LITMIR.BIZ

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      He spoke in a soft, well-modulated voice, which held a hint of laughter. “Mr. Baggin, permit me to restore something of yours which I — er — found upon the hill.” He held out the memorandum book, smiling.

      Baggin sprang at him with an oath.

      The count, still smiling, flung out his other hand, with a motion of defence, and the candlelight gleamed brightly upon a small dagger of Spanish workmanship. “‘Ware!” he cried softly. “That point, I fancy, is sharp.”

      Baggin fell back a pace, his face twitching with rage.

      “You would knife me, an unarmed man!” he cried furiously. “You low foreign cur!”

      The count took a quick step toward him. His eyes sparkled. “I must ask you to retract that,” he said. There was a dangerous note in his tones like the thin edge of a blade.

      Grayson started to his feet. “Gentlemen! Gentlemen!” he cried. “Are you gone stark mad, to quarrel over such a trifle? Baggin, stop glaring like a caged beast. Sit down. The count has returned your book, which doubtless you dropped upon the hill. And did you not boast that its contents were undecipherable?,”

      Baggin took the book. “I may have been over-hasty,” he acknowledged grudgingly, suspicion still in his eye. “But your disguise—”

      “Was necessary, my friend, and I accept your apology. Say nothing more of it.” The count unfastened the clasp at his throat, stuck the dagger into the panel of the door, and hung his hat and mantle upon it. The moustache he held up between thumb and forefinger with a grimace.

      “How do you like me with mustachios, Mr. Grayson? They fell off three times to-day.” The man whom most of London supposed to be dead laughed heartily.

      “They change the entire cast of your countenance,” he remarked candidly. “They make you look like a rascal.”

      “That is true,” admitted the count. “I have observe’ the same. They bring out the evil streak in my nature. I used to wear them, five years ago, in London,” he continued pensively, “and then I shaved for — ah — aesthetic reasons. Mr. T. B. Smith does not fancy mustachios. He thought they gave me the look of a nihilist — or perhaps a Russian spy. Apropos,” he nodded to Grayson, “he has charge of your case. He is a clever man, my friend.” He sighed gently.

      Grayson looked at him sombrely. “I wish I were out of this job,” he muttered, “and back in America with DoYis. You saw her?”he demanded eagerly.

      The count nodded, with a significant glance toward Baggin. The latter caught the look, and suspicion flamed again in his eye.

      “May I ask you a plain question?” he said harshly.

      “Surely!”

      “How much of this business do you know?”

      The count permitted himself a smile. “Since this afternoon,” he answered softly, “I know — all.”

      Baggin’s face grew black with rage. “Thief! I knew it!” He stuttered in the intensity of his passion.

      The count surveyed him dispassionately.

      “Wrath in, reason out,” he murmured. Grayson intervened again. “For my part,” he declared, “I am heartily glad of it. Poltavo is one of us now, and can tell us what he thinks of the scheme. I have always wished for his opinion.”

      Baggin rose abruptly, and strode about the room. Plainly the man was in a great, almost uncontrollable passion. The veins on his temples stood out in knots, and his hands clenched and unclenched spasmodically. Presently he turned, mastering himself with a strong effort, and held out his hand.

      “I agree,” he said in a constrained voice. “You are one of us, count.” The two shook hands and resumed their chairs.

      “And now,” said Grayson, “tell us what you think of the scheme?”

      The count hesitated for a minute. “Good,” he said at length, “and bad! Admirable in the general plan, but absurd in some of the details.”

      “The general plan was mine,” said Baggin gruffly.

      “And the absurd details were probably mine,” admitted Grayson with cheerfulness.

      “May I give you some suggestions?” asked the count politely.

      “Go ahead!” returned Baggin.

      “This afternoon — after I had deciphered your notes — it took me precisely two . hours by the cathedral chimes to work out the key — I ventured to revise them, and also to devise a different plan of retirement for the committee. You would care to know it?” He looked deferentially at Baggin, whose bent brows relaxed.

      “Draw up your chair to the table,” he said in reply. “We’ll overhaul the entire proposition. There will be difficulties If you could invest an equal share of money—”

      “I thought of that,” answered the count simply.

      “And I fancy I can — how you say — raise the required amount. May I speak for a moment to Mr. Grayson — on a very personal matter?”

      He drew the older man aside, and conversed with him briefly, in low tones.

      Surprise, incredulity, displeasure chased each other across Grayson’s countenance in rapid succession. “Very well,” he said finally, somewhat brusquely. “You have my consent — until I see Doris.”

      They returned to the table. “I will be security for Count Poltavo,” he declared to Baggin, “for half-a-million pounds.”

7. Some Disappearances

       Table of Contents

      In the last week of April, 1908, a notice was posted on the doors of the London, Manhattan, and Jersey Syndicate, in Moorgate Street. It was brief, but it was to the point:

      “Owing to the disappearance of Mr. George T. Baggin, the L. M. and J. Syndicate has suspended operations.”

      With Mr. Baggin had disappeared the sum of £247,000. An examination of the books of the firm revealed the fact that the London, Manhattan, and Jersey Syndicate was — Mr. Baggin; that its imposing title thinly disguised the operations of a bucket-shop, and the vanished bullion had been most systematically collected in gold and foreign notes.

      Mr. Baggin had disappeared as though the earth had swallowed him up. He was traced to Liverpool. A ticket to New York had been purchased by a man answering to his description, and he had embarked on the Lucania. The liner called at Queenstown, and the night she left, Mr. “Coleman” was missing. His clothing and trunks were found intact in his cabin. The ship was searched from stem to stern, but no trace of the unfortunate man could be discovered. The evening newspapers flared forth with, “Tragic End of a Defaulting Banker,” but Scotland Yard, ever sceptical, set on foot certain enquiries and learnt that a stranger had been seen in Queenstown after the ship sailed. A stranger who left for Dublin, and who doubled back to Heysham; who came, via Manchester, back to London again. In London he had vanished completely. Whether or not this was the redoubtable George T. Baggin, was a matter for conjecture.

      T.B. Smith, of Scotland Yard, into whose hands the case was put, had no doubt at all. He believed that Baggin was alive.

      Most artistic of all was the passing of Lucas Damant, the Company Promoter. Damant’s defalcations were the heaviest, for his opportunities were greater. He dealt in millions and stole in millions. Taking his holiday in Switzerland, Mr. Damant foolishly essayed the ascent of the Matterhorn without a guide. His alpenstock was picked up at the edge of a deep crevasse, and another Alpine disaster was added to the alarming list of mountaineering tragedies. What time four expert guides were endeavouring to extricate the lost man from a bottomless

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