LITMIR.BIZ

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laid upon her soul. In a flash of intuition, the young man glimpsed the real situation. She had bound herself to the count, in order to save her father!

      What had it not cost her to assume that heavy burden? For the first time he realised something of what the girl, with her high spirit, and her passionate adoration of her father, must have suffered at learning that he had perpetrated such a monstrous fraud on the public; that he was, in truth, a cheat, an outlaw, and a criminal. Was it any wonder that her cheeks had lost their colour, her eyes their light, and her figure its youthful buoyancy and charm? He recalled, with a sharp pang, the pitiful droop of the slender, black-robed figure when he had last seen her; her pallor, and the shadow which lay deep, in her eyes. Fear had looked out of those eyes, fear had trembled in her voice, as she bade him be careful!… And she had esteemed him too dear to entangle in her dark fate!… A flood of infinite tenderness welled up in his breast, a tenderness and an exquisite yearning which thrilled the young man’s soul to the point of pain. He burned with the desire to stand between her and her troubles, ta carry her off bodily from her enemies, to conquer a kingdom, or subdue a dragon — to do any wild, rash thing to prove his love.

      Such moments rarely endure. They pass, these mountain-heights of exaltation and emotion, but to have experienced them however briefly, to have loved a woman with such passion and pure fervour, leaves no man as he was before.

      Van Ingen returned to the problem. She had: bound herself to the count.

      But Poltavo, according to the detective’s theory, was the master-mind of the conspiracy. How, then, had he tricked her so completely? How had he gulled them all, he wondered savagely. Even his chief, the American ambassador, and a judge of men, had been completely fascinated by the charm of his personality, and would not hear a word against him.

      As for women — he knew the silly ardent creatures went down like nine-pins before the smiling glance of his eyes and the unfailing courtesy of his manners. There was Lady Angela, the Duke of Manchester’s daughter, a slender dryad-girl, with soft eyes and a halo of pale golden hair, whom the count had sketched upon a recent visit to their country-house, and whom, it was reported, he might have any day, for the asking.

      “Why don’t he ask her, then?” he growled aloud.

      The detective, who lounged opposite him, warm coils of smoke ascending from his briar pipe, regarded him with humorous eyes.

      “I don’t follow you,” he said. He glanced down at the open letter, which Van Ingen still held tightly in his hand.

      “Do you want him to marry her?”

      Van Ingen reddened. “I — I beg your pardon!” he stammered. “I was thinking of Lady Angela.”

      The detective smoked on tranquilly, though it was apparent he did not get the connection. Van Ingen, however, vouchsafed no further explanation, and presently the conversation fell upon other things.

      The next morning Cord had awakened greatly refreshed, and with his resolve strengthened to continue the investigation. In company with Smith, he had interviewed Sir George Calliper, and seen the tragic end of Moss. As they walked homeward in the cold air of the early morning, Cord speculated upon the manner of man was this Count Poltavo. Beside him, the detective pondered, grimly, the same problem.

      Hyatt — the man on the Eiffel Tower — the Wady Barrage — the mysterious bears — what connection was there one with another?

      TO — HYATT, A FRIEND OF THE LATE LEWIS MOSS

      Information concerning the whereabouts of the above-mentioned Hyatt is urgently required. Immediate communication should be made to the nearest police-station.

      This notice appeared under the heading, “Too Late for Classification,” in every London newspaper the morning following the murder of Moss.

      “It is possible that the name is an assumed one,” said T.B.,” but the Falmouth clue narrows the search.”

      An “allstation” message was flashed throughout the metropolis:

      “Arrest and detain Count Ivan Poltavo” (here followed a description), “on suspicion of being concerned in the murder of Lewis Moss.”

      But Count Poltavo anticipated the arrest, for hardly had the last message been despatched when he himself entered the portico of Scotland Yard and requested an interview with T.B.

      “Yes,” he said sadly, “I knew this young man. Poor fellow!”

      He gave a very frank account of his dealings with Moss, offered a very full explanation of his own movements on the night of the murder, and was finally dismissed by a perplexed Commissioner, who detached an officer to verify all that Poltavo had said.

      T.B. was worried, and showed it, after his own fashion. He sent Van Ingen by an early train to pursue his enquiries in Cornwall, and then went into the City.

      An interview with the head of the banking-house of Bronte was not satisfactory.

      “I am satisfied,” said T.B., “that an attempt will be made to destroy the barrage on the day for which you are liable. All the features of the present market position point to this fact.”

      “In that case,” said the banker, “the ‘ bears ‘ must be clairvoyant. The day on which the barrage comes into the hands of the Egyptian Government is known to two persons only. I am one, and the other is a gentleman the mere mention of whose name would satisfy you as to his integrity.”

      “And none other?”

      “None other,” said the banker. And that was all he would say.

      But at six o’clock that night T.B. received a message. It was written in pencil on the torn edges of a newspaper.

      “Tonight Sir George Calliper is dining with the Spanish dancing girl, La Belle Espagnole.”

      That, and an initial, was all the note contained, but it came from the most reliable man in the Criminal Investigation Department, and T.B. whistled his astonishment.

14. Sir George Dines

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      Sir George Calliper lived in St. James’s Street. A bachelor — some regarded him as a misogynist — his establishment was nevertheless a model of order; and if you had missed the indefinable something that betrays a woman’s hand in the arrangement of furniture, you recognised that the controlling spirit of the household was one possessed of a rigid sense of domesticity, that found expression in solid comfort and sober luxury. The banker sat in his study engaged in writing a letter. He was in evening dress, and the little French clock on the mantel had just chimed seven. He finished the note and folded it in its envelope. Then he pressed a bell. A servant entered.

      “I am dining out,” said Sir George shortly.

      “I shall be home at eleven.” It was characteristic that he did not say “may be home,” or “at about eleven.”

      “Shall I order the car, Sir George?”

      “No; I’ll take a cab.”

      A shrill whistle brought a taxicab to the door. A passing commissionaire stopped to ask the cabman which was the nearest way to Berkeley Square as the banker came down the two steps of the house.

      “Meggioli’s,” he instructed the cabman, and added, “the Vine Street entrance.”

      The commissionaire stood back respectfully as the whining taxi jerked forward.

      “Meggioli’s!” murmured the commissionaire, “and by the private doorl That’s rum. I wonder whether Van Ingen has started for Cornwall yet?”

      He walked into St. James’s Square, and a smart one-horse brougham, that had been idly moving round the circle of garden in the centre, pulled up at the curb by his side.

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