LITMIR.BIZ

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T.B.’s night had been profitably spent, for he was expected. The purser met him.

      “We got your telegrams,” he said. “Is this the lady?”

      T.B. nodded. The purser led the way down the spacious companion.

      “I have prepared ‘C’ suite,” he said, and ushered the party into a beautifully appointed cabin. She noticed that a steel grating had been newly fixed to the porthole, but that was the only indication of her captivity.

      “I have enlisted the help of the stewardess,” said T.B., “and you will find all the clothing you are likely to require for the voyage. I am also instructed to hand you £300. You will find your little library well stocked. I myself have denuded my own poor stock of French novels in order that you might not be dull.”

      “I understand that I am to be deported?” she said.

      “That is an excellent understanding,” he replied.

      “By what authority?” she demanded. “It is necessary to obtain an order from the Court.”

      “For the next fourteen days, and until this ship reaches Jamaica, you will be Mary Brown, who was formally extradited last Saturday on a charge of fraud,” said T.B. “If you are wise you will give no trouble, and nobody on board need have an inkling that you are a prisoner. You can enjoy the voyage, and at the end—”

      “At the end?” she asked, seeing that he paused.

      “At the end we shall discover our mistake,” said T.B., “and you may return.”

      “I will summon the captain and demand to be put ashore!” she cried.

      “A very natural request on the part of a prisoner,” said T.B. meditatively, “but I doubt very much whether it would have any effect upon an unimaginative seaman.”

      He left her raging.

      For the rest of the day he idled about the ship. The Port Sybil was due to leave at four o’clock, and when the first warning bell had sounded he went below to take his leave. He found her much calmer.

      “I would like to ask one question,” she said.

      “It is not like the police to provide me with money, and to reserve such a cabin as this for my use — who is behind this?”

      “I wondered whether you would ask that,” said T.B. “Sir George was very generous—”

      “Sir George Calliper!” she gasped. “You have not dared—”

      “Yes, it needed some daring,” admitted T.B., “to wake an eminent banker out of his beauty sleep to relate such a story as I had to tell — but he was very nice about it.”

      She brooded for some moments.

      “You will be sorry for this,” she said. “The Nine Men will know much sooner than you imagine.”

      “Before they know this they will know other things,” he said. And with this utterance he left her.

      He stood watching the great steamer moving slowly down the Mersey. He had left the wardress on board to make the voyage, and the other detective had remained to report.

      As the vessel swung round a bend of the Mersey out of sight, he murmured flippantly:

      “Next stop — Jamaica!”

      T.B. reached his chambers at noon that day. He stopped to ask a question of the porter.

      “Yes, sir,” said that worthy, “he arrived all right with your card last night. I made him comfortable for the night, got him some supper, and told my mate who is on duty at night to look after him.”

      T.B. nodded. Declining the lift-boy’s services, he mounted the marble stairs.

      He reached the door of his flat and inserted the key.

      “Now for Mr. Hyatt,” he thought, and opened the door.

      There was a little hallway to his chambers, in which the electric light still burned, in spite of the flood of sunlight that came from a long window at the end.

      “Extravagant beggar!” muttered T.B.

      The diningroom was empty, and the blinds were drawn, and here, too, the electric light was full on. There was a spare bedroom to the left, and to this T.B. made his way.

      He threw open the door.

      “Hyatt!” he called; but there was no answer, and he entered.

      Hyatt lay on the bed, fully dressed. The handle of a knife protruded from his breast, and T.B., who understood these things, knew that the man had been dead for many hours.

      *

      Consols were up.

      There was no doubt whatever about that fact, and the industrial market was a humming hive of industry.

      Breweries, bakeries, and candlestick makeries — their shares bounded joyously as though a spirit, as of early spring, had entered into these inanimate and soulless things.

      The mysterious “bears” were buying, buying, buying. Frantically, recklessly buying.

      Whatever coup had been contemplated by the Nine Men had failed, and their agents and brokers were working at fever heat to cover their losses. It is significant that on the morning the boom started, there appeared in all the early editions of the evening newspapers one little paragraph. It appeared in the “late news” space and was condensed:

      “Wady Barrage was handed over to Egyptian Government early this morning in presence of Minister of Works. Overnight rumours were prevalent that attempt made to destroy section dam by dynamite and that Italian named Soccori shot dead by sentry of West Kent Regiment in act of placing explosives on works. No official confirmation.”

      Interesting enough, but hardly to be associated by the crowd which thronged the approaches of the House with the rising market.

      All day long the excitement in the city continued, all day long bareheaded clerks ran aimlessly — to all appearance — from ’Change to pavement, pavement to ’Change, like so many agitated ants. Sir George Calliper, sitting alone in the magnificence of his private office, watched the “boom” thoughtfully, and wondered exactly what would have happened if “an Italian named Soccori” had succeeded in placing his explosive.

      The echoes of the boom came to T.B. Smith in, his little room overlooking the Thames Embankment, but brought him little satisfaction. The Nine Men had failed this time. Would they fail on the next occasion?

      Who they were he could guess. From what centre they operated, he neither knew nor guessed. For T.B. they had taken on a new aspect. Hitherto they had been regarded merely as a band of dangerous and clever swindlers, Napoleonic in their method; now, they were murderers — dangerous, devilish men without pity or remorse.

      The man Moss by some accident had been associated with them — a tool perhaps, but a tool who had surprised their secret. He was not the type of man who, of his own intelligence, would have made discoveries. He mentioned Hyatt and “the man on the Eiffel Tower.” That might have been the wanderings of a dying man, but Hyatt had come to light.

      Hyatt, with his curiously intellectual face; here, thought T.B., was the man, if any, who had unearthed the secret of the Nine. Likely enough he shared confidence with Moss; indeed, there was already evidence in T.B.’s hands that the two men had business dealings. And the third— “the man on the Eiffel Tower”? Here T.B. came against a wall of improbability.

18. In the “Journal” Office

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      The room was a long one, full of dazzling islands of light where shaded

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