to his feet. "I--I did not tell you so," he stammered.

"The green devil told me," said the other seriously. "I have many talks
with the foot-draggers, and they speak very truly."

"I thought--"

"Look!" said the old man. He leapt down from his high perch with agility.
In the dark corner of one of the rooms were some boxes, to which he went.
Essley heard a scuffling, and by and by the old man came back, holding by
the ears a wriggling rabbit. With his disengaged hand he unstoppered a
little green bottle on the table. He picked a feather from the table,
dipped the point gingerly into the bottle. Then very carefully he lightly
touched the nose of the rabbit with the end of the feather--so lightly,
indeed, that the feather hardly brushed the muzzle of the animal.

Instantly, with no struggle, the rabbit went limp, as though the life
essence had been withdrawn from the body. Cajalos replaced the stopper
and thrust the feather into a little charcoal fire that burnt dully in
the centre of the room.

"P--e," he said briefly; "but my preparation." He laid the dead animal on
the floor at the feet of the other. "Senor," he said proudly, "you shall
take that animal and examine it; you shall submit it to tests beyond
patience; yet you shall not discover the alkaloid that killed it."

"That is not so," said Essley, "for there will be a contraction of the
pupil which is an invariable sign."

"Search also for that," said the old man triumphantly.

Essley made the superficial tests. There was not even this invariable
symptom.

A dark figure, pressed close to the wall outside, listened. He was
standing by the shuttered window. He held to his ear a little ebonite
tube with a microphonic receiver, and the rubber which covered the
bell-like end was pressed against the shutter.

For half an hour he stood thus, almost motionless, then he withdrew
silently and disappeared into the shadows of the orange grove that grew
in the centre of the long garden.

As he did so, the door of the house opened and, with lantern in hand,
Cajalos showed his visitor into the street.

"The devils are greener than ever," chuckled the old man. "Hey! there
will be happenings, my brother!"

Essley said nothing. He wanted to be in the street again. He stood
quivering with nervous impatience as the old man unfastened the heavy
door, and when it swung open he almost leapt into the street outside.

"Good-bye," he said.

"Go with God," said the old man, and the door closed noiselessly.



CHAPTER II - COLONEL BLACK, FINANCIER


The firm of Black and Gram had something of a reputation in City circles.
Gram might have been a man beyond reproach--a veritable Bayard of
finance, a churchgoer, and a generous subscriber to charities. Indeed,
Black complained with good-humoured irritation--if the combination can be
visualized--that Gram would ruin him one of these fine days by his
quixotic munificence.

Gram allowed his heart to dictate to his head; he was too soft for
business, too retiring. The City was very sceptical about Gram. It
compared him with a certain Mrs. Harris, but Black did not fly into a
temper; he smiled mysteriously at all the suspicion which the City
entertained or expressed, and went on deploring the criminal rustiness of
a man who apparently sought, by Black's account, to made the firm
reputable in spite of the rumours which centred about Colonel J. Black.

In this way did Black describe himself, though the Army list was innocent
of his name, and even a search through the voluminous rolls of the
American honorary ranks failed to reveal any association.

Black and Gram floated companies and dealt largely in stocks and shares.
They recommended to their clients certain shares, and the clients bought
or sold according to the advice given, and at the end of a certain period
of time. Black and Gram wrote politely regretting that the cover
deposited had been exhausted, and urgently requesting, with as little
delay as possible, the discharge of those liabilities which in some
extraordinary fashion the client had incurred. This, at any rate, was the
humble beginnings of a firm which was destined to grow to important
proportions. Gram went out of the business--was never in it, if the truth
be told. One doubts if he ever breathed the breath of life--and Black
grew in prosperity. His was a name to conjure with in certain circles. In
others it was never mentioned. The financial lords of the City--the
Farings, the Wertheiners, the Scott-Teasons--had no official knowledge of
his existence. They went about their business calmly, loaning their
millions at a ridiculously small percentage, issuing Government loans,
discounting bills, buying bullion, and such-like operations which filled
the hours between eleven o'clock, when their electric broughams set them
down in Threadneedle Street, and four o'clock, when their electric
broughams picked them up again. They read of Colonel Black in their grave
way, because there were days when he dominated the financial columns.
They read of his mighty stock deals, of his Argentine electric deal, his
rubber notations and his Canadian copper mines. They read about him,
neither approving nor disapproving. They regarded him with that
dispassionate interest which a railway engine has for a motorcar.

When, on one never-to-be-forgotten occasion, he approached the financial
lords with a promising proposition, they "regretted they were unable to
entertain Colonel Black's interesting suggestion." A little baffled, a
little annoyed, he approached the big American group, for it was
necessary for the success of his scheme that there should be names on his
prospectus. Shrewd fellows, these Americans, thought Colonel Black, and
he set forth his proposals in terms which were at once immodest and
alluring. In reply--

"Dear friend," (it was one of those American businesses that turn down a
million dollars with five cents' worth of friendship), "we have carefully
considered your proposition, and whilst we are satisfied that you will
make money by its fruition, we are not so certain that we shall."

Black came to the City of London one afternoon to attend a board of
directors' meeting. He had been out of town for a few days, recruiting in
advance, as he informed the board with a touch of facetiousness, for the
struggle that awaited him.

He was a man of middle height, broad of shoulder. His face was thin and
lank, his complexion sallow, with a curious uniform yellowness. If you
saw Colonel Black once you would never forget him--not only because of
that yellow face of his, that straight black bar of eyebrow and the
thin-lipped mouth, but the very personality of the man impressed itself
indelibly on the mind of the observer.

His manner was quick, almost abrupt; his replies brusque. A sense of
finality marked his decisions. If the financial lords knew him not, there
were thousands that did. His name was a household word in England. There
was hardly a middle-class family that did not hold his stock. The little
"street punters" hung on his word, his issues were subscribed for twice
over. And he had established himself in five years; almost unknown
before, he had risen to the dizziest heights in that short space of time.

Punctual to the minute, he entered the board-room of the suite of offices
he occupied in Moorgate Street.

The meeting had threatened to be a stormy one. Again an amalgamation was
in the air, and again the head of one group of ironmasters--it was an
iron combine he was forming--had stood against the threats and
blandishments of Black and his emissaries.

"The others are weakening," said Fanks, that big, hairless man; "you
promised us that you would put him straight."

"I will keep my promise." said Black shortly.

"Widdison stood out, but he died," continued Fanks. "We can't expect
Providence to help us all the time."

Black's eyebrows lowered.

"I do not like jests of that kind," he said. "Sandford is an obstinate
man, a proud man; he needs delicate handling. Leave him to me."

The meeting adjourned lamely enough, and Black was leaving the room when
Fanks beckoned to him.

"I met a man yesterday who knew your friend, Dr. Essley, in Australia,"
he said.

"Indeed." Colonel Black's face was expressionless.

"Yes--he knew him in his very early days--he was asking me where he could
find him."

The other shrugged his shoulders. "Essley is abroad, I think--you don't
like him?"

Augustus Fanks shook his head. "I don't like doctors who come to see me
in the middle of the night, who are never to be found when they are
wanted, and are always jaunting off to the Continent."

"He is a busy man," excused Black. "By the way, where is your friend
staying?"

"He isn't a friend, he's a sort of prospector, name of Weld, who has come
to London with a mining proposition. He is staying at Varlet's Temperance
Hotel in Bloomsbury."

"I will tell Essley when he returns," said Black, nodding his head.

He returned to his private office in a thoughtful mood. All was not well
with Colonel Black. Reputedly a millionaire, he was in the position of
many a financier who counted his wealth in paper. He had got so far
climbing on the shadows. The substance was still beyond his reach. He had
organized successful combinations, but the cost had been heavy. Millions
had flowed through his hands, but precious little had stuck. He was that
curious contradiction--a dishonest man with honest methods. His schemes
were financially sound, yet it had needed almost superhuman efforts to
get them through.

He was in the midst of an unpleasant reverie when a tap on the door
aroused him. It opened to admit Fanks. He frowned at the intruder, but
the other pulled up a chair and sat down. "Look here, Black," he said, "I
want to say something to you."

"Say it quickly."

Fanks took a cigar from his pocket and lit it. "You've had a marvellous
career," he said. "I remember when you started with a little
bucket-shop--well, we won't call it a bucket-shop," he said hastily as
he saw the anger rising in the other's face, "outside broker's. You had a
mug--I mean an inexperienced partner who found the money."

"Yes."

"Not the mysterious Gram, I think?"

"His successor--there was nothing mysterious about Gram."

"A successor named Flint?"

"Yes."

"He died unexpectedly, didn't he?"

"I believe he did," said Black abruptly.

"Providence again," said Fanks slowly; "then you got the whole of the
business. You took over the notation and a rubber company, and it panned
out. Well, after that you floated a tin mine or something--there was a
death there, wasn't there?"

"I believe there was--one of the directors; I forget his name."

Fanks nodded. "He could have stopped the flotation--he was threatening to
resign and expose some methods of yours."

"He was a very headstrong man."

"And he died."

"Yes,"--a pause--"he died."

Fanks looked at the man who sat opposite to him.

"Dr. Essley attended him."

"I believe he did."

"And he died."

Black leant over the desk. "What do you mean?" he asked. "What are you
suggesting about my friend, Dr. Essley?"

"Nothing, except that Providence has been of some assistance to you,"
said Fanks. "The record of your success is a record of death--you sent
Essley to see me once."

"You were ill."

"I was," said Fanks grimly, "and I was also troubling you a little." He
flicked the ash from his cigar to the carpet. "Black, I'm going to resign
all my directorships on your companies."

The other man laughed unpleasantly.

"You can laugh, but it isn't healthy, Black. I've no use for money that
is bought at too heavy a price."

"My dear man, you can resign," said Colonel Black, "but might I ask if
your extraordinary suspicions are shared by anybody else?"

Fanks shook his head.

"Not at present," he said.

They looked at one another for the space of half a minute, which was a
very long time.

"I want to clear right out," Fanks continued. "I reckon my holdings are
worth £150,000--you can buy them."

"You amaze me," said Black harshly.

He opened a drawer of his desk and took out a little green bottle and a
feather. "Poor Essley," he smiled, "wandering about Spain seeking the
secrets of Moorish perfumery--he would go off his head if he knew what
you thought of him."

"I'd sooner he went off his head than that I should go off the earth,"
said Fanks stolidly. "What have you got there?"

Black unstoppered the bottle and dipped in the feather. He withdrew it
and held it close to his nose.

"What is it?" asked Fanks curiously. For answer, Black held up the
feather for the man to smell.

"I can smell nothing," said Fanks. Tilting the end quickly downwards.
Black drew it across the lips of the other. "Here..." cried Fanks, and
went limply to the ground.

"Constable Fellowe!"

Frank Fellowe was leaving the charge-room when he heard the snappy tones
of the desk-sergeant calling him.

"Yes, sergeant?" he said, with a note of inquiry in his voice. He knew
that there was something unpleasant coming. Sergeant Gurden seldom took
any opportunity of speaking to him, except in admonishment. The sergeant
was a wizen-faced man, with an ugly trick of showing his teeth when he
was annoyed, and no greater contrast could be imagined than that which
was afforded by the tall, straight-backed young man in the constable's
uniform, standing before the desk, and the shrunken figure that sat on
the stool behind.

Sergeant Gurden had a dead-white face, which a scrubby black moustache
went to emphasize. In spite of the fact that he was a man of good
physical development, his clothing hung upon him awkwardly, and indeed
the station-sergeant was awkward in more ways than one. Now he looked at
Fellowe, showing his teeth. "I have had another complaint about you," he
said, "and if this is repeated it will be a matter for the Commissioner."

The constable nodded his head respectfully. "I am very sorry, sergeant,"
he said, "but what is the complaint?"

"You know as well as I do," snarled the other; "you have been annoying
Colonel Black again."

A faint smile passed across Fellowe's lips. He knew something of the
solicitude in which the sergeant held the colonel.

"What the devil are you smiling at?" snapped the sergeant. "I warn you,"
he went on, "that you are getting very impertinent, and this may be a
matter for the Commissioner."

"I had no intention of being disrespectful, sergeant," said the young
man. "I am as tired of these complaints as you are, but I have told you,
as I will tell the Commissioner, that Colonel Black lives in a house in
Serrington Gardens and is a source of some interest to me--that is my
excuse."

"He complains that you are always watching the house," said the sergeant,
and Constable Fellowe smiled.

"That is his conscience working," he said. "Seriously, sergeant, I happen
to know that the colonel is not too friendly disposed--"

He stopped himself.

"Well?" demanded the sergeant.

"Well," repeated Constable Fellowe, "it might be as well perhaps if I
kept my thoughts to myself."

The sergeant nodded grimly.

"If you get into trouble you will only have yourself to blame," he
warned. "Colonel Black is an influential man. He is a ratepayer. Don't
forget that, constable. The ratepayers pay your salary, find the coat for
your back, feed you--you owe everything to the ratepayers."

"On the other hand," said the young man, "Colonel Black is a ratepayer
who owes me something."

Hitching his cape over his arm, he passed from the charge-room down the
stone steps into the street without. The man on duty at the door bade him
a cheery farewell.

Fellowe was an annoying young man, more annoying by reason of the
important fact that his antecedents were quite unknown to his most
intimate friends. He was a man of more than ordinary education, quiet,
restrained, his voice gently modulated; he had all the manners and
attributes of a gentleman.

He had a tiny little house in Somers Town where he lived alone, but no
friend of his, calling casually, had ever the good fortune to find him at
home when he was off duty. It was believed he had other interests.

What those interests were could be guessed when, with exasperating
unexpectedness, he appeared in the amateur boxing championship and
carried off the police prize, for Fellowe was a magnificent
boxer--hard-hitting, quick, reliable, scientific.

The bad men of Somers Town were the first to discover this, and one,
Grueler, who on one never-to-be-forgotten occasion had shown fight on the
way to the station, testified before breathless audiences as to the skill
and science of the young man.

His breezy independence had won for him many friends, but it had made him
enemies too, and as he walked thoughtfully along the street leading from
the station, he realized that in the sergeant he had an enemy of more
than average malignity.

Why should this be? It puzzled him. After all, he was only doing his
duty. That he was also exceeding his duty did not strike him as being
sufficient justification for the resentment of his superior, for he had
reached the enthusiastic age of life where only inaction was
unpardonable. As to Black, Frank shrugged his shoulders. He could not
understand it. He was not of a nature to suspect that the sergeant had
any other motive than the perfectly natural desire which all blase
superiors have, to check their too impulsive subordinates.

Frank admitted to himself that he was indeed a most annoying person, and
in many ways he understood the sergeant's antagonism to himself.
Dismissing the matter from his mind, he made his way to his tiny house in
Croome Street and let himself into his small dining-room.

The walls were distempered, and the few articles of furniture that were
within were such as are not usually met with in houses of this quality.
The old print above the mantelpiece must have been worth a working-man's
annual income. The small gate-legged table in the centre of the
felt-covered floor was indubitably Jacobean, and the chairs were
Sheraton, as also was the sideboard. Though the periods may not have
harmonized, there is harmony enough in great age. A bright fire was
burning in the grate, for the night was bitterly cold. Fellowe stopped
before the mantelpiece to examine two letters which stood awaiting him,
replaced them from where he had taken them, and passed through the
folding doors of the room into a tiny bedroom.

He had an accommodating landlord. Property owners in Somers Town, and
especially the owners of small cottages standing on fairly valuable
ground, do not as a rule make such renovations as Fellowe required. The
average landlord, for instance, would not have built the spacious
bathroom which the cottage boasted, but then Fellowe's landlord was no
ordinary man.

The young man bathed, changed himself into civilian clothing, made
himself a cup of tea, and, slipping into a long overcoat which reached to
his heels, left the house half an hour after he had entered.

Frank Fellowe made his way West. He found a taxi-cab at King's Cross and
gave an address in Piccadilly. Before he had reached that historic
thoroughfare he tapped at the window-glass and ordered the cabman to drop
him.

At eleven o'clock that night Sergeant Gurden, relieved from his duty,
left the station-house. Though outwardly taciturn and calm, he was
boiling internally with wrath.

His antipathy to Fellowe was a natural one, but it had become intensified
during the past few weeks by the attitude which the young man had taken
up towards the sergeant's protege.

Gurden was as much of a mystery to the men in his division as Fellowe,
and even more so, because the secrecy which surrounded Gurden's life had
a more sinister import than the reservation of the younger man.

Gurden was cursed with an ambition. He had hoped at the outset of his
career to have secured distinction in the force, but a lack of education,
coupled with an address which was apt to be uncouth and brusque, had
militated against his enthusiasm.

He had recognized the limitations placed upon his powers by the
authorities over him. He had long since come to realize that hope of
promotion, first to an inspectorship, and eventually to that bright star
which lures every policeman onward, and which is equivalent to the baton
popularly supposed to be in every soldier's knapsack, a
superintendentship, was not for him.

Thwarted ambition had to find a new outlet, and he concentrated his
attention upon acquiring money. It became a passion for him, an
obsession. His parsimony, his meanness, and his insatiable greed were
bywords throughout the Metropolitan police force.

It had become a mania with him, this collecting of money, and his
bitterest enmity was reserved for those who placed the slightest obstacle
between the officer and the gratification of his ambitions.

It must be said of Colonel Black that he had been most kind. Cupidity
takes a lenient view of its benefactor's morals, and though Sergeant
Gurden was not the kind of man willingly to help the lawless, no person
could say that an outside broker, undetected of fraud, was anything but a
desirable member of society.

Black had made an appointment with him. He was on his way now to keep it.
The colonel lived in one of those one-time fashionable squares in Camden
Town. He was obviously well off, ran a car of his own, and had furnished
No. 60 Serrington Gardens, with something like lavish comfort.

The sergeant had no time to change. There was no necessity, he told
himself, for his relations with Black were of such a character that there
was no need to stand on ceremony.

The square was deserted at this time of night, and the sergeant made his
way to the kitchen entrance in the basement and rang the bell. The door
was opened almost instantly by a man-servant.

"Is that you, sergeant?" said a voice from the darkness, as Gurden made
his way upstairs to the unlighted hall above. Colonel Black turned on the
light. He held out a long muscular hand in welcome to the police officer.
"I am so glad you have come," he said.

The sergeant took the hand and shook it warmly. "I have come to apologize
to you. Colonel Black," he said. "I have severely reprimanded
Police-Constable Fellowe."

Black waved his hand deprecatingly. "I do not wish to get any member of
your admirable force into trouble," he said, "but really this man's
prying into my business is inexcusable and humiliating."

The sergeant nodded. "I can well understand your annoyance, sir," he
said, "but you will understand that these young constables are always a
little over-zealous, and when a man is that way he is inclined to overdo
it a little."

He spoke almost pleadingly in his desire to remove any bad impression
that might exist in Black's mind as to his own part in Police-Constable
Fellowe's investigations.

Black favoured him with a gracious bow.

"Please do not think of it, I beg of you," he said. "I am perfectly sure
that the young constable did not intend willingly to hurt my
amour-propre." He led the way to a spacious dining-room situated at the
back of the house. Whisky and cigars were on the table. "Help yourself,
sergeant," said Colonel Black. He pushed a big comfortable chair forward.

With a murmured word of thanks, the sergeant sank into its luxurious
depths. "I am due back at the station in half an hour," he said, "if you
will excuse me then."

Black nodded. "We shall be able to do our business in that time," he
said, "but before we go any further, let me thank you for what you have
already done."

From the inside pocket of his coat he took a flat pocket-book, opened it
and extracted two bank-notes. He laid them on the table at the sergeant's
elbow. The sergeant protested feebly, but his eyes twinkled at the sight
of the crinkling paper. "I don't think I have done anything to deserve
this," he muttered.

Colonel Black smiled, and his big cigar tilted happily. "I pay well for
little services, sergeant," he said. "I have many enemies--men who will
misrepresent my motives--and it is essential that I should be
forewarned."

He strode up and down the apartment thoughtfully, his hands thrust into
his trousers pockets.

"It is a hard country, England," he said, "for men who have had the
misfortune to dabble in finance."

Sergeant Gurden murmured sympathetically.

"In our business, sergeant," the aggrieved colonel went on, "it
frequently happens that disappointed people--people who have not made the
profits which they anticipated--bring extraordinary accusations against
those responsible for the conduct of those concerns in which their money
is invested. I had a letter to-day "--he shrugged his shoulders--"accusing
me--me!--of running a bucket-shop."

The sergeant nodded; he could well understand that aspect of speculation.

"And one has friends," Black went on, striding up and down the apartment,
"one has people one wants to protect against similar annoyances--take my
friend Dr. Essley--Essley, E double s ley," he spelt the name carefully;
"you have heard of him?"

The sergeant had not heard of any such body, but was willing to admit
that he had.

"There is a man," said the colonel, "a man absolutely at the head of his
profession--I shouldn't be surprised to learn that even he is no safer
from the voice of slander."

The sergeant thought it very likely, and murmured to the effect.

"There is always a possibility that malignity will attach itself to the
famous," the colonel continued, "and because I know that you would be one
of the first to hear such slander, and that you would moreover afford me
an opportunity--a private opportunity--of combating such slander, that I
feel such security. God bless you, sergeant!" He patted the other's
shoulder, and Gurden was genuinely affected.

"I can quite understand your position, sir," he said, "and you may be
sure that when it is possible to render you any assistance I shall be
most happy and proud to render it."

Again Colonel Black favoured his visitor with a little pat.

"Or to Dr. Essley," he said; "remember the name. Now, sergeant," he went
on, "I sent for you to-night,"--he shrugged his shoulders--"when I say
sent for you, that, of course, is an exaggeration. How can a humble
citizen like myself command the services of an officer of the police?"

Sergeant Gurden fingered his moustache self-consciously.

"It is rather," the colonel went on, "that I take advantage of your
inestimable friendship to seek your advice."

He stopped in his walk, drew a chair opposite to where the sergeant was
sitting, and seated himself.

"Constable Fellowe, the man of whom I have complained, had the good
fortune to render a service to the daughter of Mr. Theodore Sandford--I
see you know the gentleman."

The sergeant nodded; he had heard of Mr. Theodore Sandford, as who had
not? For Theodore Sandford was a millionaire ironmaster who had built a
veritable palace at Hampstead, had purchased the Dennington "Velasquez,"
and had presented it to the nation.

"Your constable," continued Colonel Black, "sprang upon a motor-car Miss
Sandford was driving down a steep hill, the brakes of which had gone
wrong, and at some risk to himself guided the car through the traffic
when, not to put too fine a point on it. Miss Sandford had lost her
head."

"Oh, it was him, was it?" said the sergeant disparagingly.

"It was him," agreed the colonel out of sheer politeness. "Now these
young people have met unknown to the father of Miss Sandford, and--well,
you understand."

The sergeant did not understand, but said nothing.

"I do not suggest," said the colonel, "that there is anything wrong--but
a policeman, sergeant, not even an officer like yourself--a policeman!"

Deplorable! said the sergeant's head, eyes and hands.

"For some extraordinary reason which I cannot fathom," the colonel
proceeded, "Mr. Sandford tolerates the visits of this young man; that, I
fear, is a matter which we cannot go into, but I should like you--well, I
should like you to use your influence with Fellowe."

Sergeant Gurden rose to depart. He had no influence, but some power. He
understood a little of what the other man was driving at, the more so
when--

"If this young man gets into trouble, I should like to know," said
Colonel Black, holding out his firm hand; "I should like to know very
much indeed."

"He is a rare pushful fellow, that Fellowe," said the sergeant severely.
"He gets to know the upper classes in some way that I can't understand,
and I dare say he has wormed himself into their confidence. I always say
that the kitchen is the place for the policeman, and when I see a
constable in the drawing-room I begin to suspect things. There is a great
deal of corruption--" He stopped, suddenly realizing that he himself was
in a drawing-room, and that corruption was an ugly and an incongruous
word.

Colonel Black accompanied him to the door.

"You understand, sergeant," he said, "that this man--Fellowe, did you
call him?--may make a report over your head or behind your back. I want
you to take great care that such a report, if it is made, shall come to
me. I do not want to be taken by surprise. If there is any charge to
answer I want to know all about it in advance. It will make the
answering ever so much easier, as I am a busy man."

He shook hands with the sergeant and saw him out of the house.

Sergeant Gurden went back to the station with a brisk step and a
comforting knowledge that the evening had been well spent.



CHAPTER III - AN ADVENTURE IN PIMLICO


In the meantime our constable had reached a small tavern in the vicinity
of Regent Street. He entered the bar and, ordering a drink, took a seat
in the corner of the spacious saloon. There were two or three people
about; there were two or three men drinking at the bar and talking--men
in loud suits, who cast furtive glances at every new-corner. He knew them
to be commonplace criminals of the first type. They did not engage his
attention: he flew higher.

He sat in the corner, apparently absorbed in an evening paper, with his
whisky and soda before him scarcely touched, waiting. It was not the
first time he had been here, nor would it be the first time he had waited
without any result. But he was patient and dogged in the pursuit of his
object.

The clock pointed to a quarter after ten, when the swing-doors were
pushed open and two men entered. For the greater part of half an hour the
two were engaged in a low-voiced consultation. Over his paper Frank could
see the face of Sparks. He was the jackal of the Black gang, the
man-of-all-trades. To him were deputed the meanest of Black's
commissions, and worthily did he serve his master. The other was known to
Frank as Jakobs, a common thief and a pensioner of the benevolent
colonel.

The conversation was punctuated either by glances at the clock above the
bar or at Sparks' watch, and at a quarter to eleven the two men rose and
went out. Frank followed, leaving his drink almost untouched.

The men turned into Regent Street, walked a little way up, and then
hailed a taxi. Another cab was passing. Frank beckoned it. "Follow that
yellow cab," he said to the driver, "and keep a reasonable distance
behind, and when it sets down, pass it and drop me farther along the
street."

The man touched his cap. The two cabs moved on. They went in the
direction of Victoria, passed the great station on the left, turned down
Grosvenor Road on the right, and were soon in the labyrinth of streets
that constitute Pimlico. The first cab pulled up at a big gaunt house in
a street which had once been fashionable, but which now hovered
indescribably between slums and shabby gentility. Frank saw the two men
get out, and descended himself a few hundred yards farther along on the
opposite side of the street. He had marked the house. There was no
difficulty in distinguishing it; a brass plate was attached to the door
announcing it to be an employment agency--as, indeed, it was.

His quarry had entered before he strode across towards the house. He
crossed the road and took a position from whence he could watch the door.
The half-hour after twelve had chimed from a neighbouring church before
anything happened. A policeman on his beat had passed Frank with a
resentful sidelong glance, and the few pedestrians who were abroad at
that hour viewed him with no less suspicion.

The chime of the neighbouring church had hardly died away when a private
car came swiftly along the road and pulled up with a jerk in front of the
house. A man descended. From where he stood Frank had no difficulty in
recognizing Black. That he was expected was evident from the fact that
the door was immediately opened to him.

Three minutes later another car came down the street and stopped a few
doors short of the house, as though the driver was not quite certain as
to which was his destination. The new-comer was a stranger to Frank. In
the uncertain light cast by a street lamp he seemed to be fashionably
dressed. As he turned to give instructions to his chauffeur, Fellowe
caught a glimpse of a spotless white shirt-front beneath the long dark
overcoat. He hesitated at the foot of the steps which led to the door,
and ascended slowly and fumbled for a moment at the bell. Before he could
touch it the door opened. There was a short parley as the new man
entered.

Frank, waiting patiently on the other side of the road, saw a light
appear suddenly on the first floor.

Did he but know, this gathering was in the nature of a board meeting, a
board meeting of a company more heavily financed than some of the most
respected houses in the City, having its branches in various parts of the
world, its agents, its business system--its very books, if they could be
found and the ciphered entries unravelled.

Black sat at one end of the long table and the last arrival at the other.
He was a florid young man of twenty-six, with a weak chin and a slight
yellow moustache. His face would be familiar to all racing men, for this
was the sporting baronet, Sir Isaac Tramber. There was something about
Sir Isaac which kept him on the outside fringe of good society, in spite
of the fact that he came of a stock which was indelibly associated with
England's story: the baronetcy had been created as far back as the
seventeenth century. It was a proud name, and many of his ancestors had
borne it proudly. None the less, his name was taboo, his invitations
politely refused, and never reciprocated.

There had been some unfathomable scandal associated with his name.
Society is very lenient to its children. There are crimes and sins which
it readily, or if not readily, at any rate eventually, forgives and
condones, but there are some which are unpardonable, unforgivable. Once
let a man commit those crimes, or sin those sins, and the doors of
Mayfair are closed for ever against him. Around his head was a cloud of
minor scandal, but that which brought down the bar of good society was
the fact that he had ridden his own horse at one of the Midland meetings.
It had started a hot favourite--five to two on.

The circumstances of that race are inscribed in the annals of the Jockey
Club. How an infuriated mob broke down the barriers and attempted to
reach this amateur jockey was ably visualized by the sporting journalists
who witnessed the extraordinary affair. Sir Isaac was brought before the
local stewards and the case submitted to the stewards of the Jockey Club.
The next issue of the Racing Calendar contained the ominous announcement
that Sir Isaac Tramber had been "warned off" Newmarket Heath.

Under this ban he sat for four years, till the withdrawal of the notice.
He might again attend race-meetings and own horses, and he did both, but
the ban of society, that unwritten "warning off" notice, had not been
withdrawn. The doors of every decent house were closed to him. Only one
friend he had in the fashionable world, and there were people who said
that the Earl of Verlond, that old and crabbed and envenomed man, merely
championed his unpromising protege out of sheer perversity, and there was
ample justification for this contention of a man who was known to have
the bitterest tongue in Europe.

The descent to hell is proverbially easy, and Sir Isaac Tramber's descent
was facilitated by that streak of decadence which had made itself
apparent even in his early youth. As he sat at one end of the
board-table, both hands stuffed into his trousers pockets, his head on
one side like a perky bird, he proved no mean man of business, as Black
had discovered earlier in their acquaintanceship.

"We are all here now, I think," said Black, looking humorously at his
companion. They had left Sparks and his friend in a room below. "I have
asked you to come to-night," he said, "to hear a report of this business.
I am happy to tell you that we have made a bigger profit this year than
we have ever made in the course of our existence."

He went on to give details of the work for which he had been responsible,
and he did so with the air and in the manner of one who was addressing a
crowded board-room.

"People would say," said the colonel oracularly, "that the business of
outside broker is inconsistent with my acknowledged position in the world
of finance; therefore I deem it expedient to dissociate myself from our
little firm. But the outside broker is a useful person--especially the
outside broker who has a hundred thousand clients. There are stocks of
mine which he can recommend with every evidence of disinterestedness, and
just now I am particularly desirous that these stocks should be
recommended."

"Do we lose anything by Fanks' death?" asked the baronet carelessly.
"Hard luck on him, wasn't it? But he was awfully fat."

The colonel regarded the questioner with a calm stare. "Do not let us
refer to Fanks," he said evenly. "The death of Fanks has very much upset
me--I do not wish to speak about it."

The baronet nodded. "I never trusted him, poor chap," he said, "any more
than I trusted the other chap who made such an awful scene here a year
ago--February, wasn't it?"

"Yes' said the colonel briefly.

"It's lucky for us he died too." said the tactless aristocrat,
"because--"

"We'll get on with the business." Colonel Black almost snarled the words.
But the baronet had something to say. He was troubled about his own
security. It was when Black showed some sign of ending the business that
Sir Isaac leant forward impatiently.

"There is one thing we haven't discussed, Black," he said.

Black knew what the thing was, and had carefully avoided mention of the
subject. "What is it?" he asked innocently.

"These fellows who are threatening us, or rather threatening you; they
haven't any idea who it is who is running the show, have they?" he asked,
with some apprehension.

Black shook his head smilingly. "I think not," he said. "You are
speaking, of course, of the Four Just Men."

Sir Isaac gave a short nod. "Yes," Black went on, with an assumption of
indifference, "I have had an anonymous letter from these gentlemen. As a
matter of fact, my dear Sir Isaac, I haven't the slightest doubt that the
whole thing is a bluff."

"What do you mean by a bluff?" demanded the other.

Black shrugged his shoulders. "I mean that there is no such organization
as the Four Just Men. They are a myth. They have no existence. It is too
melodramatic for words. Imagine four people gathered together to correct
the laws of England. It savours more of the sensational novel than of
real life." He laughed with apparent ease. "These things," he said,
wagging his finger jocosely at the perturbed baronet, "do not happen in
Pimlico. No, I suspect that our constable, the man I spoke to you about,
is at the bottom of it. He is probably the whole Four of these desperate
conspirators." He laughed again.

Sir Isaac fingered his moustache nervously. "It's all rot to say they
don't exist; we know what they did six years ago, and I don't like this
other man a bit," he grumbled.

"Don't like which other man?"

"This interfering policeman," he replied irritably. "Can't he be
squared?"

"The constable?"

"Yes; you can square constables, I suppose, if you can square sergeants."
Sir Isaac Tramber had the gift of heavy sarcasm.

Black stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Curiously enough," he said, "I have
never thought of that. I think we can try." He glanced at his watch. "Now
I'll ask you just to clear out," he said. "I have an appointment at
half-past one."

Sir Isaac smiled slowly. "Rather a curious hour for an appointment," he
said.

"Ours is a curious business," replied Colonel Black.

They rose, and Sir Isaac turned to Black. "What is the appointment?" he
asked.

Black smiled mysteriously. "It is rather a peculiar case," he began.

He stopped suddenly. There were hurried footsteps on the stairs without.
A second later the door was flung open and Sparks burst into the room.
"Guv'nor," he gasped, "they're watching the house."

"Who is watching?"

"There's a busy on the other side of the road," said the man, speaking
graphically. "I spotted him, and the moment he saw I noticed him he moved
off. He's back again now. Me and Willie have been watching him."

The two followed the agitated Sparks downstairs, where from a lower
window they might watch, unobserved, the man who dared spy on their
actions.

"If this is the police," fumed Black, "that dog Gurden has failed me. He
told me Scotland Yard were taking no action whatever."

Frank, from his place of observation, was well aware that he had caused
some consternation. He had seen Sparks turn back hurriedly with Jakobs
and re-enter the house. He observed the light go out suddenly on the
first floor, and now he had a pretty shrewd idea that they were watching
him through the glass panel of the doorway.

There was no more he could learn. So far his business had been a failure.
It was no secret to him that Sir Isaac Tramber was an associate of
Black's, or that Jakobs and estimable Sparks were also partners in this
concern. He did not know what he hoped to find, or what he had hoped to
accomplish.

He was turning away in the direction of Victoria when his attention was
riveted on the figure of a young man which was coming slowly along on the
opposite sidewalk, glancing from time to time at the numbers which were
inscribed on the fanlights of the doors. He watched him curiously, then
in a flash he realized his objective as he stopped in front of No. 63.

In half a dozen steps he had crossed the road towards him. The boy--he
was little more--turned round, a little frightened at the sudden
appearance. Frank Fellowe walked up to him and recognized him. "You need
not be scared," he said, "I am a police officer. Are you going into that
house?"

The young man looked at him for a moment and made no reply. Then, in a
voice that shook, he said "Yes."

"Are you going there to give Colonel Black certain information about your
employer's business?" The young man seemed hypnotized by fear. He nodded.
"Is your employer aware of the fact?"

Slowly he shook his head. "Did he send you?" he asked suddenly, and Frank
observed a note of terror in his voice.

"No," he smiled, wondering internally who the "he" was. "I am here quite
on my own, and my object is to warn you against trusting Colonel Black."

He jerked up his head, and Frank saw the flush that came to his face.
"You are Constable Fellowe," he said suddenly.

To say that Frank was a little staggered is to express the position
mildly. "Yes," he repeated, "I am Constable Fellowe."

Whilst he was talking the door of the house had opened. From the position
in which he stood Frank could not see this. Black merged stealthily and
came down the steps towards him.

The agent had no other desire than to discover the identity of the man
who was shadowing him. He was near enough to hear what the young man
said.

"Fellowe," he boomed, and came down the rest of the steps at a run. "So
it's you, is it?" he snarled. "It's you interfering with my business
again."

"Something like that," said Frank coolly.

He turned to the young man again.

"I tell you," he said in a tone of authority, "that if you go into this
house, or have anything whatever to do with this man, you will regret it
to the last day of your life."

"You shall pay for this!" fumed Black. "I'll have your coat from your
back, constable. I'll give you in charge. I'll--I'll--"

"You have an excellent opportunity," said Frank. His quick eye had
detected the figure of a constable on the other side of the road, walking
slowly towards them. "There's a policeman over there; call him now and
give me in charge. There is no reason why you shouldn't--no reason why
you should want to avoid publicity of the act."

"Oh, no, no!" It was the youth who spoke. "Colonel Black, I must come
another time." He turned furiously on Frank. "As to you--" he began,
gaining courage from Black's presence.

"As to you," retorted Frank, "avoid bad company!"

He hesitated, then turned and walked quickly away, leaving the two men
alone on the pavement.

The three watchers in the hall eyed the scene curiously, and two of them
at least anticipated instructions from Black which would not be followed
by pleasant results for Frank.

With an effort, however, Black controlled his temper. He, too, had seen
the shadow on the other side of the road.

"Look here, Constable Fellowe," he said, with forced geniality, "I know
you're wrong, and you think you're right. Just come inside and let's
argue this matter out."

He waited, his nimble mind evolving a plan for dealing with this
dangerous enemy. He did not imagine that Frank would accept the
invitation, and he was genuinely astounded when, without another word,
the constable turned and slowly ascended the steps to the door.



CHAPTER IV - THE MEN WHO SAT IN JUDGMENT


Frank heard a little scuffling in the hall, and knew that the men who had
been watching him had gone to cover. He had little fear, though he
carried no weapon. He was supremely confident in his own strength and
science.

Black, following him in, shut the door behind him. Frank heard the snick
of a bolt being shot into its socket in the dark. Black switched on the
light.

"We're playing fair, Constable Fellowe." he said, with an amiable smile.
"You see, we do not try any monkey tricks with you. Everything is
straight and above-board."

He led the way up the thickly-carpeted stairs, and Frank followed. The
young man noticed the house was luxuriously furnished. Rich engravings
hung on the walls, the curtains that veiled the big stairway window were
of silk, cabinets of Chinese porcelain filled the recesses.

Black led the way to a room on the first floor. It was not the room in
which the board meeting had been held, but a small one which led off from
the board-room. Here the luxury was less apparent. Two desks formed the
sole furniture of the room; the carpet under foot was of the commonplace
type to be found in the average office. A great panel of tapestry--the
one touch of luxury--covered one wall, and a cluster of lights in the
ceiling afforded light to the room. A little fire was burning in the
grate. On a small table near one of the desks supper had been laid for
two. Frank noticed this, and Black, inwardly cursing his own stupidity,
smiled.

"It looks as though I expected you," he said easily, "though, as a matter
of fact, I have some friends here to-night, and one of them is staying to
supper."

Frank nodded. He knew the significance of that supper-table and the white
paper pads ready for use.

"Sit down," said Black, and himself sat at one of the desks. Frank seated
himself slowly at some distance from the other, half turning to face the
man whom he had set himself to ruin.

"Now, let us get to business," said Black briskly. "There is no reason in
the world why you and I should not have an understanding. I'm a business
man, you're a business man, and a smart young man too." he said
approvingly.

Frank made no reply. He knew what was coming.

"Now suppose," Black continued reflectively, "suppose we make an
arrangement like this. You imagine that I am engaged in a most obnoxious
type of business. Oh, I know!" he went on deprecatingly, "I know! You're
under the impression that I'm making huge profits, that I'm robbing
people by bucket-shop methods. I needn't tell you, constable, that I am
most grieved and indignant that you should have entertained so low an
opinion of my character."

His voice was neither grieved nor indignant. Indeed, the tone he employed
was a cheerful admission of fault.

"Now, I am quite content you should investigate my affairs first hand.
You know we receive a large number of accounts from all over the
Continent and that we pay away enormous sums to clients who--well, shall
we say--gamble on margins?"

"You can say what you like," said Frank.

"Now," said Black, "suppose you go to Paris, constable, you can easily
get leave, or go into the provinces, to any of the big towns in Great
Britain where our clients reside, and interview them for yourself as to
our honesty. Question them--I'll give you a list of them. I don't want
you to do this at your own expense "--his big hands were outstretched in
protest. "I don't suppose you have plenty of money to waste on that
variety of excursion. Now, I will hand you to-night, if you like, a
couple of hundred pounds, and you shall use this just as you like to
further your investigations. How does that strike you?"

Frank smiled. "It strikes me as devilish ingenious," he said. "I take the
couple of hundred, and I can either use it for the purpose you mention or
I can put it to my own account, and no questions will be asked. Do I
understand aright?"

Colonel Black smiled and nodded. His strong, yellow face puckered in
internal amusement. "You are a singularly sharp young man," he said.

Frank rose. "There's nothing doing." he said.

Colonel Black frowned. "You mean you refuse?" he said.

Frank nodded. "I refuse," he said, "absolutely. You can't bribe me with
two hundred pounds, or with two thousand pounds, Black. I am not to be
bought. I believe you are one of the most dangerous people society knows.
I believe that both here and in the City you are running on crooked
lines; I shall not rest until I have you in prison."

Black rose slowly to his feet. "So that's it, is it?" he said. There was
menace and malignity in his tones. A look of implacable hatred met
Fellowe's steady gaze. "You will regret this," he went on gratingly. "I
have given you a chance that most young men would jump at. I could make
that three hundred--"

"If you were to make it thirty-three hundred, or thirty-three thousand,"
said Frank impatiently, "there would be no business done. I know you too
well, Black. I know more about you than you think I know."

He took up his hat and examined the interior thoughtfully.

"There is a man wanted in France--an ingenious man who initiated
Get-rich-quick banks all over the country, particularly in Lyons and the
South--his name is Olloroff," he said carefully. "There's quite a big
reward offered for him He had a partner who died suddenly--"

Black's face went white. The hand that rose to his lips shook a little.
"You know too much, I think," he said. He turned swiftly and left the
room. Frank sprang back to the door. He suspected treachery, but before
he could reach it the door closed with a click. He turned the handle and
pulled, but it was fast.

He looked round the room, and saw another door at the farther end. He was
half-way towards this when all the lights in the room went out. He was in
complete darkness. What he had thought to be a window at one end turned
out to be a blank wall, so cunningly draped with curtains and
ingeniously-shaped blinds as to delude the observer. The real window,
which looked out on to the street below, was heavily shuttered.

The absence of light was no inconvenience to him. He had a small electric
lamp in his pocket, which he flashed round the room. It had been a
tactical error on his part to put Black on his guard, but the temptation
to give the big man a fright had been too great. He realized that he was
in a position of considerable danger. Save the young man he had seen in
the street, and who in such an extraordinary manner had recognized him,
nobody knew of his presence in that house.

He made a swift search of the room and listened intently at both doors,
but he could hear nothing. On the landing outside the door through which
he had entered there were a number of antique Eastern arms hung on the
wall. He had a slight hope that this scheme of decoration might have been
continued in the room, but before he began his search he knew his quest
was hopeless. There would be no weapons here. He made a careful
examination of the floor; he wanted to be on his guard against traps and
pitfalls.

There was no danger from this. He sat down on the edge of a desk and
waited. He waited half an hour before the enemy gave a sign. Then, close
to his ear, it seemed, a voice asked "Are you going to be sensible,
constable?"

Frank flashed the rays of his lamp in the direction from which the voice
came. He saw what appeared to him to be a hanging Eastern lantern. He had
already observed that the stem from which it hung was unusually thick;
now he realized that the bell-shaped lamp was the end of a speaking-tube.
He guessed, and probably correctly, that the device had been hung rather
to allow Black to overhear than for the purpose of communicating with the
occupants of the room.

He made no reply. Again the question was repeated, and he raised his head
and answered. "Come and see," he challenged.

All the time he had been waiting in the darkness his attention had been
divided between the two doors. He was on the alert for the thin pencil of
light which would show him the stealthy opening. In some extraordinary
manner he omitted to take into consideration the possibility of the
outside lights being extinguished.

He was walking up and down the carpeted centre of the room, which was
free of any impediment, when a slight noise behind him arrested his
attention. He had half turned when a noose was slipped over his body, a
pair of desperate arms encircled his legs, and he was thrown violently to
the floor. He struggled, but it was against uneven odds. The lasso which
had pinioned him prevented the free use of his arms. He found himself
lying face downwards upon the carpet. A handkerchief was thrust into his
mouth, something cold and hard encircled his wrists and pulled them
together. He heard a click, and knew that he was handcuffed behind.

"Pull him up," said Black's voice.

At that moment the lights in the room went on. Frank staggered to his
feet, assisted ungently by Jakobs. Black was there. Sparks was there, and
a stranger Frank had seen enter the house was also there, but a silk
handkerchief was fastened over the lower half of his face, and all that
Frank could see was the upper half of a florid countenance and a pair of
light blue eyes that twinkled shiftily.

"Put him on that sofa," said Black. "Now," he said, when his prisoner had
been placed according to instructions, "I think you are going to listen
to reason."

It was impossible for Frank Fellowe to reply. The handkerchief in his
mouth was an effective bar to any retort that might have risen in his
mind, but his eyes, clear, unwavering, spoke in unmistakable language to
the smiling man who faced him.

"My proposition is very simple," said Black: "you're to hold your tongue,
mind your own business, accept a couple of hundred on account, and you
will not be further molested. Refuse, and I'm going to put you where I
can think about you." He smiled crookedly. "There are some five cellars
in this house," said Black; "if you are a student of history, as I am,
Mr. Fellowe, you should read the History of the Rhine Barons. You would
recognize then that I have an excellent substitute for the donjon keeps
of old. You will be chained there by the legs, you will be fed according
to the whims of a trusted custodian, who, I may tell you, is a very
absent-minded man, and there you will remain until you are either mad or
glad--glad to accept our terms--or mad enough to be incarcerated in some
convenient asylum, where nobody will take your accusations very
seriously."

Black turned his head. "Take that gag out," he said; "we will bring him
into the other room. I do not think that his voice will be heard, however
loudly he shouts, in there."

Jakobs pulled the handkerchief roughly from Frank's mouth. He was half
pushed, half led, to the door of the board-room, which was in darkness.
Black went ahead and fumbled for the switch, the others standing in the
doorway. He found the light at last, and then he stepped back with a cry
of horror.

Well he might, for four strangers sat at the board--four masked men. The
door leading into the board-room was a wide one. The three men with their
prisoner stood grouped in the centre, petrified into immobility. The four
who sat at the table uttered no sound.

Black was the first to recover his self-possession. He started forward,
then stopped. His face worked, his mouth opened, but he could frame no
words. "What--what?" he gasped.

The masked man who sat at the head of the table turned his bright eyes
upon the proprietor of the establishment. "You did not expect me, Mr.
Olloroff?" he said bluntly.

"My name is Black," said the other violently. "What are you doing here?"

"That you shall discover," said the masked man. "There are seats." Then
Black saw that seats had been arranged at the farther end of the table.

"First of all," the masked man went on, "I will relieve you of your
prisoner. You take those handcuffs off, Sparks."

The man fumbled in his pocket for the key, but not in his waistcoat
pocket--his hand went farther down. "Keep your hand up," said the man at
the table, sharply. He made a little gesture with his hand, and Black's
servant saw the gleam of a pistol. "You need have no fear," he went on,
"our little business will have no tragic sequence to-night--to-night!" he
repeated significantly. "You have had three warnings from us, and we have
come to deliver the last in person."

Black was fast recovering his presence of mind. "Why not report to the
police?" he scoffed.

"That we shall do in good time," was the polite reply, "but I warn you
personally, Black, that you have almost reached the end of your tether."

In some ways Black was no coward. With an oath, he whipped out a revolver
and sprang into the room. As he did so the room went dark, and Frank
found himself seized by a pair of strong hands and wrenched from the
loose grip of his captor. He was pushed forward, a door slammed behind
him. He found himself tumbling down the carpeted stairs into the hall
below. Quick hands removed the handcuffs from his wrists, the street door
was opened by somebody who evidently knew the ways of the house, and he
found himself, a little bewildered, in the open street, with two men in
evening dress by his side.

They still wore their masks. There was nothing to distinguish either of
them from the ordinary man in the street. "This is your way, Mr.
Fellowe," said one, and he pointed up the street in the direction of
Victoria.

Frank hesitated. He was keen to see the end of this adventure. Where were
the other two of this vigilant four? Why had they been left behind? What
were they doing? His liberators must have guessed his thoughts, for one
of them said, "Our friends are safe, do not trouble about them. You will
oblige us, constable, by going very quickly."

With a word of thanks, Frank Fellowe turned and walked quickly up the
street. He looked back once, but the two men had disappeared into the
darkness.



CHAPTER V - THE EARL OF VERLOND


Colonel Black was amused. He was annoyed, too, and the two expressions
resulted in a renewed irritation.

His present annoyance rose from another cause. A mysterious tribunal,
which had examined his papers, had appeared from and disappeared to
nowhere, had annoyed him--had frightened him, if the truth be told; but
courage is largely a matter of light with certain temperaments, and
strong in the security of the morning sunshine and with the satisfaction
that there was nothing tangible for the four men to discover, he was bold
enough.

He was sitting in his dressing-gown at breakfast, and his companion was
Sir Isaac Tramber. Colonel Black loved the good things of life, good food
and the comforts of civilization. His breakfast was a very ample one. Sir
Isaac's diet was more simple: a brandy and water and an apple comprised
the menu. "What's up?" he growled. He had had a late night and was not in
the best of tempers.

Black tossed a letter across to him. "What do you think of that?" he
asked. "Here's a demand from Tangye's, the brokers, for ten thousand
pounds, and a hint that failing its arrival I shall be posted as a
defaulter."

"Pay it," suggested Sir Isaac languidly, and the other laughed.

"Don't talk rot," he said, with offensive good humour. "Where am I going
to get ten thousand pounds? I'm nearly broke; you know that, Tramber;
we're both in the same boat. I've got two millions on paper, but I don't
think we could raise a couple of hundred ready between us if we tried."

The baronet pushed back his plate. "I say," he said abruptly, "you don't
mean what you said?"

"About the money?"

"About the money--yes. You nearly gave me an attack of heart disease. My
dear chap, we should be pretty awkwardly fixed if money dried up just
now."

Colonel Black smiled. "That's just what has happened," he said. "Fix or
no fix, we're in it. I'm overdrawn in the bank; I've got about a hundred
pounds in the house, and I suppose you've got another hundred."

"I haven't a hundred farthings," said the other.

"Expenses are very heavy," Black went on; "you know how these things turn
up. There are one or two in view, but beyond that we have nothing. If we
could bring about the amalgamation of those Northern Foundries we might
both sign cheques for a hundred thousand."

"What about the City?"

The Colonel sliced off the top of his egg without replying. Tramber knew
the position in the City as well as he did.

"H'm," said Sir Isaac, "we've got to get money from somewhere, Black."

"What about your friend?" asked Colonel Black. He spoke carelessly, but
the question was a well-considered one.

"Which friend?" asked Sir Isaac, with a hoarse laugh. "Not that I have so
many that you need particularize any. Do you mean Verlond?" Black nodded.
"Verlond, my dear chap," said the baronet, "is the one man I must not go
to in this world for money."

"He is a very rich man," mused Black.

"He is a very rich man," said the other grimly, "and he may have to leave
his money to me."

"Isn't there an heir?" asked the colonel, interested.

"There was," said the baronet with a grin, "a high-spirited nephew, who
ran away from home, and is believed to have been killed on a cattle-ranch
in Texas. At any rate, Lord Verlond intends applying to the court to
presume his death."

"That was a blow for the old man," said Black.

This statement seemed to amuse Sir Isaac. He leant back in his chair and
laughed loud and long.

"A blow!" he said. "My dear fellow, he hated the boy worse than poison.
You see, the Verlond stock--he's a member of the cadet branch of the
family. The boy was a real Verlond. That's why the old man hated him. I
believe he made his life a little hell. He used to have him up for
week-ends to bully him, until at last the kid got desperate, collected
all his pocket-money and ran away.

"Some friends of the family traced him; the old man didn't move a step to
search for him. They found work for him for a few months in a printer's
shop in London. Then he went abroad--sailed to America on an emigrant's
ticket.

"Some interested people took the trouble to follow his movements. He went
out to Texas and got on to a pretty bad ranch. Later, a man after his
description was shot in a street fight; it was one of those little
ranching towns that you see so graphically portrayed in cinema palaces."

"Who is the heir?" asked Black.

"To the title, nobody. To the money, the boy's sister. She is quite a
nice girl." Black was looking at him through half-closed eyes. The
baronet curled his moustache thoughtfully and repeated, as if to himself,
"Quite a nice girl."

"Then you have--er--prospects?" asked Black slowly.

"What the devil do you mean, Black?" asked Sir Isaac, sitting up stiffly.

"Just what I say," said the other. "The man who marries the lady gets a
pretty large share of the swag. That's the position, isn't it?"

"Something like that," said Sir Isaac sullenly.

The colonel got up and folded his napkin carefully. Colonel Black needed
ready money so badly that it mattered very little what the City said. If
Sandford objected that would be another matter, but Sandford was a good
sportsman, though somewhat difficult to manage. He stood for a moment
looking down on the baronet thoughtfully.

"Ikey," he said, "I have noticed in you of late a disposition to look
upon our mutual interests as something of which a man might be ashamed--I
have struck an unexpected streak of virtue in you, and I confess that I
am a little distressed."

His keen eyes were fixed on the other steadily.

"Oh, it's nothing," said the baronet uneasily, "but the fact is, I've
got to keep my end up in society."

"You owe me a little," began Black.

"Four thousand," said the other promptly, "and it is secured by a £50,000
policy on my life."

"The premiums of which I pay," snarled the colonel grimly; "but I wasn't
thinking of money."

His absorbed gaze took in the baronet from head to foot.

"Fifty thousand pounds!" he said facetiously. "My dear Ikey, you're worth
much more murdered than alive."

The baronet shivered. "Don't make those rotten jokes," he said, and
finished his brandy at a gulp.

The other nodded. "I'll leave you to your letters." he said.

Colonel Black was a remarkably methodical and neat personage. Wrapped in
his elaborate dressing-gown, he made his way through the flat and,
reaching his study alone, he closed the door behind him and let it click.

He was disturbed in his mind at this sudden assumption of virtue on the
part of his confederate; it was more than disconcerting, it was alarming.
Black had no illusions. He did not trust Sir Isaac Tramber any more than
he did other men.

It was Black's money that had, to some extent, rehabilitated the baronet
in society; it was Black's money that had purchased racehorses and paid
training bills. Here again, the man was actuated by no altruistic desire
to serve one against whom the doors of society were shut and the hands of
decent men were turned.

An outcast, Sir Isaac Tramber was of no value to the colonel: he had
even, on one occasion, summarized his relationship with the baronet in a
memorable and epigrammatic sentence: "He was the most dilapidated
property I have ever handled; but I refurnished him, redecorated him, and
today, even if he is not beautiful, he is very letable."

And very serviceable Sir Isaac had proved--well worth the money spent on
him, well worth the share he received from the proceeds of that business
he professed to despise.

Sir Isaac Tramber feared Black. That was half the secret of the power
which the stronger man wielded over him. When at times he sought to
escape from the tyranny his partner had established, there were sleepless
nights. During the past few weeks something had happened which made it
imperative that he should dissociate himself from the confederacy; that
"something" had to do with the brightening of his prospects.

Lady Mary Cassilirs was more of a reality now than she had ever been.
With Lady Mary went that which Black in his vulgar way described as
"swag."

The old earl had given him to understand that his addresses would not be
unwelcome. Lady Mary was his ward, and perhaps it was because she refused
to be terrorized by the wayward old man and his fits of savage
moroseness, and because she treated his terrible storms of anger as
though they did not exist and never had existed, that in the grim old
man's hard and apparently wicked heart there had kindled a flame of
respect for her.

Sir Isaac went back to his own chambers in a thoughtful frame of mind. He
would have to cut Black, and his conscience had advanced so few demands
on his actions that he felt justified in making an exception in this
case.

He felt almost virtuous as he emerged again, dressed for the park, and he
was in his brightest mood when he met Lord Verlond and his beautiful
ward.

There were rude people who never referred to the Earl of Verlond and his
niece except as "Beauty and the Beast." She was a tall girl and typically
English--straight of back, clear of skin, and bright of eye. A great mass
of chestnut hair, two arched eyebrows, and a resolute little chin made up
a face of special attractiveness. She stood almost head and shoulders
above the old man at her side. Verlond had never been a beauty. Age had
made his harsh lines still harsher; there was not a line in his face
which did not seem as though it had been carved from solid granite, so
fixed, so immovable and cold it was.

His lower jaw protruded, his eyes were deep set. He gave you the uncanny
impression when you first met him that you had been longer acquainted
with his jaw than with his eyes.

He snapped a greeting to Sir Isaac. "Sit down, Ikey," he smiled. The girl
had given the baronet the slightest of nods, and immediately turned her
attention to the passing throng.

"Not riding to-day?" asked Sir Isaac.

"Yes," said the peer, "I am at this moment mounted on a grey charger,
leading a brigade of cavalry."

His humour took this one form, and supplied answers to unnecessary
questions. Then suddenly his face went sour, and after a glance round to
see whether the girl's attention had been attracted elsewhere, he leant
over towards Sir Isaac and, dropping his voice, said, "Ikey, you're going
to have some difficulty with her."

"I am used to difficulties," said Sir Isaac airily.

"Not difficulties like this," said the earl. "Don't be a fool, Ikey,
don't pretend you're clever. I know--the difficulties--I have to live in
the same house with her. She's an obstinate devil--there's no other word
for it."

Sir Isaac looked round cautiously. "Is there anybody else?" he asked.

He saw the earl's brows tighten, his eyes were glaring past him, and,
following their direction, Sir Isaac saw the figure of a young man coming
towards them with a smile that illuminated the whole of his face.

That smile was directed neither to the earl nor to his companion; it was
unmistakably intended for the girl, who, with parted lips and a new light
in her eyes, beckoned the new-corner forward.

Sir Isaac scowled horribly. "The accursed cheek of the fellow," he
muttered angrily.

"Good morning," said Horace Gresham to the earl; "taking the air?"

"No," growled the old man, "I am bathing, I am deep-sea fishing, I am
aeroplaning. Can't you see what I am doing? I'm sitting here--at the
mercy of every jackass that comes along to address his insane questions
to me."

Horace laughed. He was genuinely amused. There was just this touch of
perverse humour in the old man which saved him from being absolutely
repulsive. Without further ceremony he turned to the girl. "I expected to
find you here," he said.

"How is that great horse of yours?" she asked. He shot a smiling glance
at Tramber.

"Oh, he'll be fit enough on the day of the race," he said. "We shall
make Timbolino gallop."

"Mine will beat yours, wherever they finish, for a thousand," said Sir
Isaac angrily.

"I should not like to take your money," said the young man. "I feel that
it would be unfair to you, and unfair to--your friend."

The last words were said carelessly, but Sir Isaac Tramber recognized the
undertone of hostility, and read in the little pause which preceded them
the suggestion that this cheery young man knew much more about his
affairs than he was prepared for the moment to divulge.

"I am not concerned about my friend," said the baronet angrily. "I merely
made a fair and square sporting offer. Of course, if you do not like to
accept it--" He shrugged his shoulders.

"Oh, I would accept it all right," said the other. He turned deliberately
to the girl.

"What's Gresham getting at?" asked Verlond, with a grin at his friend's
discomfiture.

"I didn't know he was a friend of yours," said Sir Isaac; "where did you
pick him up?"

Lord Verlond showed his yellow teeth in a grin. "Where one picks up most
of one's undesirable acquaintances," he said, "in the members'
enclosure. But racing is getting so damned respectable, Ikey, that a real
top-notch undesirable is hard to meet. The last race-meeting I went to,
what do you think I found? The tea-room crammed, you couldn't get in at
the doors; the bar empty. Racing is going to the dogs, Ikey."

He was on his favourite hobby now, and Sir Isaac shifted uneasily, for
the old man was difficult to divert when in the mood for reminiscent
chatter.

"You can't bet nowadays like you used to bet," the earl went on. "I once
backed a horse for five thousand pounds at 20-1, without altering the
price. Where could you do that nowadays?"

"Let us walk about a little," said the girl.

Lord Verlond was so engrossed in his grievance against racing society
that he did not observe the two young people rise and stroll away.

Sir Isaac saw them, and would have interrupted the other's garrulity, but
for the wholesome fear he had of the old man's savage temper.

"I can't understand," said Horace, "how your uncle can stick that
bounder."

The girl smiled. "Oh, he can 'stick' him all right," she said dryly.
"Uncle's patience with unpleasant people is proverbial."

"He's not very patient with me," said Mr. Horace Gresham.

She laughed. "That is because you are not sufficiently unpleasant," she
said. "You have to be hateful to everybody else in the world before uncle
likes you."

"And I'm not that, am I?" he asked eagerly.

She flushed a little. "No, I wouldn't say you were that," she said,
glancing at him from under her eyelashes. "I am sure you are a very nice
and amiable young man. You must have lots of friends. Ikey, on the other
hand, has such queer friends. We saw him at the Blitz the other day,
lunching with a perfectly impossible man--do you know him?" she asked.

He shook his head. "I don't know any perfectly impossible persons," he
said promptly.

"A Colonel Black?" she suggested.

He nodded. "I know of him," he replied.

"Who is this Black?" she asked.

"He is a colonel."

"In the army?"

"Not in our army," said Horace with a smile. "He is what they call in
America a 'pipe colonel,' and he's--well, he's a friend of Sir Isaac--"
he began, and hesitated.

"That doesn't tell me very much, except that he can't be very nice," she
said.

He looked at her eagerly. "I'm so glad you said that," he said. "I was
afraid--" Again he stopped, and she threw a swift glance at him.

"You were afraid?" she repeated.

It was remarkable to see this self-possessed young man embarrassed, as he
was now. "Well," he went on, a little incoherently, "one hears
things--rumours. I know what a scoundrel he is, and I know how sweet you
are--the fact is, Mary, I love you better than anything in life."

She went white and her hand trembled. She had never anticipated such a
declaration in a crowd. The unexpectedness of it left her speechless. She
looked at his face: he, too, was pale.

"You shouldn't," she murmured, "at this time in the morning."



CHAPTER VI - THE POLICEMAN AND A LADY


Frank Fellowe was agitating a punch-ball in one of the upper rooms of his
little cottage, and with good reason.

He was "taking out" of the ball all the grievances he had against the
petty irritants of life.

Sergeant Gurden had bothered him with a dozen and one forms of petty
annoyance. He had been given the least congenial of jobs; he had been put
upon melancholy point work; and he seemed to be getting more than his
share of extra duty. And, in addition, he had the extra worry of
checking, at the same time, the work of Black's organization. He might,
had he wished, put away all the restrictions which hampered his
movements, but that was not his way. The frustration of Black's plans was
one of Frank's absorbing passions. If he had other passions which
threatened to be equally absorbing, he had the sense to check them--for a
while--

The daughter of a millionaire, violently introduced, subsequently met
with heart-flutterings on the one side and not a little perturbation on
the other; her gratitude and admiration began on a wayward two-seater
with defective brakes, and progressed by way of the Zoo, for which she
sent him a Sunday ticket--for she was anxious to see just what he was
like.

She went in some fear of disillusionment, because an heroic constable in
uniform, whose face is neatly arranged by helmet-peak and chin-strap, may
be less heroic in clothes of his own choosing, to say nothing of cravats
and shoes.

But she braced herself for the humiliation of discovering that one who
could save her life could also wear a ready-made tie. She was terribly
self-conscious, kept to the unfrequented walks of the Zoo, and was found
by a very good-looking gentleman who was dressed irreproachably in
something that suggested neither the butcher's boy at a beanfeast nor a
plumber at a funeral.

She showed him the inmates of exactly two cages, then he took her in hand
and told her things about wild beasts that she had never known before. He
showed her the subtle distinction between five varieties of lynx, and
gave her little anecdotes of the jungle fellowship that left her
breathless with admiration. Moreover, he took her to the most unlikely
places--to rooms where the sick and lame of the animal kingdom were
nursed to health. It would appear that there was no need to have sent him
the ticket, because he was a Fellow of the Society There was too much to
be seen on one day.

She went again and yet again; rode with him over Hampstead Heath in the
early hours of the morning. She gathered that he jobbed his horse, yet it
was not always the same animal he rode.

"How many horses have you in your stable?" she asked banteringly one
morning.

"Six," he said readily. "You see," he added hastily, "I do a lot of
hunting in the season--"

He stopped, realizing that he was further in the mire.

"But you are a constable--a policeman!" she stammered. "I mean--forgive
me if I'm rude."

He turned in his saddle, and there was a twinkle in his eye.

"I have a little money of my own," he said. "You see, I have only been a
constable for twelve months; previous to that I--I wasn't a constable!"

He was not very lucid: by this time he was apparently embarrassed, and
she changed the subject, wondering and absurdly pleased.

It was inconsistent of her to realize after the ride that these meetings
were wrong. They were wrong before, surely? Was it worse to ride with a
man who had revealed himself to be a member of one's own class than with
a policeman? Nevertheless, she knew it was wrong and met him--and that is
where Constable Fellowe and Miss Sandford became "May" and "Frank" to one
another. There had been nothing clandestine in their meetings.

Theodore Sandford, a hard-headed man, was immensely democratic. He joked
about May's policeman, made ponderous references to stolen visits to his
palatial kitchen in search of rabbit-pie, and then there arose from a
jesting nothing the question of Frank's remaining in the force. He had
admitted that he had independent means. Why remain a ridiculous
policeman? From jest it had passed into a very serious discussion and the
presentation of an ultimatum, furiously written, furiously posted, and as
furiously regretted.

Theodore Sandford looked up from his writing-table with an amused smile.

"So you're really angry with your policeman, are you?" he asked.

But it was no joke to the girl. Her pretty face was set determinedly.

"Of course," she shrugged her pretty shoulders, "Mr. Fellowe can do as he
wishes--I have no authority over him"--this was not true--"but one is
entitled to ask of one's friends--"

There were tears of mortification in her eyes, and Sandford dropped his
banter. He looked at the girl searchingly, anxiously. Her mother had died
when May was a child; he was ever on the look-out for some sign of the
fell disease which carried off the woman who had been his all.

"Dearest!" he said tenderly "you mustn't be worried or bothered by your
policeman; I'm sure he'd do anything in the world for you, if he is only
half a human man. You aren't looking well," he said anxiously.

She smiled. "I'm tired to-night, daddy," she said, putting her arm about
his neck.

"You're always tired nowadays," he said. "Black thought so the other day
when he saw you. He recommended a very clever doctor--I've got his
address somewhere."

She shook her head with vigour. "I don't want to see doctors," she said
decidedly.

"But--"

"Please--please!" she pleaded, laughing now. "You mustn't!"

There was a knock at the door and a footman came in. "Mr. Fellowe,
madam," he announced.

The girl looked round quickly. "Where is he?" she asked. Her father saw
the pink in her cheeks and shook his head doubtingly.

"He is in the drawing-room," said the man.

"I'll go down, daddy." She turned to her father.

He nodded. "I think you'll find he's fairly tractable--by the way, the
man is a gentleman."

"A gentleman, daddy!" she answered with lofty scorn, "of course he's a
gentleman!"

"I'm sorry I mentioned it," said Mr. Theodore Sandford humbly.

Frank was reading her letter--the letter which had brought him to
her--when she came in. He took her hand and held it for a fraction of a
second, then he came straight to the point. It was hard enough, for never
had she so appealed to him as she did this night.

There are some women whose charms are so elusive, whose beauty is so
unordinary in character, as to baffle adequate description. May Sandford
was one of these. No one feature goes to the making of a woman, unless,
indeed, it be her mouth. There is something in the poise of the head, in
the method of arranging the hair, in the clearness and peach-like bloom
of the complexion, in the carriage of the shoulders, the suppleness of
the body, the springy tread-each characteristic furnished something to
the beautiful whole.

May Sandford was a beautiful girl. She had been a beautiful child, and
had undergone none of the transition from prettiness to plainness, from
beauty to awkwardness. It was as though the years had each contributed
their quota to the creation of the perfect woman.

"Surely," he said, "you do not mean this? That is not your view?" He
held out her letter. She bent her head.

"I think it would be best," she said in a low tone. "I don't think we
shall agree very well on--on things. You've been rather horrid lately,
Mr. Fellowe."

His face was very pale. "I don't remember that I have been particularly
horrid," he said quietly.

"It is impossible for you to remain a policeman," she went on
tremulously. She went up to him and laid her hands upon his shoulders.
"Don't you see--even papa jokes about it, and it's horrid. I'm sure the
servants talk--and I'm not a snob really--"

Frank threw back his head and laughed.

"Can't you see, dearie, that I should not be a policeman if there was not
excellent reason? I am doing this work because I have promised my
superior that I would do it."

"But--but," she said, bewildered, "if you left the force you would have
no superior."

"I cannot give up my work," he said simply. He thought a moment, then
shook his head slowly. "You ask me to break my word," he said. "You ask
me to do greater mischief than that which I am going to undo. You
wouldn't you couldn't, impose that demand upon me."

She drew back a little, her head raised, pouting ever so slightly. "I
see," she said, "you would not." She held out her hand. "I shall never
ask you to make another sacrifice."

He took her hand, held it tightly a moment, then let it drop. Without
another word the girl left the room. Frank waited a moment, hoping
against hope that she would repent. The door remained closed.

He left the house with an overwhelming sense of depression.



CHAPTER VII - DR. ESSLEY MEETS A MAN


Dr. Essley was in his study, making a very careful microscopic
examination. The room was in darkness save for the light which came from
a powerful electric lamp directed to the reflector of the instrument.
What he found on the slide was evidently satisfactory, for by and by he
removed the strip of glass, threw it into the fire and turned on the
lights.

He took up a newspaper cutting from the table and read it. It interested
him, for it was an account of the sudden death of Mr. Augustus Fanks.

"The deceased gentleman," ran the account, "was engaged with Colonel
Black, the famous financier, discussing the details of the new iron
amalgamation, when he suddenly collapsed and, before medical assistance
could be procured, expired, it is believed, of heart failure."

There had been no inquest, for Fanks had in truth a weak heart and had
been under the care of a specialist, who, since his speciality was heart
trouble, discovered symptoms of the disease on the slightest pretext.

So that was the end of Fanks. The doctor nodded slowly. Yes, that was the
end of him. And now? He took a letter from his pocket. It was addressed
to him in the round sprawling calligraphy of Theodore Sandford.

Essley had met him in the early days when Sandford was on friendly terms
with Black. He had been recommended to the ironmaster by the financier,
and had treated him for divers ills. "My suburban doctor," Sandford had
called him.

"Though I am not seeing eye to eye with our friend Black," he wrote,
"and we are for the moment at daggers drawn, I trust that this will not
affect our relationships, the more so since I wish you to see my
daughter."

Essley remembered having seen her once: a tall girl, with eyes that
danced with laughter and a complexion of milk and roses.

He put the letter in his pocket, went into his little surgery and locked
the door. When he came out he wore his long overcoat and carried a little
satchel. He had just time to catch a train for the City, and at eleven
o'clock he found himself in Sandford's mansion.

"You are a weird man, doctor," said the ironmaster with a smile, as he
greeted his visitor. "Do you visit most of your patients by night?"

"My aristocratic patients," said the other coolly.

"A bad job about poor Fanks," said the other. "He and I were only dining
together a few weeks ago. Did he tell you that he met a man who knew you
in Australia?"

A shadow of annoyance passed over the other's face. "Let us talk about
your daughter," he said brusquely. "What is the matter with her?"

The ironmaster smiled sheepishly. "Nothing, I fear; yet you know, Essley,
she is my only child, and I sometimes imagine that she is looking ill. My
doctor in Newcastle tells me that there is nothing wrong with her."

"I see," said Essley. "Where is she?"

"She is at the theatre," confessed the father. You must think I am an
awful fool to bring you up to town to discuss the health of a girl who is
at the theatre, but something upset her pretty badly last night, and I
was to-day glad to see her take enough interest in life to visit a
musical comedy."

"Most fathers are fools," said the other. "I will wait till she comes
in." He strolled to the window and looked out. "Why have you quarrelled
with Black?" he asked suddenly.

The older man frowned. "Business," he said shortly. He is pushing me into
a corner. I helped him four years ago--"

"He helped you, too." interrupted the doctor.

"But not so much as I helped him," said the other obstinately. "I gave
him his chance. He floated my company and I profited, but he profited
more. The business has now grown to such vast proportions that it will
not pay me to come in. Nothing will alter my determination."

"I see." Essley whistled a little tune as he walked again to the window.

Such men as this must be broken, he thought. Broken! And there was only
one way: that daughter of his. He could do nothing to-night, that was
evident--nothing.

"I do not think I will wait for your daughter," he said. "Perhaps I will
call in tomorrow evening."

"I am so sorry--"

But the doctor silenced him. "There is no need to be sorry," he said with
acerbity; "you will find my visit charged in my bill."

The ironmaster laughed as he saw him to the door. "You are almost as good
a financier as your friend," he said.

"Almost," said the doctor dryly.

His waiting taxi dropped him at Charing Cross, and he went straight to
the nearest call-office and rang up a Temperance Hotel at Bloomsbury. He
had reasons for wishing to meet a Mr. Weld who knew him in Australia.

He had no difficulty in getting the message through. Mr. Weld was in the
hotel. He waited whilst the attendant found him. By and by a voice spoke:

"I am Weld--do you want me?"

"Yes; my name is Cole. I knew you in Australia. I have a message for you
from a mutual friend. Can you see me to-night?"

"Yes; where?"

Dr. Essley had decided the place of meeting. "Outside the main entrance
of the British Museum," he said. "There are few people about at this time
of night, and I am less likely to miss you."

There was a pause at the other end of the wire. "Very good," said the
voice; in a quarter of an hour?"

"That will suit me admirably--good-bye."

He hung up the receiver. Leaving his satchel at the cloak-room at Charing
Cross Station, he set out to walk to Great Russell Street. He would take
no cab. There should be no evidence of that description. Black would not
like it. He smiled at the thought. Great Russell Street was deserted,
save for a constant stream of taxi-cabs passing and repassing and an
occasional pedestrian. He found his man waiting; rather tall and slight,
with an intellectual, refined face.

"Dr. Essley?" he asked, coming forward as the other halted.

"That is my--" Essley stopped. "My name is Cole," he said harshly. "What
made you think I was Essley?"

"Your voice," said the other calmly. "After all, it does not matter what
you call yourself; I want to see you."

"And I you," said Essley.

They walked along side by side until they came to a side street.

"What do you want of me?" asked the doctor.

The other laughed.

"I wanted to see you. You are not a bit like the Essley I knew. He was
slighter and had not your colouring, and I was always under the
impression that the Essley who went up into the bush died."

"It is possible," said Essley in an absent way. He wanted to gain time.
The street was empty. A little way down there was a gateway in which a
man might lie unobserved until a policeman came.

In his pocket he had an impregnated feather carefully wrapped up in lint
and oiled silk. He drew it from his pocket furtively and with his hands
behind him he stripped it of its covering.

"... in fact, Dr. Essley," the man was saying, "I am under the
impression that you are an impostor."

Essley faced him. "You think too much," he said in a low voice, "and
after all, I do not recognize--turn your face to the light."

The young man obeyed. It was a moment. Quick as thought the doctor raised
the feather....

A hand of steel gripped his wrist. As if from the ground, two other men
had appeared. Something soft was thrust into his face; a sickly aroma
overpowered him. He struggled madly, but the odds were too many, and then
a shrill police-whistle sounded and he dropped to the ground....

He awoke to find a policeman bending over him. Instinctively he put his
hand to his head.

"Hurt, sir?" asked the man.

"No." He struggled to his feet and stood unsteadily. "Did you capture the
men?"

"No, sir, they got away. We just spotted them as they downed you, but,
bless your heart, they seemed to be swallowed up by the earth."

He looked around for the feather: it had disappeared. With some
reluctance he gave his name and address to the constable, who called a
taxi-cab.

"You're sure you've lost nothing, sir?" asked the man.

"Nothing," said Essley testily. "Nothing--look here, constable, do not
report this." He slipped a pound into the man's hand. "I do not wish this
matter to get into the papers."

The constable handed the money back. "I'm sorry, sir," he said, "I
couldn't take this even if I was willing." He looked round quickly and
lowered his voice. "I've got a gentleman from the Yard with me," he said,
"one of the assistant commissioners."

Essley followed the direction of the policeman's eyes. In the shadow of
the wall a man was standing.

"He was the chap who saw you first," said the policeman, young and
criminally loquacious.

Obeying some impulse he could not define, Essley walked towards the man
in the shadow.

"I owe you a debt of gratitude," he said. "I can only hope that you will
add to your kindness by letting the matter drop--I should hate to see the
thing referred to in the newspapers."

"I suppose you would," said the unknown. He was in evening dress, and the
red glow of his cigar rather concealed than defined his face. "But this
is a matter. Dr. Essley, where you must allow us full discretion."

"How do you know my name?" asked the doctor suspiciously. The other
smiled in the darkness and turned away.

"One moment!" Essley took a stride forward and peered into the other's
face. "I seem to recognize your voice," he said.

"That is possible," said the other, and pushed him gently, but firmly,
away. Essley gasped. He himself was no weakling, but this man had an arm
like steel.

"I think you had better go, sir," said the police-constable anxiously. He
desired neither to offend an obviously influential member of the public
nor his superior--that mysterious commissioner who appeared and
disappeared in the various divisions and who left behind him innumerable
casualties amongst the different members of the force.

"I'll go," said the doctor, "but I should like to know this gentleman's
name."

"That cannot possibly interest you," said the stranger, and Essley
shrugged his shoulders. With that he had to be content. He drove home to
Forest Hill, thinking, thinking. Who were these three--what object had
they? Who was the man who had stood in the shadows? Was it possible that
his assailants were acting in collusion with the police?

He was no nearer the solution when he reached his home. He unlocked the
door and let himself in. There was nobody in the house but himself and
the old woman upstairs. His comings and goings were so erratic that he
had organized a system which allowed him the most perfect freedom of
movement.

There must be an end to Dr. Essley, he decided. Essley must disappear
from London. He need not warn Black--Black would know. He would settle
the business of the iron-master and his daughter, and then--there would
be a finish.

He unlocked his study, entered and switched on the lights. There was a
letter on his writing-table, a letter enclosed in a thin grey envelope.
He picked it up and examined it. It had been delivered by hand, and bore
his name written in a firm hand. He looked at the writing-table and
started back. The letter had been written in the room and blotted on the
pad!

There was no doubt at all about it. The blotting-paper had been placed
there fresh that day, and the reverse of the bold handwriting on the
envelope was plain to see. He looked at the envelope again.

It could not have been a patient: he never admitted patients--he had none
worth mentioning. The practice was a blind. Besides, the door had been
locked, and he alone had the key. He tore the envelope open and took out
the contents. It was a half-sheet of note-paper. The three lines of
writing ran--

"You escaped to-night, and have only seven days to prepare yourself for
the fate which awaits you. THE FOUR JUST MEN."

He sank into his chair, crushed by the knowledge. They were the Just
Men--and he had escaped them. The Just Men! He buried his face in his
hands and tried to think. Seven days they gave him. Much could be done in
seven days. The terror of death was upon him, he who had without qualm or
remorse sent so many on the long journey. But this was he--himself! He
clutched at his throat and glared round the room. Essley the
poisoner--the expert; a specialist in death--the man who had revived the
lost art of the Medicis and had hoodwinked the law. Seven days! Well, he
would settle the business of the ironmaster. That was necessary to Black.

He began to make feverish preparations for the future. There were no
papers to destroy. He went into the surgery and emptied three bottles
down the sink. The fourth he would want. The fourth had been useful to
Black: a little green bottle with a glass stopper. He slipped it into his
pocket.

He let the tap run to wash away all trace of the drug he had spilt. The
bottles he smashed and threw into a waste-bin.

He went upstairs to his room, but he could not sleep. He locked his door
and put a chair against it. With a revolver in his hand, he searched the
cupboard and beneath the bed. He placed the revolver under his pillow and
tried to sleep.

Next morning found him haggard and ill, but none the less he made his
toilet with customary care. Punctually at noon he presented himself at
Hampstead and was shown into the drawing-room. The girl was alone when he
entered. He noted with approval that she was very beautiful.

That May Sandford did not like him he knew by instinct. He saw the cloud
come to her pretty face as he came into her presence, and was amused in
his cold way.

"My father is out." she said.

"That is good," said Essley, "for now we can talk." He seated himself
without invitation.

"I think it is only right to tell you. Dr. Essley, that my father's fears
regarding me are quite groundless."

At that moment the ironmaster came in and shook hands warmly with the
doctor. "Well, how do you think she looks?" he asked.

"Looks tell you nothing," said the other. It was not the moment for the
feather. He had other things to do, and the feather was not the way. He
chatted for a while and then rose. "I will send you some medicine," he
said. She pulled a wry face. "You need not worry to take it," he said,
with the touch of rancour that was one of his characteristics.

"Can you come to dinner on Tuesday?" asked Sandford.

Essley considered. This was Saturday--three days out of seven, and
anything might turn up in the meantime. "Yes," he said, "I will come."

He took a cab to some chambers near the Thames Embankment. He had a most
useful room there.



CHAPTER VIII - COLONEL BLACK HAS A SHOCK


Mr. Sandford had an appointment with Colonel Black. It was the final
interview before the break.

The City was busy with rumours. A whisper had circulated; all was not
well with the financier--the amalgamation on which so much depended had
not gone through. Black sat at his desk that afternoon, idly twiddling a
paper-knife. He was more sallow than usual; the hand that held the knife
twitched nervously. He looked at his watch. It was time Sandford came. He
pushed a bell by the side of his desk and a clerk appeared.

"Has Mr. Sandford arrived?" he asked.

"He has just come, sir," said the man.

"Show him in."

The two men exchanged formal greetings, and Black pointed to a chair.
"Sit down, Sandford," he said curtly. "Now, exactly how do we stand?"

"Where we did," said the other uncompromisingly.

"You will not come into my scheme?"

"I will not," said the other.

Colonel Black tapped the desk with his knife, and Sandford looked at him.
He seemed older than when he had last seen him. His yellow face was
seamed and lined.

"It means ruin for me," he said suddenly. "I have more creditors than I
can count. If the amalgamation went through I should be established.
There are lots of people in with me too--Ikey Tramber--you know Sir
Isaac? He's a friend of--er--the Earl of Verlond."

But the elder man was not impressed. "It is your fault if you're in a
hole," said he. "You have taken on too big a job--more than that, you
have taken too much for granted."

The man at the desk looked up from under his straight brows. "It is all
very well for you to sit there and tell me what I should do," he said,
and the shakiness of his voice told the other something of the passion he
concealed. "I do not want advice or homily--I want money. Come into my
scheme and amalgamate, or--"

"Or--" repeated the ironmaster quietly.

"I do not threaten you," said Black sullenly; "I warn you. You are
risking more than you know."

"I'll take the risk," said Sandford. He got up on to his feet. "Have you
anything more to say?"

"Nothing."

"Then I'll bid you good-bye."

The door closed with a slam behind him, and Black did not move. He sat
there until it was dark, doing no more than scribble aimlessly upon his
blotting-pad. It was nearly dark when he drove back to the flat he
occupied in Victoria Street and let himself in.

"There is a gentleman