LITMIR.BIZ

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observed the man himself whom the water-colour represented, at some time, somewhere. It was not at Nice; it was not at Seldon; it was not at Meran; it was not in America. I believed I had been in a room with him somewhere in London.

      Charles was looking over my shoulder. He gave a sudden little start. “Why, I know that fellow!” he cried. “You recollect him, Sey; he’s Finglemore’s brother—the chap that didn’t go out to China!”

      Then I remembered at once where it was that I had seen him—at the broker’s in the city, before we sailed for America.

      “What Christian name?” I asked.

      Charles reflected a moment. “The same as the one in the note we got with the dust-coat,” he answered, at last. “The man is Paul Finglemore!”

      “You will arrest him?” I asked.

      “Can I, on this evidence?”

      “We might bring it home to him.”

      Charles mused for a moment. “We shall have nothing against him,” he said slowly, “except in so far as we can swear to his identity. And that may be difficult.”

      Just at that moment the footman brought in tea. Charles wondered apparently whether the man, who had been with us at Seldon when Colonel Clay was David Granton, would recollect the face or recognise having seen it. “Look here, Dudley,” he said, holding up the water-colour, “do you know that person?”

      Dudley gazed at it a moment. “Certainly, sir,” he answered briskly.

      “Who is it?” Amelia asked. We expected him to answer, “Count von Lebenstein,” or “Mr. Granton,” or “Medhurst.”

      Instead of that, he replied, to our utter surprise, “That’s Césarine’s young man, my lady.”

      “Césarine’s young man?” Amelia repeated, taken aback. “Oh, Dudley, surely, you must be mistaken!”

      “No, my lady,” Dudley replied, in a tone of conviction. “He comes to see her quite reg’lar; he have come to see her, off and on, from time to time, ever since I’ve been in Sir Charles’s service.”

      “When will he be coming again?” Charles asked, breathless.

      “He’s downstairs now, sir,” Dudley answered, unaware of the bombshell he was flinging into the midst of a respectable family.

      Charles rose excitedly, and put his back against the door. “Secure that man,” he said to me sharply, pointing with his finger.

      “What man?” I asked, amazed. “Colonel Clay? The young man who’s downstairs now with Césarine?”

      “No,” Charles answered, with decision; “Dudley!”

      I laid my hand on the footman’s shoulder, not understanding what Charles meant. Dudley, terrified, drew back, and would have rushed from the room; but Charles, with his back against the door, prevented him.

      “I—I’ve done nothing to be arrested, Sir Charles,” Dudley cried, in abject terror, looking appealingly at Amelia. “It—it wasn’t me as cheated you.” And he certainly didn’t look it.

      “I daresay not,” Charles answered. “But you don’t leave this room till Colonel Clay is in custody. No, Amelia, no; it’s no use your speaking to me. What he says is true. I see it all now. This villain and Césarine have long been accomplices! The man’s downstairs with her now. If we let Dudley quit the room he’ll go down and tell them; and before we know where we are, that slippery eel will have wriggled through our fingers, as he always wriggles. He is Paul Finglemore; he is Césarine’s young man; and unless we arrest him now, without one minute’s delay, he’ll be off to Madrid or St. Petersburg by this evening!”

      “You are right,” I answered. “It is now or never!”

      “Dudley,” Charles said, in his most authoritative voice, “stop here till we tell you you may leave the room. Amelia and Dolly, don’t let that man stir from where he’s standing. If he does, restrain him. Seymour and Dr. Beddersley, come down with me to the servants’ hall. I suppose that’s where I shall find this person, Dudley?”

      “N—no, sir,” Dudley stammered out, half beside himself with fright. “He’s in the housekeeper’s room, sir!”

      We went down to the lower regions in a solid phalanx of three. On the way we met Simpson, Sir Charles’s valet, and also the butler, whom we pressed into the service. At the door of the housekeeper’s room we paused, strategically. Voices came to us from within; one was Césarine’s, the other had a ring that reminded me at once of Medhurst and the Seer, of Elihu Quackenboss and Algernon Coleyard. They were talking together in French; and now and then we caught the sound of stifled laughter.

      We opened the door. “Est-il drôle, donc, ce vieux?” the man’s voice was saying.

      “C’est à mourir de rire,” Césarine’s voice responded.

      We burst in upon them, red-handed.

      Césarine’s young man rose, with his hat in his hand, in a respectful attitude. It reminded me at once of Medhurst, as he stood talking his first day at Marvillier’s to Charles; and also of the little curate, in his humblest moments as the disinterested pastor.

      With a sign to me to do likewise, Charles laid his hand firmly on the young man’s shoulder. I looked in the fellow’s face: there could be no denying it; Césarine’s young man was Paul Finglemore, our broker’s brother.

      “Paul Finglemore,” Charles said severely, “otherwise Cuthbert Clay, I arrest you on several charges of theft and conspiracy!”

      The young man glanced around him. He was surprised and perturbed; but, even so, his inexhaustible coolness never once deserted him. “What, five to one?” he said, counting us over. “Has law and order come down to this? Five respectable rascals to arrest one poor beggar of a chevalier d’industrie! Why, it’s worse than New York. There, it was only you and me, you know, old Ten percent!”

      “Hold his hands, Simpson!” Charles cried, trembling lest his enemy should escape him.

      Paul Finglemore drew back even while we held his shoulders. “No, not you, sir,” he said to the man, haughtily. “Don’t dare to lay your hands upon me! Send for a constable if you wish, Sir Charles Vandrift; but I decline to be taken into custody by a valet!”

      “Go for a policeman,” Dr. Beddersley said to Simpson, standing forward.

      The prisoner eyed him up and down. “Oh, Dr. Beddersley!” he said, relieved. It was evident he knew him. “If you’ve tracked me strictly in accordance with Bertillon’s methods, I don’t mind so much. I will not yield to fools; I yield to science. I didn’t think this diamond king had sense enough to apply to you. He’s the most gullible old ass I ever met in my life. But if it’s you who have tracked me down, I can only submit to it.”

      Charles held to him with a fierce grip. “Mind he doesn’t break away, Sey,” he cried. “He’s playing his old game! Distrust the man’s patter!”

      “Take care,” the prisoner put in. “Remember Dr. Polperro! On what charge do you arrest me?”

      Charles was bubbling with indignation. “You cheated me at Nice,” he said; “at Meran; at New York; at Paris!”

      Paul Finglemore shook his head. “Won’t do,” he answered, calmly. “Be sure of your ground. Outside the jurisdiction! You can only do that on an extradition warrant.”

      “Well, then, at Seldon, in London, in this house, and elsewhere,” Charles cried out excitedly. “Hold hard to him, Sey; by law or without it, blessed if he isn’t going even now to wriggle away from us!”

      At that moment Simpson returned with a convenient policeman, whom he had happened to find loitering about near the area steps, and whom I half suspected from his furtive smile of being a particular acquaintance of the household.

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