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Title: The Orange-Yellow Diamond

Author: J. S. Fletcher

Release Date: November, 2005 [EBook #9297]
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[This file was first posted on September 17, 2003]
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                                    THE

                               ORANGE-YELLOW

                                  DIAMOND

                                    BY

                              J. S. FLETCHER


                                   1921




CONTENTS

      I THE PRETTY PAWNBROKER
     II MRS. GOLDMARK'S EATING-HOUSE
    III THE DEAD MAN
     IV THE PLATINUM SOLITAIRE
      V THE TWO LETTERS
     VI THE SPANISH MANUSCRIPT
    VII THE MEMBER OF PARLIAMENT
   VIII THE INQUEST
     IX WHOSE WERE THOSE RINGS?
      X MELKY INTERVENES
     XI THE BACK DOOR
    XII THE FRIEND FROM PEEBLES
   XIII THE CALL FOR HELP
    XIV THE PRIVATE LABORATORY
     XV CONFERENCE
    XVI THE DETECTIVE CALLS
   XVII WHAT THE LAMPS SHONE ON
  XVIII MR. STUYVESANT GUYLER
    XIX PURDIE STANDS FIRM
     XX THE PARSLETT AFFAIR
    XXI WHAT MANNER OF DEATH?
   XXII MR. KILLICK GOES BACK
  XXIII MR. KILLICK'S OPINION
   XXIV THE ORANGE-YELLOW DIAMOND
    XXV THE DEAD MAN'S PROPERTY
   XXVI THE RAT
  XXVII THE EMPTY HOUSE
 XXVIII THE L500 BANK NOTE
   XXIX MR. MORI YADA
    XXX THE MORTUARY
   XXXI THE MIRANDOLET THEORY
  XXXII ONE O'CLOCK MIDNIGHT
 XXXIII SECRET WORK
  XXXIV BAFFLED
   XXXV YADA TAKES CHARGE
  XXXVI PILMANSEY'S TEA ROOMS
 XXXVII CHANG LI
XXXVIII THE JEW AND THE JAP
  XXXIX THE DIAMOND NECKLACE


THE ORANGE-YELLOW DIAMOND


CHAPTER ONE


THE PRETTY PAWNBROKER

On the southern edge of the populous parish of Paddington, in a
parallelogram bounded by Oxford and Cambridge Terrace on the south, Praed
Street on the north, and by Edgware Road on the east and Spring Street on
the west, lies an assemblage of mean streets, the drab dulness of which
forms a remarkable contrast to the pretentious architectural grandeurs of
Sussex Square and Lancaster Gate, close by. In these streets the observant
will always find all those evidences of depressing semi-poverty which are
more evident in London than in any other English city. The houses look as
if laughter was never heard within them. Where the window blinds are not
torn, they are dirty; the folk who come out of the doors wear anxious and
depressed faces. Such shops as are there are mainly kept for the sale of
food of poor quality: the taverns at the corners are destitute of
attraction or pretension. Whoever wanders into these streets finds their
sordid shabbiness communicating itself: he escapes, cast down, wondering
who the folk are who live in those grey, lifeless cages; what they do,
what they think; how life strikes them. Even the very sparrows which fight
in the gutters for garbage are less lively than London sparrows usually
are; as for the children who sit about the doorsteps, they look as if the
grass, the trees, the flowers, and the sunlight of the adjacent Kensington
Gardens were as far away as the Desert of Gobi. Within this slice of the
town, indeed, life is lived, as it were, in a stagnant backwash, which
nothing and nobody can stir.

In an upper room of one of the more respectable houses in one of the
somewhat superior streets of this neighbourhood, a young man stood looking
out of the window one November afternoon. It was then five o'clock, and
the darkness was coming: all day a gentle, never-ceasing rain had been
bringing the soot down from the dark skies upon the already dingy roofs.
It was a dismal and miserable prospect upon which the watcher looked out,
but not so miserable nor so dismal as the situation in which he just then
found himself. The mean street beneath him was not more empty of
cheerfulness than his pockets were empty of money and his stomach of food.
He had spent his last penny on the previous day: it, and two other
coppers, had gone on a mere mouthful of food and drink: since their
disappearance he had eaten nothing. And he was now growing faint with
hunger--and to add to his pains, some one, downstairs, was cooking
herrings. The smell of the frying-pan nearly drove him ravenous.

He turned from the window presently and looked round at the small room
behind him. It was a poor, ill-furnished place--cleanliness, though of a
dingy sort, its only recommendation. There was a bed, and a washstand, and
a chest of drawers, and a couple of chairs--a few shillings would have
purchased the lot at any second-hand dealer's. In a corner stood the
occupant's trunk--all the property he had in the world was in it, save a
few books which were carefully ranged on the chimney-piece, and certain
writing materials that lay on a small table. A sharp eye, glancing at the
books and the writing materials, and at a few sheets of manuscript
scattered on the blotting-pad, would have been quick to see that here was
the old tale, once more being lived out, of the literary aspirant who, at
the very beginning of his career, was finding, by bitter experience, that,
of all callings, that of literature is the most precarious.

A half-hesitating tap at the door prefaced the entrance of a woman--the
sort of woman who is seen in those streets by the score--a tallish,
thinnish woman, old before her time, perpetually harassed, always anxious,
always looking as if she expected misfortune. Her face was full of anxiety
now as she glanced at her lodger--who, on his part, flushed all over his
handsome young face with conscious embarrassment. He knew very well what
the woman wanted--and he was powerless to respond to her appeal.

"Mr. Lauriston," she said in a half whisper, "when do you think you'll be
able to let me have a bit of money? It's going on for six weeks now, you
know, and I'm that put to it, what with the rent, and the rates--"

Andrew Lauriston shook his head--not in denial, but in sheer perplexity.

"Mrs. Flitwick," he answered, "I'll give you your money the very minute I
get hold of it! I told you the other day I'd sold two stories--well, I've
asked to be paid for them at once, and the cheque might be here by any
post. And I'm expecting another cheque, too--I'm surprised they aren't
both here by this time. The minute they arrive, I'll settle with you. I'm
wanting money myself--as badly as you are!"

"I know that, Mr. Lauriston," assented Mrs. Flitwick, "and I wouldn't
bother you if I wasn't right pressed, myself. But there's the landlord at
me--he wants money tonight. And--you'll excuse me for mentioning it--but,
till you get your cheques, Mr. Lauriston, why don't you raise a bit of
ready money?"

Lauriston looked round at his landlady with an air of surprised enquiry.

"And how would I do that?" he asked.

"You've a right good gold watch, Mr. Lauriston," she answered. "Any
pawnbroker--and there's plenty of 'em, I'm sure!--'ud lend you a few
pounds on that. Perhaps you've never had occasion to go to a pawnbroker
before? No?--well, and I hadn't once upon a time, but I've had to, whether
or no, since I came to letting lodgings, and if I'd as good a watch as
yours is, I wouldn't go without money in my pocket! If you've money coming
in, you can always get your goods back--and I should be thankful for
something, Mr. Lauriston, if it was but a couple o' pounds. My landlord's
that hard--"

Lauriston turned and picked up his hat.

"All right, Mrs. Flitwick," he said quietly. "I'll see what I can do. I--
I'd never even thought of it."

When the woman had gone away, closing the door behind her, he pulled the
watch out of his pocket and looked at it--an old-fashioned, good, gold
watch, which had been his father's. No doubt a pawnbroker would lend money
on it. But until then he had never had occasion to think of pawnbrokers.
He had come to London nearly two years before, intending to make name,
fame, and fortune by his pen. He had a little money to be going on with--
when he came. It had dwindled steadily, and it had been harder to replace
it than he had calculated for. And at last there he was, in that cheap
lodging, and at the end of his resources, and the cheque for his first two
accepted stories had not arrived. Neither had a loan which, sorely against
his will, he had been driven to request from the only man he could think
of--an old schoolmate, far away in Scotland. He had listened for the
postman's knock, hoping it would bring relief, for four long days--and not
one letter had come, and he was despairing and heartsick. But--there was
the watch!

He went out presently, and on the stair, feebly lighted by a jet of gas,
he ran up against a fellow-lodger--a young Jew, whom he knew by the name
of Mr. Melchior Rubinstein, who occupied the rooms immediately beneath his
own. He was a quiet, affable little person, with whom Lauriston sometimes
exchanged a word or two--and the fact that he sported rings on his
fingers, a large pin in his tie, and a heavy watch-chain, which was either
real gold or a very good imitation, made Lauriston think that he would
give him some advice. He stopped him--with a shy look, and an awkward
blush.

"I say!" he said. "I--the fact is, I'm a bit hard up--temporarily, you
know--and I want to borrow some money on my watch. Could you tell me where
there's a respectable pawnbroker's?"

Melky--known to every one in the house by that familiar substitute for his
more pretentious name--turned up the gas-jet and then held out a slender,
long-fingered hand. "Let's look at the watch," he said curtly, in a soft,
lisping voice. "I know more than a bit about watches, mister."

Lauriston handed the watch over and watched Melky inquisitively as he
looked at it, inside and out, in a very knowing and professional way.
Melky suddenly glanced at him. "Now, you wouldn't like to sell this here
bit of property, would you, Mr. Lauriston?" he enquired, almost
wheedlingly. "I'll give you three quid for it--cash down."

"Thank you--but I wouldn't sell it for worlds," replied Lauriston.

"Say four quid, then," urged Melky. "Here!--between friends, I'll give you
four-ten! Spot cash, mind you!"

"No!" said Lauriston. "It belonged to my father. I don't want to sell--I
want to borrow."

Melky pushed the watch back into its owner's hand.

"You go round into Praed Street, mister," he said, in business-like
fashion. "You'll see a shop there with Daniel Multenius over it. He's a
relation o' mine--he'll do what you want. Mention my name, if you like.
He'll deal fair with you. And if you ever want to sell, don't forget me."

Lauriston laughed, and went down the stairs, and out into the dismal
evening. It was only a step round to Praed Street, and within five minutes
of leaving Melky he was looking into Daniel Multenius's window. He
remembered now that he had often looked into it, without noticing the odd
name above it. It was a window in which there were all sorts of curious
things, behind a grille of iron bars, from diamonds and pearls to old
ivory and odds and ends of bric-a-brac. A collector of curiosities would
have found material in that window to delay him for half-an-hour--but
Lauriston only gave one glance at it before hastening down a dark side-
passage to a door, over which was a faintly-illuminated sign, showing the
words: PLEDGE OFFICE.

He pushed open that door and found himself before several small, boxed-off
compartments, each just big enough to contain one person. They were all
empty at that moment; he entered one, and seeing nobody about, tapped
gently on the counter. He expected to see some ancient and Hebraic figure
present itself--instead, light steps came from some recess of the shop,
and Lauriston found himself gazing in surprise at a young and eminently
pretty girl, who carried some fancy needle-work in her hand, and looked
over it at him out of a pair of large, black eyes. For a moment the two
gazed at each other, in silence.

"Yes?" said the girl at last. "What can I do for you?"

Lauriston found his tongue.

"Er--is Mr. Multenius in?" he asked. "I--the fact is, I want to see him."

"Mr. Multenius is out," answered the girl. "But I'm in charge--if it's
business."

She was quietly eyeing Lauriston over, and she saw his fresh-complexioned
face colour vividly.

"I do my grandfather's business when he's out," she continued. "Do you
want to borrow some money?"

Lauriston pulled out the watch, with more blushes, and pushed it towards
her.

"That's just it," he answered. "I want to borrow money on that. A friend
of mine--fellow-lodger--Mr. Melky Rubinstein--said I could borrow
something here. That's a real good watch, you know."

The girl glanced at her customer with a swift and almost whimsical
recognition of his innocence, and almost carelessly picked up the watch.

"Oh, Melky sent you here, did he?" she said, with a smile. "I see!" She
looked the watch over, and snapped open the case. Then she glanced at
Lauriston. "How much do you want on this?" she asked.



CHAPTER TWO


MRS. GOLDMARK'S EATING-HOUSE

Lauriston thrust his hands in his pockets and looked at the girl in sheer
perplexity. She was a very pretty, dark girl, nearly as tall as himself,
slender and lissom of figure, and decidedly attractive. There was evident
sense of fun and humour in her eyes, and about the corners of her lips: he
suddenly got an idea that she was amused at his embarrassment.

"How much can you lend me?" he asked. "What--what's it worth?"

"No, that's not it!" she answered. "It's--what do you want to borrow?
You're not used to pledging things, are you?"

"No," replied Lauriston. "This is the first time. Can--can you lend me a
few pounds?"

The girl picked up the watch again, and again, examined it.

"I'll lend you three pounds fifteen on it," she said suddenly, in
business-like tones. "That do?"

"Thank you," replied Lauriston. "That'll do very well--I'm much obliged. I
suppose I can have it back any time."

"Any time you bring the money, and pay the interest," replied the girl.
"Within twelve calendar months and seven days." She picked up a pen and
began to fill out a ticket. "Got any copper?" she asked presently.

"Copper?" exclaimed Lauriston. "What for?"

"The ticket," she answered. Then she gave him a quick glance and just as
quickly looked down again. "Never mind!" she said. "I'll take it out of
the loan. Your name and address, please."

Lauriston presently took the ticket and the little pile of gold, silver,
and copper which she handed him. And he lingered.

"You'll take care of that watch," he said, suddenly. "It was my father's,
you see."

The girl smiled, reassuringly, and pointed to a heavily-built safe in the
rear.

"We've all sorts of family heirlooms in there," she observed. "Make
yourself easy."

Lauriston thanked her, raised his hat, and turned away--unwillingly. He
would have liked an excuse to stop longer--and he did not quite know why.
But he could think of none, so he went--with a backward look when he got
to the door. The pretty pawnbroker smiled and nodded. And the next moment
he was out in the street, with money in his pocket, and a strange sense of
relief, which was mingled with one of surprise. For he had lived for the
previous four days on a two-shilling piece--and there, all the time, close
by him, had been a place where you could borrow money, easily and very
pleasantly.

His first thought was to hurry to his lodgings and pay his landlady. He
owed her six weeks' rent, at ten shillings a week--that would take three
pounds out of the money he had just received. But he would still have over
fourteen shillings to be going on with--and surely those expected letters
would come within the next few postal deliveries. He had asked the editor
who had taken two short stories from him to let him have a cheque for
them, and in his inexperience had expected to see it arrive by return of
post. Also he had put his pride in his pocket, and had written a long
letter to his old schoolmate, John Purdie, in far-away Scotland,
explaining his present circumstances, and asking him, for old times' sake,
to lend him some money until he had finished and sold a novel, which, he
was sure, would turn out to be a small gold-mine. John Purdie, he knew,
was now a wealthy young man--successor to his father in a fine business;
Lauriston felt no doubt that he would respond. And meantime, till the
expected letters came, he had money--and when you have lived for four days
on two shillings, fourteen shillings seems a small fortune. Certainly,
within the last half-hour, life had taken on a roseate tinge--all due to a
visit to the pawnshop.

Hurrying back along Praed Street, Lauriston's steps were suddenly
arrested. He found himself unconsciously hurrying by an old-fashioned
eating-house, from whence came an appetizing odour of cooking food. He
remembered then that he had eaten nothing for four-and-twenty hours. His
landlady supplied him with nothing: ever since he had gone to her he had
done his own catering, going out for his meals. The last meal, on the
previous evening, had been a glass of milk and a stale, though sizable
bun, and now he felt literally ravenous. It was only by an effort that he
could force himself to pass the eating-house; once beyond its door, he
ran, ran until he reached his lodgings and slipped three sovereigns into
Mrs. Flitwick's hands.

"That'll make us right to this week end, Mrs. Flitwick," he said. "Put the
receipt in my room."

"And greatly obliged I am to you, Mr. Lauriston," answered the landlady.
"And sorry, indeed, you should have had to put yourself to the trouble,
but--"

"All right, all right--no trouble--no trouble at all," exclaimed
Lauriston. "Quite easy, I assure you!"

He ran out of the house again and back to where he knew there was food. He
was only one-and-twenty, a well-built lad, with a healthy appetite, which,
until very recently, had always been satisfied, and just then he was
feeling that unless he ate and drank, something--he knew not what--would
happen. He was even conscious that his voice was weakening, when, having
entered the eating-house and dropped into a seat in one of the little
boxes into which the place was divided, he asked the waitress for the food
and drink which he was now positively aching for. And he had eaten a
plateful of fish and two boiled eggs and several thick slices of bread and
butter, and drunk the entire contents of a pot of tea before he even
lifted his eyes to look round him. But by that time he was conscious of
satisfaction, and he sat up and inspected the place to which he had
hurried so eagerly. And in the same moment he once more saw Melky.

Melky had evidently just entered the little eating-house. Evidently, too,
he was in no hurry for food or drink. He had paused, just within the
entrance, at a desk which stood there, whereat sat Mrs. Goldmark, the
proprietress, a plump, pretty young woman, whose dark, flashing eyes
turned alternately from watching her waitresses to smiling on her
customers as they came to the desk to pay their bills. Melky, his smart
billy-cock hat cocked to one side, his sporting-looking overcoat adorned
with a flower, was evidently paying compliments to Mrs. Goldmark as he
leaned over her desk: she gave him a playful push and called to a waitress
to order Mr. Rubinstein a nice steak. And Melky, turning from her with a
well satisfied smile, caught sight of Lauriston, and sauntered down to the
table at which he sat.

"Get your bit of business done all right?" he asked, confidentially, as he
took a seat opposite his fellow-lodger and bent towards him. "Find the old
gent accommodating?"

"I didn't see him," answered Lauriston. "I saw a young lady."

"My cousin Zillah," said Melky. "Smart girl, that, mister--worth a pile o'
money to the old man--she knows as much about the business as what he
does! You wouldn't think, mister," he went on in his soft, lisping tones,
"but that girl's had a college education--fact! Old Daniel, he took her to
live with him when her father and mother died, she being a little 'un
then, and he give her--ah, such an education as I wish I'd had--see? She's
quite the lady--is Zillah--but sticks to the old shop--not half, neither!"

"She seems very business-like," remarked Lauriston, secretly pleased that
he had now learned the pretty pawnbroker's name. "She soon did what I
wanted."

"In the blood," said Melky, laconically. "We're all of us in that sort o'
business, one way or another. Now, between you and me, mister, what did
she lend you on that bit o' stuff?"

"Three pounds fifteen," replied Lauriston.

"That's about it," assented Melky, with a nod. He leaned a little nearer.
"You don't want to sell the ticket?" he suggested. "Give you a couple o'
quid for it, if you do."

"You seem very anxious to buy that watch," said Lauriston, laughing. "No--
I don't want to sell the ticket--not I! I wouldn't part with that watch
for worlds."

"Well, if you don't, you don't," remarked Melky. "And as to wanting to
buy--that's my trade. I ain't no reg'lar business--I buy and sell,
anything that comes handy, in the gold and silver line. And as you ain't
going to part with that ticker on no consideration, I'll tell you what
it's worth, old as it is. Fifteen quid!"

"That's worth knowing, any way," said Lauriston. "I shall always have
something by me then, while I have that. You'd have made a profit of a
nice bit, then, if I'd sold it to you?"

"It 'ud be a poor world, mister, if you didn't get no profit, wouldn't
it?" assented Melky calmly. "We're all of us out to make profit. Look
here!--between you and me--you're a lit'ry gent, ain't you? Write a bit,
what? Do you want to earn a fiver--comfortable?"

"I should be very glad," replied Lauriston.

"There's a friend o' mine," continued Melky, "wholesale jeweller, down
Shoreditch way, wants to get out a catalogue. He ain't no lit'ry powers,
d'you see? Now, he'd run to a fiver--cash down--if some writing feller 'ud
touch things up a bit for him, like. Lor' bless you!--it wouldn't take you
more'n a day's work! What d'ye say to it?"

"I wouldn't mind earning five pounds at that," answered Lauriston.

"Right-oh!" said Melky. "Then some day next week, I'll take you down to
see him--he's away till then. And--you'll pay me ten per cent. on the bit
o' business, won't you, mister? Business is business, ain't it?"

"All right!" agreed Lauriston. "That's a bargain, of course."

Melky nodded and turned to his steak, and Lauriston presently left him and
went away. The plump lady at the desk gave him a smile as she handed him
his change.

"Hope to see you again, sir," she said.

Lauriston went back to his room, feeling that the world had changed. He
had paid his landlady, he had silver and copper in his pocket, he had the
chance of earning five pounds during the coming week--and he expected a
cheque for his two stories by every post. And if John Purdie made him the
loan he had asked for, he would be able to devote a whole month to
finishing his novel--and then, perhaps, there would be fame and riches.
The dismal November evening disappeared in a dream of hope.

But by the end of the week hope was dropping to zero again with Lauriston.
No letters had arrived--either from John Purdie or the editor. On the
Sunday morning he was again face to face with the last half-crown. He laid
out his money very cautiously that day, but when he had paid for a frugal
dinner at a cheap coffee-shop, he had only a shilling left. He wandered
into Kensington Gardens that Sunday afternoon, wondering what he had best
do next. And as he stood by the railings of the ornamental water, watching
the water-fowls' doings, somebody bade him good-day, and he turned to find
the pretty girl of the pawnshop standing at his side and smiling shyly at
him.



CHAPTER THREE


THE DEAD MAN

Lauriston was thinking about Zillah at the very moment in which she spoke
to him: the memory of her dark eyes and the friendly smile that she had
given him as he left the pawnshop had come as a relief in the midst of his
speculations as to his immediate future. And now, as he saw her real self,
close to him, evidently disposed to be friendly, he blushed like any girl,
being yet at that age when shyness was still a part of his character.
Zillah blushed too--but she was more self-possessed than Lauriston.

"I've been talking to my Cousin Melky about you," she said quickly. "Or,
rather, he's been talking to me. He says he's going to introduce you to a
man who wants his catalogue put in shape--for five pounds. Don't you do it
for five pounds! I know that man--charge him ten!"

Lauriston moved away with her down the walk.

"Oh, but I couldn't do that, now!" he said eagerly. "You see I promised
I'd do it for five."

Zillah gave him a quick glance.

"Don't you be silly!" she said. "When anybody like Melky offers you five
pounds for anything, ask them double. They'll give it. You don't know much
about money matters, do you?"

Lauriston laughed, and gaining confidence, gave the girl a knowing look.

"Not much," he admitted, "else I wouldn't have had to do that bit of
business with you the other day."

"Oh--that!" she said indifferently. "That's nothing. You'd be astonished
if you knew what sort of people just have to run round to us, now and
then--I could tell you some secrets! But--I guessed you weren't very well
up in money matters, all the same. Writing people seldom are."

"I suppose you are?" suggested Lauriston.

"I've been mixed up in them all my life, more or less," she answered.
"Couldn't help being, with my surroundings. You won't think me inquisitive
if I ask you something? Were you--hard up--when you came round the other
night?"

"Hard up's a mild term," replied Lauriston, frankly. "I hadn't a penny!"

"Excepting a gold watch worth twelve or fifteen pounds," remarked Zillah,
drily. "And how long had you been like that?"

"Two or three days--more or less," answered Lauriston. "You see, I've been
expecting money for more than a week--that was it."

"Has it come?" she asked.

"No--it hasn't," he replied, with a candid blush. "That's a fact!"

"Will it come--soon?" she demanded.

"By George!--I hope so!" he exclaimed. "I'll be hard up again, if it
doesn't."

"And then you offer to do for five what you might easily get ten for!" she
said, almost reproachfully. "Let me give you a bit of advice--never accept
a first offer. Stand out for a bit more--especially from anybody like my
cousin Melky."

"Is Melky a keen one, then?" enquired Lauriston.

"Melky's a young Jew," said Zillah, calmly. "I'm not--I'm half-and-half--a
mixture. My mother was Jew--my father wasn't. Well--if you want money to
be going on with, and you've got any more gold watches, you know where to
come. Don't you ever go with empty pockets in London while you've got a
bit of property to pledge! You're not a Londoner, of course?"

"I'm a Scotsman!" said Lauriston.

"To be sure--I knew it by your tongue," asserted Zillah. "And trying to
make a living by writing! Well, you'll want courage--and money. Have you
had any luck?"

"I've sold two stories," answered Lauriston, who by that time was feeling
as if the girl was an old friend. "They come to twenty pounds for the two,
at the rate that magazine pays, and I've asked for a cheque--it's that I'm
waiting for. It ought to come--any time."

"Oh, but I know that game!" said Zillah. "I've two friends--girls--who
write. I know how they have to wait--till publication, or till next pay-
day. What a pity that some of you writers don't follow some other
profession that would bring in a good income--then you could do your
writing to please yourselves, and not be dependent on it. Haven't you
thought of that?"

"Often!" answered Lauriston. "And it wouldn't do--for me, anyway. I've
made my choice. I'll stick to my pen--and swim or sink with it. And I'm
not going to sink!"

"That's the way to talk--to be sure!" said the girl. "But--keep yourself
in money, if you can. Don't go without money for three days when you've
anything you can raise money on. You see how practical I am! But you've
got to be in this world. Will you tell me something?"

"It strikes me," answered Lauriston, looking at her narrowly and bringing
the colour to her cheeks, "that I'm just about getting to this--that I'd
tell you anything! And so--what is it?"

"How much money have you left?" she asked softly.

"Precisely a shilling--and a copper or two," he answered.

"And--if that cheque doesn't arrive?" she suggested.

"Maybe I'll be walking round to Praed Street again," he said, laughing.
"I've a bit of what you call property, yet."

The girl nodded, and turned towards a side-walk that led across the
Gardens.

"All right," she said. "Don't think me inquisitive--I don't like to think
of--of people like you being hard up: I'm not wrapped up in business as
much as all that. Let's talk of something else--tell me what you write
about."

Lauriston spent the rest of that afternoon with Zillah, strolling about
Kensington Gardens. He had lived a very lonely life since coming to
London, and it was a new and pleasant experience to him to have an
intelligent companion to talk to. There was a decided sense of
exhilaration within him when he finally left her; as for Zillah, she went
homewards in a very thoughtful mood, already conscious that she was more
than half in love with this good-looking lad who had come so strangely
into her life. And at the corner of Praed Street she ran up against Mr.
Melky Rubinstein, and button-holed him, and for ten minutes talked
seriously to him. Melky, who had good reasons of his own for keeping in
his cousin's favour, listened like a lamb to all she had to say, and went
off promising implicit obedience to her commandments.

"Zillah ain't half gone on that chap!" mused Melky, as he pursued his way.
"Now, ain't it extraordinary that a girl who'll come into a perfect
fortune should go and fall head over ears in love with a red-headed young
feller what ain't got a penny to bless hisself with! Not but what he ain't
got good looks--and brains. And brains is brains, when all's said!"

That night, as Lauriston sat writing in his shabby little room, a knock
came at his door--the door opened, and Melky slid in, laying his finger to
the side of his large nose in token of confidence.

"Hope I ain't interrupting," said Melky. "I say, mister, I been thinking
about that catalogue business. Now I come to sort of reflect on it, I
think my friend'll go to ten pound. So we'll say ten pound--what? And I'll
take you to see him next Friday. And I say, mister--if a pound or two on
account 'ud be of any service--say the word, d'ye see?"

With this friendly assurance, Melky plunged his hand into a hip-pocket,
and drew out some gold, which he held towards Lauriston on his open palm.

"Two or three pound on account, now, mister?" he said, ingratiatingly.
"You're welcome as the flowers in May!"

But Lauriston shook his head; he had already decided on a plan of his own,
if the expected remittance did not arrive next morning.

"No, thank you," he answered. "It's uncommonly good of you--but I can
manage very well indeed--I can, really! Next Friday, then--I'll go with
you. I'm very much obliged to you."

Melky slipped his money into his pocket--conscious of having done his
part. "Just as you like, mister," he said. "But you was welcome, you know.
Next Friday, then--and you can reckon on cash down for this job."

The Monday morning brought neither of the expected letters to Lauriston.
But he had not spoken without reason when he said to Zillah that he had a
bit of property to fall back upon--now that he knew how ready money could
easily be raised. He had some pledgeable property in his trunk--and when
the remittances failed to arrive, he determined to avail himself of it.
Deep down in a corner of the trunk he had two valuable rings--all that his
mother had left him, with the exception of two hundred pounds, with which
he had ventured to London, and on which he had lived up to then. He got
the rings out towards the end of Monday afternoon, determining to take
them round to Daniel Multenius and raise sufficient funds on them to last
him for, at any rate, another month or two. He had little idea of the real
value of such articles, and he had reasons of his own for not showing the
rings to Melky Rubinstein; his notion was to wait until evening, when he
would go to the pawnshop at about the same time as on his previous visit,
in the hope of finding Zillah in charge again. After their meeting and
talk of the afternoon before, he felt that she would do business with him
in a sympathetic spirit--and if he could raise twenty pounds on the rings
he would be free of all monetary anxiety for many a long week to come.

It was half-past five o'clock of that Monday evening when Lauriston, for
the second time, turned into the narrow passage which led to the pawnshop
door. He had already looked carefully through the street window, in the
hope of seeing Zillah inside the front shop. But there was no Zillah to be
seen; the front shop was empty. Nor did Zillah confront him when he
stepped into the little boxed-in compartment in the pawnshop. There was a
curious silence in the place--broken only by the quiet, regular ticking of
a clock. That ticking grew oppressive during the minute or two that he
waited expecting somebody to step forward. He rapped on the counter at
last--gently at first, then more insistently. But nobody came. The clock--
hidden from his sight--went on ticking.

Lauriston bent over the counter at last and craned his neck to look into
the open door of a little parlour which lay behind the shop. The next
instant, with no thought but of the exigencies of the moment, he had leapt
over the partition and darted into the room. There, stretched out across
the floor, his head lying on the hearthrug, his hands lying inert and
nerveless at his sides, lay an old man, grey-bearded, venerable--Daniel
Multenius, no doubt. He lay very still, very statuesque--and Lauriston,
bending over and placing a trembling hand on the high, white forehead,
knew that he was dead.

He started up--his only idea that of seeking help. The whole place was so
still that he knew he was alone with the dead in it. Instinctively, he ran
through the front shop to the street door--and into the arms of a man who
was just entering.



CHAPTER FOUR


THE PLATINUM SOLITAIRE

The newcomer, an elderly, thick-set man, who, in spite of his plain
clothes, looked as if he were an official of some sort and carried some
documents in his hand, at which he was glancing as he entered, started and
exclaimed as Lauriston, in his haste, ran up against him. "Hullo!" he
said. "What's the matter? You seem in a hurry, young fellow!"

Lauriston, almost out of breath with excitement, turned and pointed to the
open door of the little parlour.

"There's an old man--lying in there--dead!" he whispered. "A grey-bearded
old man--is it the pawn-broker--Mr. Multenius?"

The man stared, craned his neck to glance in the direction which
Lauriston's shaking finger indicated, and then started forward. But he
suddenly paused, and motioned Lauriston to go first--and before following
him he closed the street door.

"Now then, where?" he said. "Dead, do you say?" He followed Lauriston into
the parlour, uttered a sharp exclamation as he caught sight of the
recumbent figure, and, bending down, laid a hand on the forehead. "Dead,
right enough, my lad!" he muttered. "Been dead some minutes, too. But--
where's the girl--the grand-daughter? Have you seen anybody?"

"Not a soul!" answered Lauriston. "Since I came in, the whole place has
been as still as--as it is now!"

The man stared at him for a second or two, silently; then, as if he knew
the ins and outs of the establishment, he strode to an inner door, threw
it open and revealed a staircase.

"Hullo there!" he called loudly. "Hullo! Miss Wildrose! Are you there?"

This was the first time Lauriston had heard Zillah's surname: even in the
midst of that startling discovery, it struck him as a very poetical one.
But he had no time to reflect on it--the man turned back into the parlour.

"She must be out," he said. "Do you say you found him?"

"Yes--I found him," answered Lauriston. "Just now."

"And what were you doing here?" asked the man. "Who are you?"

Lauriston fancied he detected a faint note of suspicion in these
questions, and he drew himself up, with a flush on his face.

"My name's Andrew Lauriston," he answered. "I live close by. I came in on
--business. Who are you?"

"Well, if it comes to that, my lad," said the man, "I'm Detective-Sergeant
Ayscough--known well enough around these parts! I came to see the old
gentleman about these papers. Now--what was your business, then?"

He was watching Lauriston very keenly, and Lauriston, suddenly realizing
that he was in an awkward position, determined on candour.

"Well, if you really want to know," he said, "I came to borrow some money
--on these rings."

And he opened his left hand and showed the detective the two rings which
he had taken from his trunk--not half-an-hour before.

"Your property?" asked Ayscough.

"Of course they're my property!" exclaimed Lauriston. "Whose else should
they be?"

Ayscough's glance wandered from the rings to a table which stood, a little
to one side, in the middle of the parlour. Lauriston turned in that
direction, also. Two objects immediately met his eye. On the table stood a
small tray, full of rings--not dissimilar in style and appearance to those
which he held in his hand: old-fashioned rings. The light from the gas-
brackets above the mantel-piece caught the facets of the diamonds in those
rings and made little points of fire; here and there he saw the shimmer of
pearls. But there was another object. Close by the tray of old rings lay a
book--a beautifully bound book, a small quarto in size, with much
elaborate gold ornament on the back and side, and gilt clasps holding the
heavy leather binding together. It looked as if some hand had recently
thrown this book carelessly on the table.

But Ayscough gave little, if any, attention to the book: his eyes were
fixed on the rings in the tray--and he glanced from them to Lauriston's
rings.

"Um!" he said presently. "Odd that you have a couple of rings, young man,
just like--those! Isn't it?"

"What do you mean?" demanded Lauriston, flushing scarlet. "You don't
suggest--"

"Don't suggest anything--just now," answered the detective, quietly. "But
you must stop here with me, until I find out more. Come to the door--we
must have help here."

Lauriston saw there was nothing to do but to obey, and he followed
Ayscough to the street door. The detective opened it, looked out, and
waiting a few minutes, beckoned to a policeman who presently strolled
along. After a whispered word or two, the policeman went away, and
Ayscough beckoned Lauriston back into the shop.

"Now," he said, "there'll be some of our people and a surgeon along in a
few minutes--before they come, just tell me your story. You're an honest-
looking young chap--but you must admit that it looks a bit queer that I
should find you running out of this shop, old Multenius dead inside his
parlour, and you with a couple of rings in your possession which look
uncommonly like his property! Just tell me how it came about."

Lauriston told him the plain truth--from the pawning of the watch to the
present visit. Ayscough watched him narrowly--and at the end nodded his
head.

"That sounds like a straight tale, Mr. Lauriston," he said. "I'm inclined
to believe every word you say. But I shall have to report it, and all the
circumstances, and you'll have to prove that these two rings were your
mother's, and all that--and you must stay here till the doctor comes with
our people. Queer that the old man should be alone! I wonder where his
grand-daughter is?"

But just then the street door opened and Zillah came in, a big bunch of
flowers under one arm, some small parcels in the other. At the sight of
the two men she started; crimsoned as she saw Lauriston; paled again as
she noticed that Ayscough was evidently keeping an eye on him.

"Mr. Ayscough!" she exclaimed. "What's this?--is something the matter?
What are you doing here?" she went on hurriedly, turning to Lauriston.
"Inside the shop! What's happened?--tell me, one of you?"

The detective purposely kept himself and Lauriston between Zillah and the
open door at the rear of the shop. He made a kindly motion of his head
towards her.

"Now, my dear!" he said. "Don't get upset--your grandfather was getting a
very old man, you know--and we can't expect old gentlemen to live for
ever. Take it quietly, now!"

The girl turned and laid her flowers and parcels on the counter.
Lauriston, watching her anxiously, saw that she was nerving herself to be
brave.

"That means--he's dead?" she said. "I am quiet--you see I'm quiet. Tell me
what's happened--you tell me," she added, glancing at Lauriston. "Tell me
--now!"

"I came in and found no one here, and I looked round through the door into
the parlour there," answered Lauriston, "and I saw your grandfather lying
on the floor. So I jumped over the counter and went to him."

Zillah moved forward as if to go into the parlour. But the detective
stopped her, glancing from her to Lauriston.

"You know this young man, Miss Wildrose?" he asked. "You've met him
before?"

"Yes," replied Zillah, confidently. "He's Mr. Lauriston. Let me go in
there, please. Can nothing be done?"

But Ayscough only shook his head. There was nothing to be done--but to
await the arrival of the doctor. They followed the girl into the parlour
and stood by while she bent over the dead man. She made no demonstration
of grief, and when Ayscough presently suggested that she should go
upstairs until the doctor had come, she went quietly away.

"Hadn't we better lift him on that sofa?" suggested Lauriston.

"Not till our people and the police-surgeon have seen him," answered
Ayscough, shaking his head. "I want to know all about this--he may have
died a natural death--a seizure of some sort--and again, he mayn't--
They'll be here in a minute."

Lauriston presently found himself a passive spectator while a police-
inspector, another man in plain clothes, and the doctor examined the body,
after hearing Ayscough's account of what had just happened. He was aware
that he was regarded with suspicion--the inspector somewhat brusquely bade
him stay where he was: it would, indeed, have been impossible to leave,
for there was a policeman at the door, in which, by his superior's orders,
he had turned the key. And there was a general, uncomfortable sort of
silence in the place while the doctor busied himself about the body.

"This man has been assaulted!" said the doctor, suddenly turning to the
inspector. "Look here!--he's not only been violently gripped by the right
arm--look at that bruise--but taken savagely by the throat. There's no
doubt of that. Old and evidently feeble as he was, the shock would be
quite enough to kill him. But--that's how it's been done, without a
doubt."

The inspector turned, looking hard at Lauriston.

"Did you see anybody leaving the place when you entered?" he asked.

"There was no one about here when I came in--either at the street door or
at the side door," replied Lauriston, readily. "The whole place was quiet
--deserted--except for him. And--he was dead when I found him."

The inspector drew Ayscough aside and they talked in whispers for a few
minutes, eyeing Lauriston now and then; eventually they approached him.

"I understand you're known here, and that you live in the neighbourhood,"
said the inspector. "You'll not object if the sergeant goes round with you
to your lodgings--you'll no doubt be able to satisfy him about your
respectability, and so on. I don't want to suggest anything--but--you
understand?"

"I understand," replied Lauriston. "I'll show or tell him anything he
likes. I've told you the plain truth."

"Go with him now," directed the inspector; "you know what to do,
Ayscough!"

Half an hour later, when the dead man had been carried to his room, and
the shop and house had been closed, Melky Rubinstein, who had come in
while the police were still there, and had remained when they had gone,
stood talking to Zillah in the upstairs sitting-room. Melky was unusually
grave: Zillah had already gathered that the police had some suspicion
about Lauriston.

"I'll go round there and see what the detective fellow's doing with him,"
said Melky. "I ain't got no suspicion about him--not me! But--it's an
awkward position--and them rings, too! Now, if he'd only ha' shown 'em to
me, first, Zillah--see?"

"Do go, Melky!" urged Zillah tearfully. "Of course, he'd nothing to do
with it. Oh!--I wish I'd never gone out!"

Melky went downstairs. He paused for a moment in the little parlour,
glancing meditatively at the place where the old man had been found dead.
And suddenly his keen eyes saw an object which lay close to the fender,
half hidden by a tassel of the hearthrug, and he stooped and picked it up
--a solitaire stud, made of platinum, and ornamented with a curious
device.



CHAPTER FIVE


THE TWO LETTERS

Once outside the shop, Lauriston turned sharply on the detective.

"Look here!" he said. "I wish you'd just tell me the truth. Am I
suspected? Am I--in some way or other--in custody?"

Ayscough laughed quietly, wagging his head.

"Certainly not in custody," he answered. "And as to the other--well, you
know, Mr. Lauriston, supposing we put it in this way?--suppose you'd been
me, and I'd been you, half-an-hour ago? What would you have thought if
you'd found me in the situation and under the circumstances in which I
found you? Come, now!"

"Yes," replied Lauriston, after a moment's reflection. "I suppose it's
natural that you should suspect me--finding me there, alone with the old
man. But--"

"It's not so much suspicion in a case of this sort, as a wish to satisfy
one's self," interrupted the detective. "You seem a gentleman-like young
fellow, and you may be all right. I want to know that you are--I'd like to
know that you are! It would be no satisfaction to me to fasten this
business on you, I can assure you. And if you like to tell me about
yourself, and how you came to go to Multenius's--why, it would be as
well."

"There's not much to tell," answered Lauriston. "I came from Scotland to
London, two years ago or thereabouts, to earn my living by writing. I'd a
bit of money when I came--I've lived on it till now. I've just begun to
earn something. I've been expecting a cheque for some work for these last
ten or twelve days, but I was running short last week--so I went to that
place to pawn my watch--I saw the young lady there. As my cheque hadn't
arrived today, I went there again to pawn those rings I told you about and
showed you. And--that's all. Except this--I was advised to go to
Multenius's by a relation of theirs, Mr. Rubinstein, who lodges where I
do. He knows me."

"Oh, Melky Rubinstein!" said Ayscough. "I know Melky--sharp chap he is.
He sold me this pin I'm wearing. Well, that seems quite a straightforward
tale, Mr. Lauriston. I've no doubt all will be satisfactory. You've
friends in London, of course?"

"No--none," replied Lauriston. "And scarcely an acquaintance. I've kept to
myself--working hard: I've had no time--nor inclination, either--to make
friends. Here's the house where I lodge--it's not much of a place, but
come in."

They had reached Mrs. Flitwick's house by that time, and Mrs. Flitwick
herself was in the narrow, shabby passage as they entered. She immediately
produced two letters.

"Here's two letters for you, Mr. Lauriston," she said, with a sharp glance
at Ayscough. "One of 'em's a registered--I did sign for it. So I kept 'em
myself, instead of sending 'em up to your room."

"Thank you, Mrs. Flitwick," said Lauriston. He took the letters, saw that
the writing on the registered envelope was his old friend John Purdie's,
and that the other letter was from the magazine to which he had sold his
stories, and turned to Ayscough. "Come up to my room," he continued.
"We'll talk up there."

Ayscough followed him up to his room--once inside, and the door shut,
Lauriston tore open the letter from the magazine, and extracted a printed
form and a cheque for twenty guineas. He took one look at them and thrust
them into the detective's hands.

"There!" he said, with a sigh of mingled relief and triumph. "There's a
proof of the truth of one statement I made to you! That's the expected
cheque I told you of. Excuse me while I look at the other letter."

Out of the registered letter came a bank-note--for twenty pounds--and a
hastily scribbled note which Lauriston eagerly read. "Dear old Andie," it
ran, "I've only just got your letter, for I've been from home for a
fortnight, and had no letters sent on to me. Of course you'll make me your
banker until your book's finished--and afterwards, too, if need be. Here's
something to be going on with--but I'm coming to London in a day or two,
as it happens, and will go into the matter--I'll call on you as soon as I
arrive. Excuse this scrawl--post time. Always yours, John Purdie."

Lauriston thrust that letter, too, into Ayscough's hands.

"If I've no friends in London, there's proof of having one in my own
country!" he exclaimed. "Ah!--if those letters had only come before I went
off to Praed Street!"

"Just so!" agreed the detective, glancing the letters and their
accompaniments over. "Well, I'm glad you're able to show me these, Mr.
Lauriston, anyway. But now, about those rings--between you and me, I wish
they hadn't been so much like those that were lying in that tray on the
old man's table. It's an unfortunate coincidence!--because some folks
might think, you know, that you'd just grabbed a couple of those as you
left the place. Eh?"

"My rings have been in that trunk for two or three years," asserted
Lauriston. "They were my mother's, and I believe she'd had them for many a
year before she died. They may resemble those that we saw in that tray,
but--"

"Well, I suppose you can bring somebody--if necessary, that is--to prove
that they were your mother's, can't you?" asked Ayscough. "That'll make
matters all right--on that point. And as for the rest--it's very lucky you
know Melky Rubinstein, and that the girl knew you as a customer. But, my
faith!--I wish you'd caught a glimpse of somebody leaving that shop! For
there's no doubt the old man met his death by violence."

"I know nothing of it," said Lauriston, "I saw no one."

Just then Melky came in. He glanced at the cheque and the bank-notes lying
on the table, and nodded to Lauriston as if he understood their presence.
Then he turned to Ayscough, almost anxiously.

"I say, Mr. Ayscough!" he said, deprecatingly. "You ain't going to be so
unkind as to mix up this here young fellow in what's happened. S'elp me,
Mr. Ayscough, I couldn't believe anything o' that sort about him, nohow--
nor would my cousin, Zillah, what you know well enough, neither; he's as
quiet as a lamb, Mr. Ayscough, is Mr. Lauriston--ain't I known him,
lodging here as he does, this many a month? I'll give my word for him,
anyway, Mr. Ayscough! And you police gentlemen know me. Don't you now, Mr.
Ayscough?"

"Very well indeed, my boy!" agreed the detective, heartily. "And I'll tell
you what--I shall have to trouble Mr. Lauriston to go round with me to the
station, just to give a formal account of what happened, and a bit of
explanation, you know--I'm satisfied myself about him, and so, no doubt,
will our people be, but you come with us, Melky, and say a word or two--
say you've known him for some time, d'ye see--it'll help."

"Anything to oblige a friend, Mr. Ayscough," said Melky. He motioned to
Lauriston to put his money in his pocket. "Glad to see your letters turned
up," he whispered as they went downstairs. "I say!--a word in your ear--
don't you tell these here police chaps any more than you need--I'll stand
up for you."

The detective's report, a little questioning of Lauriston, and Melky's
fervent protestations on Lauriston's behalf, served to satisfy the
authorities at the police-station, and Lauriston was allowed to go--
admonished by the inspector that he'd be wanted at the inquest, as the
most important witness. He went out into the street with Melky.

"Come and have a bit o' supper at Mrs. Goldmark's," suggested Melky. "I
shall have my hands full tonight at the poor old man's, but I ain't had
nothing since dinner."

Lauriston, however, excused himself. He wanted to go home and write
letters--at once. But he promised to look round at the pawnshop later in
the evening, to see if he could be of any use, and to give Melky a full
account of his finding of the old pawnbroker.

"Ah!" remarked Melky, as they pushed at the door of the eating-house. "And
ain't it going to be a nice job to find the man that scragged him?--I
don't think! But I'm going to take a hand at that game, mister!--let alone
the police."

Mrs. Goldmark was out. She had heard the news, said the waitress who was
left in charge, and had gone round to do what she could for Miss Zillah.
So Melky, deprived of the immediate opportunity of talk with Mrs.
Goldmark, ordered his supper, and while he ate and drank, cogitated and
reflected. And his thoughts ran chiefly on the platinum solitaire stud
which he had carefully bestowed in his vest pocket.

It was Melky's firm belief--already--that the stud had been dropped in
Daniel Multenius's back parlour by some person who had no business there--
in other words by the old man's assailant. And ever since he had found
the stud, Melky had been wondering and speculating on his chances of
finding its owner. Of one thing he was already certain: that the owner,
whoever he was, was no ordinary person. Ordinary, everyday persons do not
wear studs or tie-pins on chains made of platinum--the most valuable of
all the metals. How came a solitaire stud, made of a metal far more
valuable than gold, and designed and ornamented in a peculiar fashion, to
be lying on the hearthrug of old Daniel Multenius's room? It was not to be
believed that the old man had dropped it there--no, affirmed Melky to
himself, with conviction, that bit of personal property had been dropped
there, out of a loose shirt-cuff by some man who had called on Daniel not
long before Andie Lauriston had gone in, and who for some mysterious
reason had scragged the old fellow. And now the question was--who was that
man?

"Got to find that out, somehow!" mused Melky. "Else that poor chap'll be
in a nice fix--s'elp me, he will! And that 'ud never do!"

Melky, in spite of his keenness as a business man, and the fact that from
boyhood he had had to fight the world by himself, had a peculiarly soft
heart--he tended altogether to verge on the sentimental. He had watched
Lauriston narrowly, and had developed a decided feeling for him--moreover,
he now knew that his cousin Zillah, hitherto adamant to many admirers, had
fallen in love with Lauriston: clearly, Lauriston must be saved. Melky
knew police ways and methods, and he felt sure that whatever Ayscough, a
good-natured man, might think, the superior authorities would view
Lauriston's presence in the pawnshop with strong suspicion. Therefore--the
real culprit must be found. And he, Melky Rubinstein--he must have a go at
that game.

He finished his supper, thinking hard all the time he ate and drank;
finally he approached the desk to pay his bill. The young woman whom Mrs.
Goldmark had left in charge lifted the lid of the desk to get some change
--and Melky's astonished eyes immediately fell on an object which lay on
top of a little pile of papers. That object was the duplicate of the
platinum solitaire which Melky had in his pocket. Without ceremony--being
well known there--he at once picked it up.

"What's this bit of jewellery?" he demanded.

"That?" said the waitress, indifferently. "Oh, one of the girls picked it
up the other day off a table where a stranger had been sitting--we think
he'd dropped it. Mrs. Goldmark says it's valuable, so she put it away, in
case he comes again. But we haven't seen him since."

Melky took a good look at the second stud. Then he put it back in the
desk, picked up his change, and went away--in significant silence.



CHAPTER SIX


THE SPANISH MANUSCRIPT

Lauriston, walking back to his room after leaving Melky at the door of the
eating-house, faced the situation in which an unfortunate combination of
circumstances had placed him. Ayscough had been placable enough; the
authorities at the police-station had heard his own version of things with
attention--but he was still conscious that he was under a certain amount
of suspicion. More than that, he felt convinced that the police would keep
an eye on him that night. Ayscough, indeed, had more than hinted that that
would probably be done. For anything he knew, some plain-clothes man might
be shadowing him even then--anyway, there had been no mistaking the almost
peremptory request of the inspector that he should report himself at the
police station in the morning. It was no use denying the fact--he was
suspected, in some degree.

He knew where the grounds of suspicion lay--in his possession of two
rings, which were undoubtedly very similar to the rings which lay in the
tray that he and the detective had found on the table in the back-parlour
of the pawnshop. It needed no effort on the part of one who had already
had considerable experience in the construction of plots for stories, to
see how the police would build up a theory of their own. Here, they would
say, is a young fellow, who on his own confession, is so hard up, so
penniless, indeed, that he has had to pawn his watch. He has got to know
something of this particular pawnshop, and of its keepers--he watches the
girl leave; he ascertains that the old man is alone; he enters, probably
he sees that tray of rings lying about; he grabs a couple of the rings;
the old man interrupts him in the act; he seizes the old man, to silence
his outcries; the old man, feeble enough at any time, dies under the
shock. A clear, an unmistakable case!

What was he, Lauriston, to urge against the acceptance of such a theory?
He thought over everything that could be said on his behalf. The
friendliness of Zillah and her cousin Melky towards him could be
dismissed--that, when it came to it, would weigh little against the cold
marshalling of facts which a keen legal mind would put into the opposite
scale. His own contention that it was scarcely probable that he should
have gone to the pawnshop except to pledge something, and that that
something was the rings, would also be swept aside, easily enough: his
real object, the other side would say, had been robbery when the old man
was alone: what evidence had he that the two rings which he had in his
hand when Ayscough found him hurrying out of the shop were really his?

Here, Lauriston knew he was in a difficulty. He had kept these two rings
safely hidden in his old-fashioned trunk ever since coming to London, and
had never shown them to a single person--he had, indeed, never seen them
himself for a long time until he took them out that afternoon. But where
was his proof of that! He had no relations to whom he could appeal. His
mother had possessed an annuity; just sufficient to maintain her and her
son, and to give Lauriston a good education: it had died with her, and all
that she had left him, to start life on, was about two hundred pounds and
some small personal belongings, of which the rings and his father's watch
and chain were a part. And he remembered now that his mother had kept
those rings as securely put away as he had kept them since her death--
until they came into his hands at her death he had only once seen them;
she had shown them to him when he was a boy and had said they were very
valuable. Was it possible that there was any one, far away in Scotland,
who had known his mother and who would come forward--if need arose--and
prove that those rings had been her property? But when he had put this
question to himself, he had to answer it with a direct negative--he knew
of no one.

There was one gleam of hope in this critical situation. John Purdie was
coming to London. Lauriston had always felt that he could rely on John
Purdie, and he had just received proof of the value of his faith in his
old schoolmate. John Purdie would tell him what to do: he might even
suggest the names of some of Mrs. Lauriston's old friends. And perhaps the
need might not arise--there must surely be some clue to the old
pawnbroker's assailant; surely the police would go deeper into the matter.
He cheered up at these thoughts, and having written replies to the two
welcome letters and asked John Purdie to see him immediately on his
arrival in town, he went out again to the post-office and to fulfil his
promise to Melky to call at the pawnshop.

Lauriston was naturally of quick observation. He noticed now, as he
stepped out into the ill-lighted, gloomy street that a man was pacing up
and down in front of the house. This man took no notice of him as he
passed, but before he had reached Praed Street, he glanced around, and saw
that he was following him. He followed him to Spring Street post-office;
he was in his rear when Lauriston reached the pawnshop. Idly and
perfunctorily as the man seemed to be strolling about, Lauriston was sure
that he was shadowing him--and he told Melky of the fact when Melky
admitted him to the shop by the private door.

"Likely enough, mister," remarked Melky. "But I shouldn't bother myself
about it if I were you. There'll be more known about this affair before
long. Now, look here," he continued, leading the way into the little back-
parlour where Lauriston had found Daniel Multenius lying dead, "here's you
and me alone--Zillah, she's upstairs, and Mrs. Goldmark is with her. Just
you tell me what you saw when you came in here, d'you see, Mr. Lauriston--
never mind the police--just give me the facts. I ain't no fool, you know,
and I'm going to work this thing out."

Lauriston gave Melky a complete account of his connection with the matter:
Melky checked off all the points on his long fingers. At the end he turned
to the table and indicated the finely-bound book which Lauriston had
noticed when he and the detective had first looked round.

"The police," said Melky, "made Zillah lock up that tray o' rings that was
there in a drawer what she had to clear out for 'em, and they've put a
seal on it till tomorrow. They've got those rings of yours, too, mister,
haven't they?"

"They said it would be best for me to leave them with them," answered
Lauriston. "Ayscough advised it. They gave me a receipt for them, you
know."

"All right," remarked Melky. "But there's something they ain't had the
sense to see the importance of--that fine book there. Mister!--that there
book wasn't in this parlour, nor in this shop, nor in this house, at a
quarter to five o'clock this afternoon, when my cousin Zillah went out,
leaving the poor old man alone. She'll swear to that. Now then, who
brought it here--who left it here? Between the time Zillah went out,
mister, and the time you come in, and found what you did find, somebody--
somebody!--had been in here and left that book behind him! And--mark you!
--it wasn't pawned, neither. That's a fact! And--it's no common book,
that. Look at it, Mr. Lauriston--you'd ought to know something about
books. Look at it!--s'elp me if I don't feel there's a clue in that there
volume, whoever it belongs to!"

Lauriston took the book in his hands. He had only glanced at it casually
before; now he examined it carefully, while Melky stood at his elbow,
watching. The mysterious volume was certainly worthy of close inspection--
a small quarto, wonderfully bound in old dark crimson morocco leather, and
ornamented on sides and back with curious gold arabesque work: a heavy
clasp, also intricately wrought, held the boards together. Lauriston,
something of a book lover, whose natural inclination was to spend his last
shilling on a book rather than on beef and bread, looked admiringly at
this fine specimen of the binder's art as he turned it over.

"That's solid gold, isn't it?" he asked as he unfastened the clasp. "You
know."

"Solid gold it is, mister--and no error," assented Melky. "Now, what's
inside? It ain't no blooming account-book, I'll bet!"

Lauriston opened the volume, to reveal leaves of old vellum, covered with
beautiful fine writing. He had sufficient knowledge of foreign languages
to know what he was looking at.

"That's Spanish!" he said. "An old Spanish manuscript--and I should say
it's worth a rare lot of money. How could it have come here?"

Melky took the old volume out of Lauriston's hands, and put it away in a
corner cupboard.

"Ah, just so, mister!" he said. "But we'll keep that question to
ourselves--for awhile. Don't you say nothing to the police about that
there old book--I'll give Zillah the tip. More hangs round that than we
know of yet. Now look here!--there'll be the opening of the inquest
tomorrow. You be careful! Take my tip and don't let 'em get more out of
you than's necessary. I'll go along with you. I'm going to stop here
tonight--watch-dog, you know. Mrs. Goldmark and another friend's going to
be here as well, so Zillah'll have company. And I say, Zillah wants a word
with you--stop here, and I'll send her down."

Lauriston presently found himself alone with Zillah in the little parlour.
She looked at him silently, with eyes full of anxiety: he suddenly
realized that the anxiety was for himself.

"Don't!" he said, moving close to her and laying his hand on her arm. "I'm
not afraid!"

Zillah lifted her large dark eyes to his.

"Those rings?" she said. "You'll be able to account for them? The police,
oh, I'm so anxious about you!"

"The rings are mine!" he exclaimed. "It doesn't matter what the police say
or think, or do, either--at least, it shan't matter. And--you're not to be
anxious I've got a good friend coming from Scotland--Melky told you I'd
had two lots of good news tonight, didn't he?"

A moment later Lauriston was in the street--conscious that, without a word
spoken between them, he and Zillah had kissed each other. He went away
with a feeling of exaltation--and he only laughed when he saw a man detach
himself from a group on the opposite side of the street and saunter slowly
after him. Let the police shadow him--watch his lodgings all night, if
they pleased--he had something else to think of. And presently, not even
troubling to look out of his window to see if there was a watcher there,
he went to bed, to dream of Zillah's dark eyes.

But when morning came, and Lauriston realized that a fateful day was
before him, his thoughts were not quite so rosy. He drew up his blind--
there, certainly was a man pacing the opposite sidewalk. Evidently, he was
not to escape surveillance; the official eye was on him! Supposing, before
the day was out, the official hand was on him, too?

He turned from the window as he heard his newspaper thrust under his door.
He had only one luxury--a copy of the _Times_ every morning. It was a
three-penny _Times_ in those days, but he had always managed to find
his weekly eighteen pence for it. He picked it up now, and carelessly
glanced at its front page as he was about to lay it aside. The next moment
he was eagerly reading a prominent advertisement:

"Lost in a Holborn to Chapel Street Omnibus, about 4 o'clock yesterday
afternoon, a Spanish manuscript, bound in old crimson morocco. Whoever has
found the same will be most handsomely rewarded on bringing it to Spencer
Levendale, Esq., M.P., 591, Sussex Square, W."

Lauriston read this twice over--and putting the paper in his pocket,
finished his dressing and went straight to the police-station.



CHAPTER SEVEN


THE MEMBER OF PARLIAMENT

Melky Rubinstein came out of the side-passage by Multenius's shop as
Lauriston neared it; he, too, had a newspaper bulging from his coat
pocket, and at sight of Lauriston he pulled it out and waved it excitedly.

"What'd I tell you, mister?" exclaimed Melky, as Lauriston joined him, the
shadowing plain-clothes man in his rear. "D'ye see this?" He pointed to an
advertisement in his own paper, which he had marked with blue pencil.
"There y'are, Mr. Lauriston!--that identical old book what's inside the
parlour--advertised for--handsome reward, too, in the _Daily
Telegraph_! Didn't I say we'd hear more of it?"

Lauriston pulled out the _Times_ and indicated the Personal Column.

"It's there, too," he said. "This man, Mr. Levendale, is evidently very
anxious to recover his book. And he's lost no time in advertising for it,
either! But--however did it get to Multenius's?

"Mister!" said Melky, solemnly. "We'll have to speak to the police--now.
There's going to be a fine clue in that there book. I didn't mean to say
nothing to the police about it, just yet, but after this here
advertisement, t'ain't no use keeping the thing to ourselves. Come on
round to the police-station."

"That's just where I was going," replied Lauriston. "Let's get hold of
Ayscough."

Ayscough was standing just inside the police-station when they went up the
steps; he, too, had a newspaper in his hands, and at sight of them he
beckoned them to follow him into an office in which two or three other
police officials were talking. He led Lauriston and Melky aside.

"I say!" he said. "Here's a curious thing! That book we noticed on the
table in Multenius's back room last night--that finely bound book--it's
advertised for in the _Daily Mail_--handsome reward offered."

"Yes, and in the _Times_, too--and in the _Daily Telegraph_,"
said Lauriston. "Here you are--just the same advertisement. It's very
evident the owner's pretty keen about getting it back."

Ayscough glanced at the two newspapers, and then beckoned to a constable
who was standing near the door.

"Jim!" he said, as the man came up. "Just slip across to the newsagent's
over there and get me the _News_, the _Chronicle_, the _Standard_,
the _Morning Post_. If the owner's as keen as all that," he added,
turning back to Lauriston, "he'll have put that advertisement in all
the morning papers, and I'd like to make sure. What's known about
that book at the shop?" he asked, glancing at Melky. "Does your
cousin know anything?"

Melky's face assumed its most solemn expression.

"Mister!" he said earnestly. "There ain't nothing known at the shop about
that there book, except this here. It wasn't there when my cousin Zillah
left the old man alone at a quarter to five yesterday afternoon. It was
there when this here gentleman found the old man. But it hadn't been
pledged, nor yet sold, Mr. Ayscough--There'd ha' been an entry in the
books if it had been taken in pawn, or bought across the counter--and
there's no entry. Now then--who'd left it there?"

Another official had come up to the group--one of the men who had
questioned Lauriston the night before. He turned to Lauriston as Melky
finished.

"You don't know anything about this book?" he asked.

"Nothing--except that Mr. Ayscough and I saw it lying on the table in the
back room, close by that tray of rings," replied Lauriston. "I was
attracted by the binding, of course."

"Where's the book, now?" asked the official.

"Put safe away, mister," replied Melky. "It's all right. But this here
gentleman what's advertising for it--"

Just then the constable returned with several newspapers and handed them
over to Ayscough, who immediately laid them on a desk and turned to the
advertisements, while the others crowded round him.

"In every one of 'em," exclaimed Ayscough, a moment later. "Word for word,
in every morning newspaper in London! He must have sent that advertisement
round to all the offices last night. And you'll notice," he added, turning
to the other official, "that this Mr. Levendale only lost this book about
four o'clock yesterday afternoon: therefore, it must have been taken to
Multenius's shop between then and when we saw it there."

"The old man may have found it in the 'bus," suggested a third police
officer who had come up. "Looks as if he had."

"No, mister," said Melky firmly. "Mr. Multenius wasn't out of the shop at
all yesterday afternoon--I've made sure o' that fact from my cousin. He
didn't find no book, gentlemen. It was brought there."

Ayscough picked up one of the papers and turned to Melky and Lauriston.

"Here!" he said. "We'll soon get some light on this. You two come with me
--we'll step round to Mr. Levendale."

Ten minutes later, the three found themselves at the door of one of the
biggest houses in Sussex Square; a moment more and they were being ushered
within by a footman who looked at them with stolid curiosity. Lauriston
gained a general impression of great wealth and luxury, soft carpets, fine
pictures, all the belongings of a very rich man's house--then he and his
companions were ushered into a large room, half study, half library,
wherein, at a massive, handsomely carved desk, littered with books and
papers, sat a middle-aged, keen-eyed man, who looked quietly up from his
writing-pad at his visitors.

"S'elp me!--one of ourselves!" whispered Melky Rubinstein at Lauriston's
elbow. "Twig him!"

Lauriston was quick enough of comprehension and observation to know what
Melky meant. Mr. Spencer Levendale was certainly a Jew. His dark hair and
beard, his large dark eyes, the olive tint of his complexion, the lines of
his nose and lips all betrayed his Semitic origin. He was evidently a man
of position and of character; a quiet-mannered, self-possessed man of
business, not given to wasting words. He glanced at the card which
Ayscough had sent in, and turned to him with one word.

"Well?"

Ayscough went straight to the point.

"I called, Mr. Levendale, about that advertisement of yours which appears
in all this morning's newspapers," he said. "I may as well tell you that
that book of yours was found yesterday afternoon, under strange
circumstances. Mr. Daniel Multenius, the jeweller and pawnbroker, of Praed
Street--perhaps you know him, sir?"

"Not at all!" answered Levendale. "Never heard of him."

"He was well known in this part of the town," remarked Ayscough, quietly.
"Well, sir--Mr. Multenius was found dead in his back-parlour yesterday
afternoon, about five-thirty, by this young man, Mr. Lauriston, who
happened to look in there, and I myself was on the spot a few minutes
later. Your book--for it's certainly the same--was lying on the table in
the parlour. Now, this other young man, Mr. Rubinstein, is a relation of
Mr. Multenius's--from enquiries he's made, Mr. Levendale, it's a fact that
the book was neither pawned nor sold at Multenius's, though it must
certainly have been brought there between the time you lost it and the
time we found the old gentleman lying dead. Now, we--the police--want to
know how it came there. And so--I've come round to you. What can you tell
me, sir?"

Levendale, who had listened to Ayscough with great--and, as it seemed to
Lauriston, with very watchful--attention, pushed aside a letter he was
writing, and looked from one to the other of his callers.

"Where is my book?" he asked.

"It's all right--all safe, mister," said Melky. "It's locked up in a
cupboard, in the parlour where it was found, and the key's in my pocket."

Levendale turned to the detective, glancing again at Ayscough's card.

"All I can tell you, sergeant," he said, "is--practically--what I've told
the public in my advertisement. Of course, I can supplement it a bit. The
book is a very valuable one--you see," he went on, with a careless wave of
his hand towards his book-shelves. "I'm something of a collector of rare
books. I bought this particular book yesterday afternoon, at a well-known
dealer's in High Holborn. Soon after buying it, I got into a Cricklewood
omnibus, which I left at Chapel Street--at the corner of Praed Street, as
a matter of fact: I wished to make a call at the Great Western Hotel. It
was not till I made that call that I found I'd left the book in the 'bus--
I was thinking hard about a business matter--I'd placed the book in a
corner behind me--and, of course, I'd forgotten it, valuable though it is.
And so, later on, after telephoning to the omnibus people, who'd heard
nothing, I sent that advertisement round to all the morning papers. I'm
very glad to hear of it--and I shall be pleased to reward you," he
concluded, turning to Melky. "Handsomely!--as I promised."

But Melky made no sign of gratitude or pleasure. He was eyeing the rich
man before him in inquisitive fashion.

"Mister!" he said suddenly. "I'd like to ask you a question."

Levendale frowned a little.

"Well?" he asked brusquely. "What is it?"

"This here," replied Melky. "Was that there book wrapped up? Was it brown-
papered, now, when you left it?"

It seemed to Lauriston that Levendale was somewhat taken aback. But if he
was, it was only for a second: his answer, then, came promptly enough.

"No, it was not," he said. "I carried it away from the shop where I bought
it--just as it was. Why do you ask?"

"It's a very fine-bound book," remarked Melky. "I should ha' thought, now,
that if it had been left in a 'bus, the conductor would ha' noticed it,
quick."

"So should I," said Levendale. "Anything else?" he added, glancing at
Ayscough.

"Well, no, Mr. Levendale, thank you," replied the detective. "At least not
just now. But--the fact is, Mr. Multenius appears to have come to his
death by violence--and I want to know if whoever took your book into his
shop had anything to do with it."

"Ah!--however, I can't tell you any more," said Levendale. "Please see
that my book's taken great care of and returned to me, sergeant. Good-
morning."

Outside, Ayscough consulted his watch and looked at his companions.

"Time we were going on to the inquest," he remarked. "Come on--we'll step
round there together. You're both wanted, you know."

"I'll join you at the Coroner's court, Mr. Ayscough," said Melky. "I've
got a few minutes' business--shan't be long."

He hurried away by a short cut to Praed Street and turned into Mrs.
Goldmark's establishment.

Mrs. Goldmark herself was still ministering to Zillah, but the young woman
whom Melky had seen the night before was in charge. Melky drew her aside.

"I say!" he said, with an air of great mystery. "A word with you, miss!--
private, between you and me. Can you tell me what like was that fellow
what you believed to ha' lost that there cuff stud you showed me in Mrs.
Goldmark's desk?--you know?"

"Yes!" answered the young woman promptly. "Tall--dark--clean-shaved--very
brown--looked like one of those Colonials that you see sometimes--wore a
slouch hat."

"Not a word to nobody!" warned Melky, more mysteriously than ever. And
nodding his head with great solemnity, he left the eating-house, and
hurried away to the Coroner's Court.



CHAPTER EIGHT


THE INQUEST

Until he and Ayscough walked into this particular one, Lauriston had never
been in a Coroner's Court in his life. He knew very little about what went
on in such places. He was aware that the office of Coroner is of exceeding
antiquity; that when any person meets his or her death under suspicious
circumstances an enquiry into those circumstances is held by a Coroner,
who has a jury of twelve men to assist him in his duties: but what Coroner
and jury did, what the procedure of these courts was, he did not know. It
surprised him, accordingly, to find himself in a hall which had all the
outward appearance of a court of justice--a raised seat, on a sort of
dais, for the Coroner; a box for the jury; a table for officials and legal
gentlemen; a stand for witnesses, and accommodation for the general
public. Clearly, it was evident that when any one died as poor old Daniel
Multenius had died, the law took good care that everybody should know
everything about it, and that whatever mystery there was should be
thoroughly investigated.

The general public, however, had not as yet come to be greatly interested
in the death of Daniel Multenius. Up to that moment the affair was known
to few people beyond the police, the relations of the dead man, and his
immediate neighbours in Praed Street. Consequently, beyond the interested
few, there was no great assemblage in the court that morning. A reporter
or two, each with his note-book, lounged at the end of the table on the
chance of getting some good copy out of whatever might turn up; some of
the police officials whom Lauriston had already seen stood chatting with
the police surgeon and a sharp-eyed legal looking man, who was attended by
a clerk; outside the open door, a group of men, evidently tradesmen and
householders of the district, hung about, looking as if they would be glad
to get back to their businesses and occupations. Melky, coming in a few
minutes after Lauriston had arrived, and sitting down by him, nudged his
elbow as he pointed to these individuals.

"There's the fellows what sits on the jury, mister!" whispered Melky.
"Half-a-crown each they gets for the job--and a nice mess they makes of
it, sometimes. They've the power to send a man for trial for his life, has
them chaps--all depends on their verdict. But lor' bless yer!--they takes
their tip from the Coroner--he's the fellow what you've got to watch."

Then Melky looked around more narrowly, and suddenly espied the legal-
looking man who was talking to the police. He dug his elbow into
Lauriston.

"Mister!" he whispered. "You be careful what you say when you get into
that there witness-box. See that man there, a-talking to the detectives?--
him with the gold nippers on his blooming sharp nose? That's Mr.
Parminter!--I knows him, well enough. He's a lawyer chap, what the police
gets when there's a case o' this sort, to ask questions of the witnesses,
d'ye see? Watch him, Mr. Lauriston, if he starts a-questioning you!--he's
the sort that can get a tale out of a dead cod-fish--s'elp me, he is! He's
a terror, he is!--the Coroner ain't in it with him--he's a good sort, the
Coroner, but Parminter--Lord love us! ain't I heard him turn witnesses
inside out--not half! And here is the Coroner."

Lauriston almost forgot that he was an important witness, and was tempted
to consider himself nothing but a spectator as he sat and witnessed the
formal opening of the Court, the swearing-in of the twelve jurymen, all
looking intensely bored, and the preliminaries which prefaced the actual
setting-to-work of the morning's business. But at last, after some opening
remarks from the Coroner, who said that the late Mr. Daniel Multenius was
a well-known and much respected tradesman of the neighbourhood, that they
were all sorry to hear of his sudden death, and that there were
circumstances about it which necessitated a careful investigation, the
business began--and Lauriston, who, for professional purposes, had heard a
good many legal cases, saw, almost at once, that the police, through the
redoubtable Mr. Parminter, now seated with his clerk at the table, had
carefully arranged the presenting of evidence on a plan and system of
their own, all of which, so it became apparent to him, was intended to
either incriminate himself, or throw considerable suspicion upon him. His
interest began to assume a personal complexion.

The story of the circumstances of Daniel Multenius's death, as unfolded in
the witness-box into which one person went after another, appeared to be
the fairly plain one--looked at from one point of view: there was a
certain fascination in its unfolding. It began with Melky, who was first
called--to identify the deceased, to answer a few general questions about
him, and to state that when he last saw him, a few hours before his death,
he was in his usual good health: as good, at any rate, as a man of his
years--seventy-five--who was certainly growing feeble, could expect to be
in. Nothing much was asked of Melky, and nothing beyond bare facts
volunteered by him: the astute Mr. Parminter left him alone. A more
important witness was the police-surgeon, who testified that the deceased
had been dead twenty minutes when he was called to him, that he had
without doubt been violently assaulted, having been savagely seized by the
throat and by the left arm, on both of which significant marks were
plainly visible, and that the cause of death was shock following
immediately on this undoubted violence. It was evident, said this witness,
that the old man was feeble, and that he suffered from a weak heart: such
an attack as that which he had described would be sufficient to cause
death, almost instantly.

"So it is a case of murder!" muttered Melky, who had gone back to sit by
Lauriston. "That's what the police is leading up to. Be careful, mister!"

But there were three witnesses to call before Lauriston was called upon.
It was becoming a mystery to him that his evidence was kept back so long--
he had been the first person to find the old man's dead body, and it
seemed, to his thinking, that he ought to have been called at a very early
stage of the proceedings. He was about to whisper his convictions on this
point to Melky, when a door was opened and Zillah was escorted in by
Ayscough, and led to the witness-box.

Zillah had already assumed the garments of mourning for her grandfather.
She was obviously distressed at being called to give evidence, and the
Coroner made her task as brief as possible. It was--at that stage--little
that he wanted to know. And Zillah told little. She had gone out to do
some shopping, at half-past-four on the previous afternoon. She left her
grandfather alone. He was then quite well. He was in the front shop, doing
nothing in particular. She was away about an hour, when she returned to
find Detective-Sergeant Ayscough, whom she knew, and Mr. Lauriston, whom
she also knew, in the shop, and her grandfather dead in the parlour
behind. At this stage of her evidence, the Coroner remarked that he did
not wish to ask Zillah any further questions just then, but he asked her
to remain in court. Mrs. Goldmark had followed her, and she and Zillah sat
down near Melky and Lauriston--and Lauriston half believed that his own
turn would now come.

But Ayscough was next called--to give a brief, bald, matter-of-fact
statement of what he knew. He had gone to see Mr. Multenius on a business
affair--he was making enquiries about a stolen article which was believed
to have been pledged in the Edgware Road district. He told how Lauriston
ran into him as he entered the shop; what Lauriston said to him; what he
himself saw and observed; what happened afterwards. It was a plain and
practical account, with no indication of surprise, bias, or theory--and
nobody asked the detective any questions arising out of it.

"Ain't nobody but you to call, now, mister," whispered Melky. "Mind your
p's and q's about them blooming rings--and watch that Parminter!"

But Melky was mistaken--the official eye did not turn upon Lauriston but,
upon the public benches of the court, as if it were seeking some person
there.

"There is a witness who has volunteered a statement to the police," said
the Coroner. "I understand it is highly important. We had better hear him
at this point. Benjamin Hollinshaw!"

Melky uttered a curious groan, and glanced at Lauriston.

"Fellow what has a shop right opposite!" he whispered. "S'elp me!--what's
he got to say about it?"

Benjamin Hollinshaw came forward. He was a rather young, rather self-
confident, self-important sort of person, who strode up to the witness-box
as if he had been doing things of importance and moment all his life, and
was taking it quite as a matter of course that he should do another. He
took the oath and faced the court with something of an air, as much as to
imply that upon what he was about to say more depended than any one could
conceive. Invited to tell what he knew, he told his story, obviously
enjoying the telling of it. He was a tradesman in Praed Street: a dealer
in second-hand clothing, to be exact; been there many years, in succession
to his father. He remembered yesterday afternoon, of course. About half-
past-five o'clock he was standing at the door of his shop. It was directly
facing Daniel Multenius's shop door. The darkness had already come on, and
there was also a bit of a fog in the street: not much, but hazy, as it
were. Daniel Multenius's window was lighted, but the light was confined to
a couple of gas-jets. There was a light in the projecting sign over the
side entrance to the pawnshop, down the passage. For the first few minutes
while he stood at his door, looking across to Multenius's, he did not see
any one enter or leave that establishment. But he then saw a young man
come along, from the Edgware Road direction, whose conduct rather struck
him. The young man, after sauntering past Multenius's shop, paused,
turned, and proceeded to peer in through the top panel of the front door.
He looked in once or twice in that way. Then he went to the far end of the
window and looked inside in the same prying fashion, as if he wanted to
find out who was within. He went to various parts of the window, as if
endeavouring to look inside. Finally, he stepped down the side-passage and
entered the door which led to the compartments into which people turned
who took things to pledge. He, Hollinshaw, remained at his shop door for
some minutes after that--in fact, until the last witness came along. He
saw Ayscough enter Multenius's front door and immediately pause--then the
door was shut, and he himself went back into his own shop, his wife just
then calling him to tea.

"You saw the young man you speak of quite clearly?" asked the Coroner.

"As clearly as I see you, sir," replied the witness.

"Do you see him here?"

Hollinshaw turned instantly and pointed to Lauriston.

"That's the young man, sir," he answered, with confidence.

Amidst a general craning of necks, Melky whispered to Lauriston.

"You'd ought to ha' had a lawyer, mister!" he said. "S'elp me, I'm a
blooming fool for not thinking of it! Be careful--the Coroner's a-looking
at you!"

As a matter of fact, every person in the court was staring at Lauriston,
and presently the Coroner addressed him.

"Do you wish to ask this witness any questions?" he enquired.

Lauriston rose to his feet.

"No!" he replied. "What he says is quite correct. That is, as regards
myself."

The Coroner hesitated a moment; then he motioned to Hollinshaw to leave
the box, and once more turned to Lauriston.

"We will have your evidence now," he said. "And--let me warn you that
there is no obligation on you to say anything which would seem to
incriminate you."



CHAPTER NINE


WHOSE WERE THOSE RINGS?

Paying no attention to another attempted murmur of advice from Melky, who
seemed to be on pins and needles, Lauriston at once jumped to his feet and
strode to the witness-box. The women in the public seats glanced at him
with admiring interest--such a fine-looking young fellow, whispered one
sentimental lady to another, to have set about a poor old gentleman like
Mr. Multenius! And everybody else, from the Coroner to the newspaper
reporter--who was beginning to think he would get some good copy, after
all, that morning--regarded him with attention. Here, at any rate, was the
one witness who had actually found the pawnbroker's dead body.

Lauriston, his colour heightened a little under all this attention,
answered the preliminary questions readily enough. His name was Andrew
Carruthers Lauriston. His age--nearly twenty-two. He was a native of
Peebles, in Scotland--the only son of the late Andrew Lauriston. His
father was a minister of the Free Church. His mother was dead, too. He
himself had come to London about two years ago--just after his mother's
death. For the past few weeks he had lodged with Mrs. Flitwick, in Star
Street--that was his present address. He was a writer of fiction--stories
and novels. He had heard all the evidence already given, including that of
the last witness, Hollinshaw. All that Hollinshaw had said was quite true.
It was quite true that he had gone to Multenius's pawnshop about five-
thirty of the previous afternoon, on his own business. He had looked in
through both doors and window before entering the side-door: he wanted to
know who was in the shop--whether it was Mr. Multenius, or his grand-
daughter. He wanted to know that for a simple reason--he had never done
business with Mr. Multenius, never even seen him that he remembered, but
he had had one transaction with Miss Wildrose, and he wished, if possible,
to do his business with her. As a matter of fact he saw nobody inside the
shop when he looked in through the front door and the window--so he went
round to the side-entrance.

All this had come in answer to questions put by the Coroner--who now
paused and looked at Lauriston not unkindly.

"I daresay you are already aware that there is, or may be, some amount of
suspicious circumstances attaching to your visit to this place yesterday
afternoon," he said. "Do you care to tell the court--in your own way--
precisely what took place, what you discovered, after you entered the
pawnshop?"

"That's exactly what I wish to do," answered Lauriston, readily. "I've
already told it, more than once, to the police and Mr. Multenius's
relatives--I'll tell it again, as plainly and briefly as I can. I went
into one of the compartments just within the side-door of the place. I saw
no one, and heard no one. I rapped on the counter--nobody came. So I
looked round the partition into the front shop. There was no one there.
Then I looked round the other partition into the back parlour, the door of
which was wide open. I at once saw an old man whom I took to be Mr.
Multenius. He was lying on the floor--his feet were towards the open door,
and his head on the hearth-rug, near the fender. I immediately jumped over
the counter, and went into the parlour. I saw at once that he was dead--
and almost immediately I hurried to the front door, to summon assistance.
At the door I ran into Mr. Ayscough, who was entering as I opened the
door. I at once told him of what I had found. That is the plain truth as
to all I know of the matter."

"You heard nothing of any person in or about the shop when you entered?"
asked the Coroner.

"Nothing!" replied Lauriston. "It was all perfectly quiet."

"What had you gone there to do?"

"To borrow some money--on two rings."

"Your own property?"

"My own property!"

"Had you been there before, on any errand of that sort?"

"Only once."

"When was that?"

"Last week," answered Lauriston. "I pawned my watch there."

"You have, in fact, been short of money?"

"Yes. But only temporarily--I was expecting money."

"I hope it has since arrived," said the Coroner.

"Mr. Ayscough was with me when it did arrive," replied Lauriston, glancing
at the detective. "We found it--two letters--at my lodgings when he walked
round there with me after what I have just told you of."

"You had done your business on that previous occasion with the grand-
daughter?" asked the Coroner. "You had not seen the old man, then?"

"I never to my knowledge saw Mr. Multenius till I found him lying dead in
his own parlour," answered Lauriston.

The Coroner turned from the witness, and glanced towards the table at
which Mr. Parminter and the police officials sat. And Mr. Parminter slowly
rose and looked at Lauriston, and put his first question--in a quiet,
almost suave voice, as if he and the witness were going to have a pleasant
and friendly little talk together.

"So your ambition is to be a writer of fiction?" he asked.

"I am a writer of fiction!" replied Lauriston.

Mr. Parminter pulled out a snuff-box and helped himself to a pinch.

"Have you published much?" he enquired, drily.

"Two or three stories--short stories."

"Did they bring in much money?"

"Five pounds each."

"Have you done anything else for a living but that since you came to
London two years ago?"

"No, I haven't!"

"How much have you earned by your pen since you came, now?"

"About thirty pounds."

"Thirty pounds in two years. What have you lived on, then?"

"I had money of my own," replied Lauriston. "I had two hundred pounds when
I left home."

"And that gave out--when?" demanded Mr. Parminter.

"Last week."

"And so--you took your watch to the pawnshop. And--yesterday--your
expected money not having arrived, you were obliged to visit the pawnshop
again? Taking with you, you said just now, two rings--your own property.
Am I correct?"

"Quite correct--two rings--my own property."

Mr. Parminter turned and spoke to a police official, who, lifting aside a
sheet of brown paper which lay before him, revealed the tray of rings
which Lauriston and Ayscough had found on the table in Multenius's
parlour. At the same time, Mr. Parminter, lifting his papers, revealed
Lauriston's rings. He picked them up, laid them on the palm of his hand,
and held them towards the witness.

"Are these the rings you took to the pawnshop?" he asked.

"Yes!" replied Lauriston. "They were my mother's."

Mr. Parminter indicated the tray.

"Did you see this tray lying in the parlour in which you found the dead
man?" he enquired.

"I did."

"Did it strike you that your own rings were remarkably like the rings in
this tray?"

"No, it did not," answered Lauriston. "I know nothing about rings."

Mr. Parminter quietly passed the tray of rings to the Coroner, with
Lauriston's rings lying on a sheet of paper.

"Perhaps you will examine these things and direct the attention of the
jurymen to them?" he said, and turned to the witness-box again. "I want to
ask you a very particular question," he continued. "You had better
consider it well before answering it--it is more important--to you--than
may appear at first hearing. Can you bring any satisfactory proof that
those two rings which you claim to be yours, really are yours?"

There followed on that a dead silence in court. People had been coming in
since the proceedings had opened, and the place was now packed to the
door. Every eye was turned on Lauriston as he stood in the witness-box,
evidently thinking deeply. And in two pairs of eyes there was deep
anxiety: Melky was nervous and fidgety; Zillah was palpably greatly
concerned. But Lauriston looked at neither--and he finally turned to Mr.
Parminter with a candid glance.

"The rings are mine," he answered. "But--I don't know how I can prove that
they are!"

A suppressed murmur ran round the court--in the middle of it, the Coroner
handed the rings to a police official and motioned him to show them to the
jurymen. And Mr. Parminter's suave voice was heard again.

"You can't prove that they are yours."

"May I explain?" asked Lauriston. "Very well--there may be people, old
friends, who have seen those two rings in my mother's possession. But I
don't know where to find such people. If it's necessary, I can try."

"I should certainly try, if I were you," observed Mr. Parminter, drily.
"Now, when did those two rings come into your possession?"

"When my mother died," replied Lauriston.

"Where have you kept them?"

"Locked up in my trunk."

"Have you ever, at any time, or any occasion, shown them to any person?
Think!"

"No," answered Lauriston. "I can't say that I ever have."

"Not even at the time of your mother's death?"

"No! I took possession, of course, of all her effects. I don't remember
showing the rings to anybody."

"You kept them in your trunk until you took them out to raise money on
them?"

"Yes--that's so," admitted Lauriston.

"How much money had you--in the world--when you went to the pawnshop
yesterday afternoon?" demanded Mr. Parminter, with a sudden keen glance.

Lauriston flushed scarlet.

"If you insist on knowing," he said. "I'd just nothing."

There was another murmur in court--of pity from the sentimental ladies in
the public seats, who, being well acquainted with the pawnshops
themselves, and with the necessities which drove them there were
experiencing much fellow-feeling for the poor young man in the witness-
box. But Lauriston suddenly smiled--triumphantly.

"All the same," he added, glancing at Mr. Parminter. "I'd forty pounds, in
my letters, less than an hour afterwards. Ayscough knows that!"

Mr. Parminter paid no attention to this remark. He had been whispering to
the police inspector, and now he turned to the Coroner.

"I should like this witness to stand down for a few minutes, sir," he
said. "I wish to have Miss Wildrose recalled."

The Coroner gently motioned Zillah to go back to the witness-box.



CHAPTER TEN


MELKY INTERVENES

Zillah had listened to Lauriston's answers to Mr. Parminter's searching
questions with an anxiety which was obvious to those who sat near her. The
signs of that anxiety were redoubled as she walked slowly to the box, and
the glance she threw at the Coroner was almost appealing. But the Coroner
was looking at his notes, and Zillah was obliged to turn to Mr. Parminter,
whose accents became more mellifluous than ever as he addressed her; Mr.
Parminter, indeed, confronting Zillah might have been taken for a kindly
benevolent gentleman whose sole object was to administer condolence and
comfort. Few people in court, however, failed to see the meaning of the
questions which he began to put in the suavest and softest of tones.

"I believe you assisted your late grandfather in his business?" suggested
Mr. Parminter.

"Just so! Now, how long had you assisted him in that way?"

"Ever since I left school--three years ago," replied Zillah.

"Three years--to be sure! And I believe you had resided with him for some
years before that?"

"Ever since I was a little girl," admitted Zillah.

"In fact, the late Mr. Multenius brought you up? Just so!--therefore,
of course, you would have some acquaintance with his business before
you left school?"

"Yes--he taught me a good deal about it."

"You were always about the place, of course--yes? And I may take it that
you gradually got a good deal of knowledge about the articles with which
your grandfather had to deal? To be sure--thank you. In fact, you are
entitled to regard yourself as something of an expert in precious stones
and metals?"

"I know a good deal about them," replied Zillah.

"You could tell the value of a thing as accurately as your grandfather?"

"Ordinary things--yes."

"And you were very well acquainted with your grandfather's stock?"

"Yes."

Mr. Parminter motioned the official who had charge of it to place the tray
of rings on the ledge of the witness-box.

"Oblige me by looking at that tray and the contents," he said. "You
recognize it, of course? Just so. Now, do you know where that tray was
when you went out, leaving your grandfather alone, yesterday afternoon?"

"Yes," replied Zillah, unhesitatingly. "On the table in the back-parlour--
where I saw it when I came in. My grandfather had taken it out of the
front window, so that he could polish the rings."

"Do you know how many rings it contained?"

"No. Perhaps twenty-five or thirty."

"They are, I see, laid loosely in the tray, which is velvet-lined. They
were always left like that? Just so. And you don't know how many there
were--nor how many there should be there, now? As a matter of fact, there
are twenty-seven rings there--you can't say that is the right number?"

"No," answered Zillah, "and my grandfather couldn't have said, either. A
ring might be dropped into that tray--or a ring taken out. They are all
old rings."

"But--valuable?" suggested Mr. Parminter.

"Some--yes. Others are not very valuable."

"Now what do you mean by that word valuable? What, for instance, is the
value of the least valuable ring there, and what is that of the most
valuable?"

Zillah glanced almost indifferently at the tray before her.

"Some of these rings are worth no more than five pounds," she replied.
"Some--a few--are worth twenty to thirty pounds; one or two are worth
more."

"And--they are all old?"

"They are all of old-fashioned workmanship," said Zillah. "Made a good
many years ago, all of them. The diamonds, or pearls, are all right, of
course."

Mr. Parminter handed over the half-sheet of paper on which Lauriston's
rings had been exhibited to the Coroner and the jurymen.

"Look at those rings, if you please," he said quietly. "Are they of the
same sort, the same class, of rings as those in the tray?"

"Yes," admitted Zillah. "Something the same."

"What is the value of those rings--separately?" enquired Mr. Parminter.
"Please give us your professional opinion."

Zillah bent over the two rings for a while, turning them about.

"This is worth about thirty, and that about fifty pounds," she replied at
last.

"In other words, these two rings are similar in style and value to the
best rings in that tray?"

"Yes."

"Do you recognize those two rings?"

"No--not at all."

Mr. Parminter paused a moment, and caught the jury's attention with a
sharp glance of his eye before he turned again to the witness.

"Could you have recognized any of the rings in that tray?" he asked.

"No!" said Zillah. "I could not."

"Then you could not possibly say--one way or another, if those rings were
taken out of that tray?"

"No!"

"The fact is that all those rings--the two on the half-sheet of notepaper,
and twenty-seven on the tray--are all of the same class as regards age and
style--all very much of a muchness?"

"Yes," admitted Zillah.

"And you can't--you are on your oath remember!--you can't definitely say
that those two rings were not picked up from that tray, amongst the
others?"

"No," replied Zillah. "But I can't say that they were! And--I don't
believe they were. I don't believe they were our rings!"

Mr. Parminter smiled quietly and again swept the interested jurymen with
his quick glance.

Then he turned to Zillah with another set of questions.

"How long have you known the last witness--Andrew Lauriston?" he enquired.

"Since one day last week," replied Zillah.

She had flushed at the mention of Lauriston's name, and Mr. Parminter was
quick to see it.

"How did you get to know him?" he continued.

"By his coming to the shop--on business."

"To pawn his watch, I believe?"

"Yes."

"You attended to him?"

"Yes."

"You had never seen him before?"

"No."

"Ever seen him since?"

Zillah hesitated for a moment.

"I saw him--accidentally--in Kensington Gardens, on Sunday," she answered
at last.

"Have any conversation with him?"

"Yes," admitted Zillah.

"About--pawnbroking?"

"No!" retorted Zillah. "About his work--writing."

"Did he tell you he was very hard up?"

"I knew that!" said Zillah. "Hadn't he pawned his watch?"

"Perhaps--you seem to be a very good business woman--perhaps you gave him
some advice?"

"Yes, I did! I advised him, as long as he'd anything on which he could
raise money, not to let himself go without money in his pocket."

"Excellent advice!" said Mr. Parminter, with a smile.

He leaned forward, looking at his witness more earnestly. "Now, did
Lauriston, on Sunday, or when you saw him before, ever mention to you that
he possessed two rings of some value?"

"No," replied Zillah.

Mr. Parminter paused, hesitated, suddenly bowed to the Coroner, and
dropping back into his seat, pulled out his snuff-box. And the Coroner,
motioning Zillah to leave the witness-box, interrupted Mr. Parminter in
the midst of a pinch of snuff.

"I think it will be best to adjourn at this stage," he said. "It is
obvious that we can't finish this today." He turned to the jurymen. "I
propose to adjourn this enquiry for a week, gentlemen," he went on. "In
the meantime--"

His attention was suddenly arrested by Melky Rubinstein, who, after much
uneasiness and fidgeting, rose from his seat and made his way to the foot
of the table, manifestly desiring to speak.

"What is it?" asked the Coroner. "Who are you? Oh!--the witness who
identified the body. Yes?"

"Mr. Coroner!" said Melky, in his most solemn tones. "This here inquest
ain't being conducted right, sir! I don't mean by you--but these here
gentlemen, the police, and Mr. Parminter there, is going off on a wrong
scent. I know what they're after, and they're wrong! They're suppressing
evidence, Mr. Coroner." Melky turned on Ayscough. "What about the clue o'
this here old book?" he demanded. "Why ain't you bringing that forward?
I'm the late Daniel Multenius's nearest male relative, and I say that
clue's a deal more important nor what we've been hearing all the morning.
What about that book, now, Mr. Ayscough? Come on!--what about it!--and its
owner?"

"What is this?" demanded the Coroner. "If there is anything--"

"Anything, sir!" exclaimed Melky. "There's just this--between the time
that my cousin there, Miss Zillah Wildrose left the old man alive, and the
time when Mr. Lauriston found him dead, somebody came into the shop as
left a valuable book behind him on the parlour table, which book,
according to all the advertisements in the morning papers, is the property
of Mr. Spencer Levendale, the Member of Parliament, as lives in Sussex
Square. Why ain't that matter brought up? Why ain't Mr. Levendale brought
here? I ask you, Mr. Coroner, to have it seen into! There's more behind
it--"

The Coroner held up a hand and beckoned the police inspector and Mr.
Parminter to approach his desk; a moment later, Ayscough was summoned. And
Lauriston, watching the result of this conference, was quickly aware that
the Coroner was not particularly pleased; he suddenly turned on the
inspector with a question which was heard by every one in court.

"Why was not the matter of the book put before the Court at first?" he
demanded. "It seems to me that there may be a most important clue in it.
The fact of the book's having been found should most certainly have been
mentioned, at once. I shall adjourn for a week, from today, and you will
produce the book and bring Mr. Spencer Levendale here as a witness. This
day week, gentlemen!"

Melky Rubinstein turned, whispered a hurried word to Zillah and Mrs.
Goldmark, and then, seizing Lauriston by the elbow, drew him quickly away
from the court.



CHAPTER ELEVEN


THE BACK DOOR

Once outside in the street, Melky turned down the nearest side-street,
motioning Lauriston to follow him. Before they had gone many yards he
edged himself close to his companion's side, at the same time throwing a
cautious glance over his own shoulder.

"There's one o' them blooming detectives after us!" said Melky. "But
that's just what's to be expected, mister!--they'll never let you out o'
their sight until one of two things happen!"

"What things?" asked Lauriston.

"Either you'll have to prove, beyond all doubt, that them rings is yours,
and was your poor mother's before you," answered Melky, "or we shall have
to put a hand on the chap that scragged my uncle. That's a fact! Mister!--
will you put your trust and confidence in me, and do what I tell you? It's
for your own good."

"I don't know that I could do better," responded Lauriston, after a
moment's thought. "You're a right good fellow, Melky--I'm sure of that!
What do you want me to do?"

Melky pulled out a handsome gold watch and consulted it.

"It's dinner-time," he said. "Come round to Mrs. Goldmark's and get some
grub. I'll tell you what to do while we're eating. I've been thinking
things over while that there Parminter was badgering poor Zillah, and
s'elp me, there only is one thing for you to do, and you'd best to do it
sharp! But come on to Praed Street--don't matter if this here chap behind
does shadow you--I can get the better of him as easy as I could sell this
watch! It 'ud take all the detectives in London to beat me, if I put my
mind to it."

They were at Mrs. Goldmark's eating-house in five minutes: Melky, who knew
all the ins and outs of that establishment, conducted Lauriston into an
inner room, and to a corner wherein there was comparative privacy, and
summoned a waitress. Not until he and his companion were half way through
their meal did he refer to the business which was in his thoughts: then he
leaned close to Lauriston and began to talk.

"Mister!" he whispered. "Where do you come from?"

"Peebles," answered Lauriston. "You heard me tell them so, in that court."

"I'm no scholar," said Melky. "I ain't no idea where Peebles is, except
that it's in Scotland. Is it far into that country, or where is it?"

"Not far across the Border," replied Lauriston.

"Get there in a few hours, I reckon?" asked Melky. "You could? Very well,
then, mister, you take my tip--get there! Get there--quick!"

Lauriston laid down his knife and fork and stared.

"Whatever for?" he exclaimed.

"To find somebody--anybody--as can prove that those rings are yours!"
answered Melky solemnly and emphatically. "Tain't no use denying it--
you're in a dangerous position. The police always goes for the straightest
and easiest line. Their line was clear enough, just now--Parminter give it
away! They've a theory--they always have a theory--and when once police
gets a theory, nothing can drive it out o' their heads--their official
heads, anyway. What they're saying, and what they'll try to establish, is
this here. That you were hard up, down to less than your last penny. You
went to Mr. Multenius's--you peeked and peered through the shop window and
saw him alone, or, perhaps, saw the place empty. You went in--you grabbed
a couple o' rings--he interrupted you--you scragged him! That's their
line--and Zillah can't swear that those rings which you claim to be yours
aren't her grandfather's, and up to now you can't prove that they're yours
and were once your mother's! Mister!--be off to this here Peebles at once
--immediate!--and find somebody, some old friend, as can swear that he or
she--never mind which--knows them rings to be your property beyond a
shadow of doubt! Bring that friend back--bring him if he has to come in an
invalid carriage!"

Lauriston was so much struck by Melky's argument and advice that it needed
no more explanations to convince him of its wisdom.

"But--how could I get away'" he asked. "There'll be that detective chap
hanging about outside--I know I've been shadowed ever since last evening!
They'll never let me get away from London, however much I wish. The
probability is that if they saw me going to a railway station they'd
arrest me."

"My own opinion, mister, after what's taken place this morning, is that if
you stop here, you'll be arrested before night," remarked Melky coolly.
"I'd lay a tenner on it! But you ain't going to stop--you must go! There
must be somebody in the old spot as can swear that them two rings o' yours
is family property, and you must find 'em and bring 'em, if you value your
neck. As to slipping the police, I'll make that right for you, proper!
Now, then, what money have you about you, Mr. Lauriston?"

"Plenty!" answered Lauriston. "Nearly forty pounds--the money I got last
night."

"Will you do exactly what I tell you?" asked Melky, "And do it at once,
without any hesitation, any hanging about, any going home to Mother
Flitwick's, or anything o' that sort?"

"Yes!" replied Lauriston. "I'm so sure you're right, that I will."

"Then you listen to me--careful," said Melky. "See that door in the
corner? As soon as you've finished that pudding, slip out o' that door.
You'll find yourself in a little yard. Go out o' that yard, and you'll
find yourself in a narrow passage. Go straight down the passage, and
you'll come out in Market Street. Go straight down Southwick Street--you
know it--to Oxford and Cambridge Terrace, and you'll see a cab-rank right
in front of you. Get into a taxi, and tell the fellow to drive you to
Piccadilly Circus. Leave him there--take a turn round so's he won't see
what you do--then get into another taxi, and drive to St. Pancras Church.
Get out there--and foot it to King's Cross Station. You'll catch the 3.15
for the North easy--and after you're once in it, you're all right. Get to
Peebles!--that's the thing! S'elp me, Mr. Lauriston, it's the only thing!"

Five minutes later, there being no one but themselves in the little room,
Lauriston gave Melky a hearty grip of the hand, walked out of the door in
the corner, and vanished. And Melky, left alone, pulled out his cigarette
case, and began to smoke, calmly and quietly. When the waitress came back,
he whispered a word or two to her; the waitress nodded with full
comprehension--for everybody knew Melky at Goldmark's, and if the
waitresses wanted a little jewellery now and then, he let them have it at
cost price.

"So you can give me the checks for both," said Melky. "I'll pay 'em."

But Melky let three-quarters of an hour elapse before he went to the desk
in the outer shop. He sipped a cup of coffee; he smoked several
cigarettes; it was quite a long time before he emerged into Praed Street,
buttoning his overcoat. And without appearing to see anything, he at once
saw the man who had followed Lauriston and himself from the Coroner's
Court. Being almost preternaturally observant, he also saw the man start
with surprise--but Melky showed, and felt, no surprise, when the watcher
came after him.

"You know me, Mr. Rubinstein," he said, almost apologetically. "You know,
of course, we're keeping an eye on that young Scotch fellow--we've got to!
He went in there, to Goldmark's, with you? Is he still there?"

"Strikes me you ain't up to your job!" remarked Melky, coolly. "He went
out, three-quarters of an hour ago. Gone home, I should say."

The man turned away, evidently puzzled, but just as evidently taking
Melky's word. He went off in the direction of Star Street, while Melky
strolled along to the pawnbroker's shop. It was necessary that he should
tell his cousin of what he had done.

Mrs. Goldmark was still with Zillah--Melky unfolded his story to the two
of them. Zillah heard it with unfeigned relief; Mrs. Goldmark, who, being
a young and pretty widow, was inclined to sentiment, regarded Melky with
admiration.

"My!--if you ain't the cute one, Mr. Rubinstein!" she exclaimed, clapping
her plump hands. "As for me, now, I wouldn't have thought of that in a
hundred years! But it's you that's the quick mind."

Melky laid a finger to the side of his nose.

"Do you know what, Mrs. Goldmark?" he said. "I ain't going to let them
police fellows put a hand on young Lauriston, not me! I've my own ideas
about this here business--wait till I put my hand on somebody, see? Don't
it all come out clear to you?--if I find the right man, then there ain't
no more suspicion attaching to this young chap, ain't it? Oh, I'm no fool,
Mrs. Goldmark; don't you make no mistake!"

"I'm sure!" asserted Mrs. Goldmark. "Yes, indeed--you don't carry your
eyes in your head for nothing, Mr. Rubinstein!"

Zillah, who had listened abstractedly to these compliments suddenly turned
on her cousin.

"What are you going to do then, Melky?" she demanded. "What's all this
business about that book? And what steps are you thinking of taking?"

But Melky rose and, shaking his head, buttoned up his overcoat as if he
were buttoning in a multitude of profound secrets.

"What you got to do, just now, Zillah--and Mrs. Goldmark too," he
answered, "is to keep quiet tongues about what I done with young
Lauriston. There ain't to be a word said! If any o' them police come round
here, asking about him, you don't know nothing--see? You ain't seen him
since he walked out o' that court with me--see? Which, of course--you
ain't. And as for the rest, you leave that to yours truly!"

"Oh, what it is to have a mind!" exclaimed Mrs. Goldmark "I ain't no mind,
beyond managing my business."

"Don't you show your mind in managing that?" said Melky, admiringly. "What
do I always say of you, Mrs. Goldmark? Don't I always say you're the
smartest business woman in all Paddington? Ain't that having a mind? Oh, I
think you've the beautifullest mind, Mrs. Goldmark!"

With this compliment Melky left Mrs. Goldmark and Zillah, and went away to
his lodgings. He was aware of a taxi-cab drawn up at Mrs. Flitwick's door
as he went up the street; inside Mrs. Flitwick's shabby hall he found that
good woman talking to a stranger--a well-dressed young gentleman, who was
obviously asking questions. Mrs. Flitwick turned to Melky with an air of
relief.

"Perhaps you can tell this gentleman where Mr. Lauriston is, Mr.
Rubinstein?" she said. "I ain't seen him since he went out first thing
this morning."

Melky looked the stranger over--narrowly. Then he silently beckoned him
outside the house, and walked him out of earshot.

"You ain't the friend from Scotland?" asked Melky. "Him what sent the
bank-note, last night?"

"Yes!" assented the stranger. "I see you're aware of that. My name is
Purdie--John Purdie. Where is Lauriston? I particularly want to see him."

Melky tapped the side of his nose, and whispered.

"He's on his way to where you come from, mister!" he said. "Here!--I know
who you are, and you'll know me in one minute. Come up to my sitting-
room!"



CHAPTER TWELVE


THE FRIEND FROM PEEBLES

Melky, as principal lodger in Mrs. Flitwick's establishment, occupied what
that lady was accustomed to describe as the front drawing-room floor--a
couple of rooms opening one into the other. Into one of these, furnished
as a sitting-room, he now led Lauriston's friend, hospitably invited him
to a seat, and took a quiet look at him. He at once sized up Mr. John
Purdie for what he was--a well-to-do, well-dressed, active-brained young
business man, probably accustomed to controlling and dealing with
important affairs. And well satisfied with this preliminary inspection,
he immediately plunged into the affair of the moment.

"Mister," began Melky, pulling up a chair to Purdie's side, and assuming a
tone and manner of implicit confidence. "I've heard of you. Me and Mr.
Lauriston's close friends. My name's Mr. Rubinstein--Mr. Melchior
Rubinstein, commonly called Melky. I know all about you--you're the friend
that Lauriston asked for a bit of help to see him through, like--ain't it?
Just so--and you sent him twenty pounds to be going on with--which he got,
all right, last night. Also, same time, he got another twenty quid for
two of his lit'ry works--stories, mister. Mister!--I wish he'd got your
money and the other money just an hour before it come to hand! S'elp me!--
if them there letters had only come in by one post earlier, it 'ud ha'
saved a heap o' trouble!"

"I haven't the remotest notion of what you're talking about, you know,"
said Purdie good-naturedly. "You evidently know more than I do. I knew
Andie Lauriston well enough up to the time he left Peebles, but I've never
seen or heard of him since until he wrote to me the other week. What's it
all about, and why has he gone back to Peebles? I told him I was coming up
here any day now--and here I am, and he's gone!"

Melky edged his chair still nearer to his visitor, and with a cautious
glance at the door, lowered his voice.

"I'm a-going to tell you all about it, mister," he said. "I know you
Scotch gentlemen have got rare headpieces on you, and you'll pick it up
sharp enough. Now you listen to me, Mr. Purdie, same as if I was one of
them barrister chaps stating a case, and you'll get at it in no time."

John Purdie, who had already recognized his host as a character, as
interesting as he was amusing, listened attentively while Melky told the
story of Lauriston's doings and adventure from the moment of his setting
out to pawn his watch at Multenius's pledge-office to that in which, on
Melky's suggestion, he had made a secret and hurried departure for
Peebles. Melky forgot no detail; he did full justice to every important
point, and laid particular stress on the proceedings before the Coroner.
And in the end he appealed confidently to his listener.

"And now I put it up to you, mister--straight!" concluded Melky. "Could I
ha' done better for him than to give him the advice I did? Wasn't it best
for him to go where he could get some evidence on his own behalf, than to
run the risk of being arrested, and put where he couldn't do nothing for
himself? What d'you say, now, Mr. Purdie?"

"Yes," agreed Purdie, after a moment's further thought. "I think you did
well. He'll no doubt be able to find some old friends in Peebles who can
surely remember that his mother did possess those two rings. But you must
bear this in mind--the police, you say, have shadowed him since yesterday
afternoon. Well, when they find he's flown, they'll take that as a strong
presumptive evidence of guilt. They'll say he's flying from justice!"

"Don't matter, mister, if Lauriston comes back with proof of his
innocence," replied Melky.

"Yes, but they'll not wait for that," said Purdie. "They'll set the hue-
and-cry on to him--at once. He's not the sort to be easily mistaken or
overlooked--unless he's changed a lot this late year or two--he was always
a good-looking lad."

"Is so now, mister," remarked Melky, "is so now!"

"Very well," continued Purdie. "Then I want to make a suggestion to you.
It seems to me that the wisest course is for you and me to go straight to
the police authorities, and tell them frankly that Lauriston has gone to
get evidence that those rings are really his property, and that he'll
return in a day or two with that evidence. That will probably satisfy
them--I think I can add a bit more that will help further. We don't want
it to be thought that the lad's run away rather than face a possible
charge of murder, you know!"

"I see your point, mister, I see your point!" agreed Melky. "I'm with
you!--I ain't no objection to that. Of course, there ain't no need to tell
the police precisely where he has gone--what?"

"Not a bit!" said Purdie. "But I'll make myself responsible to them for
his re-appearance. Now--did you and he arrange anything about
communicating with each other?"

"Yes," replied Melky. "If anything turns up this next day or two I'm to
wire to him at the post-office, Peebles. If he finds what he wants, he'll
wire to me, here, at once."

"Good!" said Purdie. "Now, here's another matter. You've mentioned Mr.
Spencer Levendale and this book which was so strangely left at the pledge-
office. I happen to know Mr. Levendale--pretty well."

"You do, mister!" exclaimed Melky. "Small world, ain't it, now?"

"I met Mr. Spencer Levendale last September--two months ago," continued
Purdie. "He was staying at an hotel in the Highlands, with his children
and their governess: I was at the same hotel, for a month--he and I used
to go fishing together. We got pretty friendly, and he asked me to call on
him next time I was in town. Here I am--and when we've been to the police,
I'm going to Sussex Square--to tell him I'm a friend of Lauriston's, that
Lauriston is in some danger over this business, and to ask him if he can
tell me more about--that book!"

Melky jumped up and wrung his visitor's hand.

"Mister!--you're one o' the right sort," he said fervently. "That there
book has something to do with it! My idea is that the man what carried
that book into the shop is the man what scragged my poor old relative
--fact, mister! Levendale, he wouldn't tell us anything much this
morning--maybe he'll tell you more. Stand by Lauriston, mister!--we'll
pull him through."

"You seem very well disposed towards him," remarked Purdie. "He's
evidently taken your fancy."

"And my cousin Zillah's," answered Melky, with a confidential grin.
"Zillah--loveliest girl in all Paddington, mister--she's clear gone on the
young fellow! And--a word in your ear, mister!--Zillah's been educated
like a lady, and now that the old man's gone, Zillah'll have--ah! a
fortune that 'ud make a nigger turn white! And no error about it! See it
through, mister!"

"I'll see it through," said Purdie. "Now, then--these police. Look here--
is there a good hotel in this neighbourhood?--I've all my traps in that
taxi-cab downstairs--I drove straight here from the station, because I
wanted to see Andie Lauriston at once."

"Money's no object to you, I reckon, mister?" asked Melky, with a shrewd
glance at the young Scotsman's evident signs of prosperity.

"Not in reason," answered Purdie.

"Then there's the Great Western Hotel, at the end o' Praed Street," said
Melky. "That'll suit a young gentleman like you, mister, down to the
ground. And you'll be right on the spot!"

"Come with me, then," said Purdie. "And then to the police."

Half-an-hour's private conversation with the police authorities enabled
Purdie to put some different ideas into the official heads. They began to
look at matters in a new light. Here was a wealthy young Scottish
manufacturer, a person of standing and position, who was able to vouch for
Andrew Lauriston in more ways than one, who had known him from boyhood,
had full faith in him and in his word, and was certain that all that
Lauriston had said about the rings and about his finding of Daniel
Multenius would be found to be absolutely true. They willingly agreed to
move no further in the matter until Lauriston's return--and Purdie
noticed, not without a smile, that they pointedly refrained from asking
where he had gone to. He came out from that interview with Ayscough in
attendance upon him--and Melky, waiting without, saw that things had gone
all right.

"You might let me have your London address, sir," said Ayscough. "I might
want to let you know something."

"Great Western Hotel," answered Purdie. "I shall stay there until
Lauriston's return, and until this matter's entirely cleared up, as far as
he's concerned. Come there, if you want me. All right," he continued, as
he and Melky walked away from the police-station. "They took my word for
it!--they'll do nothing until Lauriston comes back. Now then, you know
this neighbourhood, and I don't--show me the way to Sussex Square--I'm
going to call on Mr. Levendale at once."

John Purdie had a double object in calling on Mr. Spencer Levendale. He
had mentioned to Melky that when he met Levendale in the Highlands,
Levendale, who was a widower, had his children and their governess with
him. But he had not mentioned that he, Purdie, had fallen in love with the
governess, and that one of his objects in coming to London just then was
to renew his acquaintance with her. It was chiefly of the governess that
he was thinking as he stood on the steps of the big house in Sussex
Square--perhaps, in a few minutes, he would see her again.

But Purdie was doomed to see neither Mr. Spencer Levendale nor the pretty
governess that day. Mr. Levendale, said the butler, was on business in the
city and was to dine out that evening: Miss Bennett had taken the two
children to see a relative of theirs at Hounslow, and would not return
until late. So Purdie, having pencilled his London address on them, left
cards for Mr. Levendale and Miss Bennett, and, going back to his hotel,
settled himself in his quarters to await developments. He spent the
evening in reading the accounts of the inquest on Daniel Multenius--in
more than one of the newspapers they were full and circumstantial, and it
needed little of his shrewd perception to convince him that his old
schoolmate stood in considerable danger if he failed to establish his
ownership of the rings.

He had finished breakfast next morning and was thinking of strolling round
to Melky Rubinstein's lodgings, to hear if any news had come from
Lauriston, when a waiter brought him Ayscough's card, saying that its
presenter was waiting for him in the smoking-room. Purdie went there at
once: the detective, who looked unusually grave and thoughtful, drew him
aside into a quiet part of the room.

"There's a strange affair occurred during the night, Mr. Purdie," said
Ayscough, when they were alone. "And it's my opinion it's connected with
this Multenius affair."

"What is it?" asked Purdie.

"This," replied Ayscough. "A Praed Street tradesman--in a small way--was
picked up, dying, in a quiet street off Maida Vale, at twelve o'clock last
night, and he died soon afterwards. And--he'd been poisoned!--but how, the
doctors can't yet tell."



CHAPTER THIRTEEN


THE CALL FOR HELP

Purdie, whose temperament inclined him to slowness and deliberation in
face of any grave crisis, motioned the detective to take a seat in the
quiet corner of the smoking-room, into which they had retreated, and sat
down close by him.

"Now, to begin with," he said, "why do you think this affair is connected
with the affair of the old pawn-broker? There must be some link."

"There is a link, sir," answered Ayscough. "The man was old Daniel
Multenius's next door neighbour: name of Parslett--James Parslett, fruit
and vegetable dealer. Smallish way of business, but well known enough in
that quarter. Now, I'll explain something to you. I'm no hand at drawing,"
continued the detective, "but I think I can do a bit of a rough sketch on
this scrap of paper which will make clear to you the lie of the land.
These two lines represent Praed Street. Here, where I make this cross, is
Daniel Multenius's pawnshop. The front part of it--the jeweller's shop--
looks out on Praed Street. At the side is a narrow passage or entry: from
that you get access to the pledge-office. Now then, Multenius's premises
run down one side of this passage: Parslett's run down the other.
Parslett's house has a side-door into it, exactly opposite the door into
Multenius's pledge office. Is that clear, Mr. Purdie?"

"Quite!" answered Purdie. "I understand it exactly."

"Then my theory is, that Parslett saw the real murderer of Daniel
Multenius come out of Multenius's side-door, while he, Parslett, was
standing at his own; that he recognized him, that he tried to blackmail
him yesterday, and that the man contrived to poison him, in such a fashion
that Parslett died shortly after leaving him," said Ayscough, confidently.
"It's but a theory--but I'll lay anything I'm not far out in it!"

"What reason have you for thinking that Parslett blackmailed the
murderer?" asked Purdie.

"This!" answered the detective, with something of triumph in his tone.
"I've been making some enquiries already this morning, early as it is.
When Parslett was picked up and carried to the hospital--this St. Mary's
Hospital, close by here--he was found to have fifty pounds in gold in his
pocket. Now, according to Parslett's widow, whom I've seen this morning,
Parslett was considerably hard up yesterday. Trade hasn't been very good
with him of late, and she naturally knows his circumstances. He went out
of the house last night about nine o'clock, saying he was going to have a
stroll round, and the widow says she's certain he'd no fifty pounds on him
when he left her--it would be a wonder, she says, if he'd as much as fifty
shillings! Now then, Mr. Purdie, where did a man like that pick up fifty
sovereigns between the time he went out, and the time he was picked up,
dying?"

"He might have borrowed it from some friend," suggested Purdie.

"I thought of that, sir," said Ayscough. "It seems the natural thing to
think of. But Mrs. Parslett says they haven't a friend from whom he could
have borrowed such an amount--not one! No, sir!--my belief is that
Parslett saw some man enter and leave Multenius's shop; that he knew the
man; that he went and plumped him with the affair, and that the man gave
him that gold to get rid of him at the moment--and contrived to poison
him, too!"

Purdie considered the proposition for awhile in silence.

"Well," he remarked at last, "if that's so, it seems to establish two
facts--first, that the murderer is some man who lives in this
neighbourhood, and second, that he's an expert in poisons."

"Right, sir!" agreed Ayscough. "Quite right. And it would, of course,
establish another--the innocence of your friend, Lauriston."

Purdie smiled.

"I never had any doubt of that," he said.

"Between ourselves, neither had I," remarked Ayscough heartily. "I told
our people that I, personally, was convinced of the young fellow's
complete innocence from the very first--and it was I who found him in the
shop. It's a most unfortunate thing that he was there, and a sad
coincidence that those rings of his were much of a muchness with the rings
in the tray in the old man's parlour--but I've never doubted him. No,
sir!--I believe all this business goes a lot deeper than that! It's no
common affair--old Daniel Multenius was attacked by somebody--somebody!--
for some special reason--and it's going to take a lot of getting at. And
I'm convinced this Parslett affair is a development--Parslett's been
poisoned because he knew too much."

"You say you don't know what particular poison was used?" asked Purdie.
"It would be something of a clue to know that. Because, if it turned out
to be one of a very subtle nature, that would prove that whoever
administered it had made a special study of poisons."

"I don't know that--yet," answered Ayscough. "But," he continued, rising
from his chair, "if you'd step round with me to the hospital, we might get
to know, now. There's one or two of their specialists been making an
examination. It's only a mere step along the street."

Purdie followed the detective out and along Praed Street. Before they
reached the doors of the hospital, a man came up to Ayscough: a solid,
substantial-looking person, of cautious manner and watchful eye, whose
glance wandered speculatively from the detective to his companion.
Evidently sizing Purdie up as some one in Ayscough's confidence, he spoke
--in the fashion of one who has something as mysterious, as important, to
communicate.

"Beg your pardon, Mr. Ayscough," he said. "A word with you sir. You know
me, Mr. Ayscough?"

Ayscough looked sharply at his questioner.

"Mr. Goodyer, isn't it?" he asked. "Oh, yes, I remember. What is it? You
can speak before this gentleman--it's all right."

"About this affair of last night--Parslett, you know," said Goodyer,
drawing the detective aside, and lowering his voice, so that passers-by
might not hear. "There's something I can tell you--I've heard all about
the matter from Parslett's wife. But I've not told her what I can tell
you, Mr. Ayscough."

"And--what's that?" enquired the detective.

"I'm Parslett's landlord, you know," continued Goodyer. "He's had that
shop and dwelling-house of me for some years. Now, Parslett's not been
doing very well of late, from one cause or another, and to put it in a
nutshell, he owed me half a year's rent. I saw him yesterday, and told him
I must have the money at once: in fact, I pressed him pretty hard about
it.--I'd been at him for two or three weeks, and I could see it was no
good going on. He'd been down in the mouth about it, the last week or so,
but yesterday afternoon he was confident enough. 'Now, you needn't alarm
yourself, Mr. Goodyer,' he said. 'There's a nice bit of money going to be
paid to me tonight, and I'll settle up with you before I stick my head on
the pillow,' he said. 'Tonight, for certain?' says I. 'Before even I go to
bed!' he says. 'I can't fix it to a minute, but you can rely on me calling
at your house in St. Mary's Terrace before eleven o'clock--with the
money.' And he was so certain about it, Mr. Ayscough, that I said no more
than that I should be much obliged, and I'd wait up for him. And,"
concluded Goodyer, "I did wait up--till half-past twelve--but he never
came. So this morning, of course, I walked round here--and then I heard
what happened--about him being picked up dying and since being dead--with
fifty pounds in gold in his pocket. Of course, Mr. Ayscough, that was the
money he referred to."

"You haven't mentioned this to anybody?" asked Ayscough.

"Neither to the widow nor to anybody--but you," replied Goodyer.

"Don't!" said Ayscough. "Keep it to yourself till I give you the word. You
didn't hear anything from Parslett as to where the money was coming from?"

"Not one syllable!" answered Goodyer. "But I could see he was dead sure of
having it."

"Well--keep quiet about it," continued Ayscough. "There'll be an inquest,
you know, and what you have to tell'll come in handy, then. There's some
mystery about all this affair, Mr. Goodyer, and it's going to take some
unravelling."

"You're right!" said Goodyer. "I believe you!"

He went off along the street, and the detective turned to Purdie and
motioned him towards the hospital.

"Queer, all that, sir!" he muttered. "Very queer! But it all tends to
showing that my theory's the right one. Now if you'll just stop in the
waiting-room a few minutes, I'll find out if these doctors have come to
any conclusion about the precise nature of the poison."

Purdie waited for ten minutes, speculating on the curiosities of the
mystery into which he had been so strangely plunged: at last the detective
came back, shaking his head.

"Can't get a definite word out of 'em, yet," he said, as they went away.
"There's two or three of 'em--big experts in--what do you call it--oh,
yes, toxology--putting their heads together over the analysing business,
and they won't say anything so far--they'll leave that to the inquest. But
I gathered this much, Mr. Purdie, from the one I spoke to--this man
Parslett was poisoned in some extremely clever fashion, and by some poison
that's not generally known, which was administered to him probably half-
an-hour before it took effect. What's that argue, sir, but that whoever
gave him that poison is something of an expert? Deep game, Mr. Purdie, a
very deep game indeed!--and now I don't think there's much need to be
anxious about that young friend of yours. I'm certain, anyway, that the
man who poisoned Parslett is the man who killed poor old Daniel Multenius.
But--we shall see."

Purdie parted from Ayscough outside the hospital and walked along to Mrs.
Flitwick's house in Star Street. He met Melky Rubinstein emerging from the
door; Melky immediately pulled out a telegram which he thrust into
Purdie's hand.

"Just come, mister!" exclaimed Melky. "There's a word for you in it--I was
going to your hotel. Read what he says."

Purdie unfolded the pink paper and read.

"On the track all right understand Purdie is in town if he comes to Star
Street explain all to him will wire again later in day."

"Good!" said Purdie. He handed back the telegram and looked meditatively
at Melky. "Are you busy this morning?" he asked.

"Doing no business whatever, mister," lisped Melky, solemnly. "Not until
this business is settled--not me!"

"Come to the hotel with me," continued Purdie. "I want to talk to you
about something."

But when they reached the hotel, all thought of conversation was driven
out of Purdie's mind for the moment. The hall-porter handed him a note,
remarking that it had just come. Purdie's face flushed as he recognized
the handwriting: he turned sharply away and tore open the envelope.
Inside, on a half-sheet of notepaper, were a few lines--from the pretty
governess at Mr. Spencer Levendale's.

"Can you come here at once and ask for me? There is something seriously
wrong: I am much troubled and have no one in London I can consult."

With a hasty excuse to Melky, Purdie ran out of the hotel, and set off in
quick response to the note.



CHAPTER FOURTEEN


THE PRIVATE LABORATORY

As he turned down Spring Street towards Sussex Square, Purdie hastily
reviewed his knowledge of Mr. Spencer Levendale and his family. He had met
them, only two months previously, at a remote and out-of-the-way place in
the Highlands, in a hotel where he and they were almost the only guests.
Under such circumstances, strangers are soon drawn together, and as
Levendale and Purdie had a common interest in fishing they were quickly on
good terms. But Purdie was thinking now as he made his way towards
Levendale's London house that he really knew very little of this man who
was evidently mixed up in some way with the mystery into which young Andie
Lauriston had so unfortunately also become intermingled. He knew that
Levendale was undoubtedly a very wealthy man: there were all the signs of
wealth about him; he had brought several servants down to the Highlands
with him: money appeared to be plentiful with him as pebbles are on a
beach. Purdie learnt bit by bit that Levendale had made a great fortune in
South Africa, that he had come home to England and gone into Parliament;
that he was a widower and the father of two little girls--he learnt, too,
that the children's governess, Miss Elsie Bennett, a pretty and taking
girl of twenty-two or three, had come with them from Cape Town. But of
Levendale's real character and self he knew no more than could be gained
from holiday acquaintance. Certain circumstances told him by Melky about
the rare book left in old Multenius's parlour inclined Purdie to be
somewhat suspicious that Levendale was concealing something which he knew
about that affair--and now here was Miss Bennett writing what, on the face
of it, looked like an appealing letter to him, as if something had
happened.

Purdie knew something had happened as soon as he was admitted to the
house. Levendale's butler, who had accompanied his master to the
Highlands, and had recognized Purdie on his calling the previous day, came
hurrying to him in the hall, as soon as the footman opened the door.

"You haven't seen Mr. Levendale since you were here yesterday, sir?" he
asked, in a low, anxious voice.

"Seen Mr. Levendale? No!" answered Purdie. "Why--what do you mean?"

The butler looked round at a couple of footmen who hung about the door.

"Don't want to make any fuss about it, Mr. Purdie," he whispered, "though
it's pretty well known in the house already. The fact is, sir, Mr.
Levendale's missing!"

"Missing?" exclaimed Purdie. "Since when?"

"Only since last night, sir," replied the butler, "but the circumstances
are queer. He dined out with some City gentlemen, somewhere, last night,
and he came home about ten o'clock. He wasn't in the house long. He went
into his laboratory--he spends a lot of time in experimenting in
chemistry, you know, sir--and he called me in there. 'I'm going out again
for an hour, Grayson,' he says. 'I shall be in at eleven: don't go to bed,
for I want to see you for a minute or two.' Of course, there was nothing
in that, Mr. Purdie, and I waited for him. But he never came home--and no
message came. He never came home at all--and this morning I've telephoned
to his two clubs, and to one or two other places in the City--nobody's
seen or heard anything of him. And I can't think what's happened--it's all
so unlike his habits."

"He didn't tell you where he was going?" asked Purdie.

"No, sir, but he went on foot," answered the butler. "I let him out--he
turned up Paddington way."

"You didn't notice anything out of the common about him?" suggested
Purdie.

The butler hesitated for a moment.

"Well, sir," he said at last, "I did notice something. Come this way, Mr.
Purdie."

Turning away from the hall, he led Purdie through the library in which
Levendale had received Ayscough and his companions into a small room that
opened out of it.

Purdie, looking round him, found that he was standing in a laboratory,
furnished with chemical apparatus of the latest descriptions. Implements
and appliances were on all sides; there were rows of bottles on the
shelves; a library of technical books filled a large book-case; everything
in the place betokened the pursuit of a scientific investigator. And
Purdie's keen sense of smell immediately noted the prevalent atmosphere of
drugs and chemicals.

"It was here that I saw Mr. Levendale last night, sir," said the butler.
"He called me in. He was measuring something from one of those bottles
into a small phial, Mr. Purdie--he put the phial in his waistcoat pocket.
Look at those bottles, sir--you'll see they all contain poison!--you can
tell that by the make of 'em."

Purdie glanced at the shelf which the butler indicated. The bottles ranged
on it were all of blue glass, and all triangular in shape, and each bore a
red label with the word _Poison_ prominently displayed.

"Odd!" he said. "You've some idea?" he went on, looking closely at the
butler. "Something on your mind about this? What is it?"

The butler shook his head.

"Well, sir," he answered, "when you see a gentleman measuring poison into
a phial, which he carefully puts in his pocket, and when he goes out, and
when he never comes back, and when you can't hear of him, anywhere! why,
what are you to think? Looks strange, now, doesn't it, Mr. Purdie?"

"I don't know Mr. Levendale well enough to say," replied Purdie. "There
may be some quite good reason for Mr. Levendale's absence. He'd no trouble
of any sort, had he?"

"He seemed a bit upset, once or twice, yesterday--and the night before,"
said the butler. "I noticed it--in little things. Well!--I can't make it
out, sir. You see, I've been with him ever since he came back to England--
some years now--and I know his habits, thoroughly. However, we can only
wait--I believe Miss Bennett sent for you, Mr. Purdie?"

"Yes," said Purdie. "She did."

"This way, sir," said the butler. "Miss Bennett's alone, now--the children
have just gone out with their nurses."

He led Purdie through the house to a sitting-room looking out on the
garden of the Square, and ushered him into the governess's presence.

"I've told Mr. Purdie all about it, miss," he said, confidentially.
"Perhaps you'll talk it over with him! I can't think of anything more to
do--until we hear something."

Left alone, Purdie and Elsie Bennett looked at each other as they shook
hands. She was a fair, slender girl, naturally shy and retiring; she was
manifestly shy at renewing her acquaintance with Purdie, and Purdie
himself, conscious of his own feelings towards her, felt a certain
embarrassment and awkwardness.

"You sent for me," he said brusquely. "I came the instant I got your note.
Grayson kept me talking downstairs. You're bothered--about Mr. Levendale?"

"Yes," she answered. Then she pointed to a chair. "Won't you sit down?"
she said, and took a chair close by. "I sent for you, because--it may seem
strange, but it's a fact!--I couldn't think of anybody else! It seemed so
fortunate that you were in London--and close by. I felt that--that I could
depend on you."

"Thank you," said Purdie. "Well--you can! And what is it?"

"Grayson's told you about Mr. Levendale's going out last night, and never
coming back, nor sending any message?" she continued. "As Grayson says,
considering Mr. Levendale's habits, that is certainly very strange! But--I
want to tell you something beyond that--I must tell somebody! And I know
that if I tell you you'll keep it secret--until, or unless you think you
ought to tell it to--the police!"

Purdie started.

"The police!" he exclaimed. "What is it?"

Elsie Bennett turned to a table, and picked up a couple of newspapers.

"Have you read this Praed Street mystery affair?" she asked. "I mean the
account of the inquest?"

"Every word--and heard more, besides," answered Purdie. "That young
fellow, Andie Lauriston, is an old schoolmate and friend of mine. I came
here yesterday to see him, and found him plunged into this business. Of
course, he's absolutely innocent."

"Has he been arrested?" asked Elsie, almost eagerly.

"No!" replied Purdie. "He's gone away--to get evidence that those rings
which are such a feature of the case are really his and were his
mother's."

"Have you noticed these particulars, at the end of the inquest, about the
book which was found in the pawnbroker's parlour?" she went on. "The
Spanish manuscript?"

"Said to have been lost by Mr. Levendale in an omnibus," answered Purdie.
"Yes! What of it?"

The girl bent nearer to him.

"It seems a dreadful thing to say," she whispered, "but I must tell
somebody--I can't, I daren't keep it to myself any longer! Mr. Levendale
isn't telling the truth about that book!"

Purdie involuntarily glanced at the door--and drew his chair nearer to
Elsie's.

"You're sure of that?" he whispered. "Just so! Now--in what way?"

"It says here," answered Elsie, tapping the newspapers with her finger,
"that Mr. Levendale lost this book in a 'bus, which he left at the corner
of Chapel Street, and that he was so concerned about the loss that he
immediately sent advertisements off to every morning newspaper in London.
The last part of that is true--the first part is not true! Mr. Levendale
did not lose his book--he did not leave it in the 'bus! I'm sorry to have
to say it--but all that is invention on his part--why, I don't know."

Purdie had listened to this with a growing feeling of uneasiness and
suspicion. The clouds centring round Levendale were certainly thickening.

"Now, just tell me--how do you know all this?" he asked. "Rely on me--to
the full!"

"I'll tell you," replied Elsie, readily. "Because, about four o'clock on
the afternoon of the old man's death, I happened to be at the corner of
Chapel Street. I saw Mr. Levendale get out of the 'bus. He did not see me.
He crossed Edgware Road and walked rapidly down Praed Street. And--he was
carrying that book in his hand!"

"You're sure it was that book?" asked Purdie.

"According to the description given in this account and in the
advertisement--yes," she answered. "I noticed the fine binding. Although
Mr. Levendale didn't see me--there were a lot of people about--I was close
to him. I am sure it was the book described here."

"And--he went in the direction of the pawnshop?" said Purdie. "What on
earth does it all mean? What did he mean by advertising for the book,
when--"

Before he could say more, a knock came at the door, and the butler
entered, bearing an open telegram in his hand. His face wore an expression
of relief.

"Here's a wire from Mr. Levendale, Miss Bennett," he said. "It's addressed
to me. He says, 'Shall be away from home, on business, for a few days. Let
all go on as usual.' That's better, miss! But," continued Grayson, glancing
at Purdie, "it's still odd--for do you see, sir, where that wire has been
sent from? Spring Street--close by!"



CHAPTER FIFTEEN


CONFERENCE

Purdie was already sufficiently acquainted with the geography of the
Paddington district to be aware of the significance of Grayson's remark.
The Spring Street Post Office, at which Levendale's wire had been handed
in, was only a few minutes' walk from the house. It stood, in fact, between
Purdie's hotel and Sussex Square, and he had passed it on his way to
Levendale's. It was certainly odd that a man who was within five minutes'
walk of his own house should send a telegram there, when he had nothing to
do but walk down one street and turn the corner of another to give his
message in person.

"Sent off, do you see, sir, twenty minutes ago," observed the butler,
pointing to some figures in the telegram form. "So--Mr. Levendale must
have been close by--then!"

"Not necessarily," remarked Purdie. "He may have sent a messenger with
that wire--perhaps he himself was catching a train at Paddington."

Grayson shook his head knowingly.

"There's a telegraph office on the platform there, sir," he answered.
"However--there it is, and I suppose there's no more to be done."

He left the room again, and Purdie looked at the governess. She, too,
looked at him: there was a question in the eyes of both.

"What do you make of that?" asked Purdie after a pause.

"What do you make of it?" she asked in her turn.

"It looks odd--but there may be a reason for it," he answered. "Look
here!--I'm going to ask you a question. What do you know of Mr. Levendale?
You've been governess to his children for some time, haven't you?"

"For six months before he left Cape Town, and ever since we all came to
England, three years ago," she answered. "I know that he's very rich, and
a very busy man, and a member of Parliament, and that he goes to the City
a great deal--and that's all! He's a very reserved man, too--of course, he
never tells me anything. I've never had any conversation with him
excepting about the children."

"You're upset about this book affair?" suggested Purdie.

"Why should Mr. Levendale say that he left that book in the omnibus, when
I myself saw him leave the 'bus with it in his hand, and go down Praed
Street with it?" she asked. "Doesn't it look as if he were the person who
left it in that room--where the old man was found lying dead?"

"That, perhaps, is the very reason why he doesn't want people to know that
he did leave it there," remarked Purdie, quietly. "There's more in all
this than lies on the surface. You wanted my advice? Very well don't say
anything to anybody till you see me again. I must go now--there's a man
waiting for me at my hotel. I may call again, mayn't I?"

"Do!" she said, giving him her hand. "I am bothered about this--it's
useless to deny it--and I've no one to talk to about it. Come--any time."

Purdie repressed a strong desire to stay longer, and to turn the
conversation to more personal matters. But he was essentially a business
man, and the matters of the moment seemed to be critical. So he promised
to return, and then hurried back to his hotel--to find Melky Rubinstein
pacing up and down outside the entrance.

Purdie tapped Melky's shoulder and motioned him to walk along Praed
Street.

"Look here!" he said. "I want you to take me to see your cousin--and the
pawnshop. We must have a talk--you said your cousin's a good business
woman. She's the sort we can discuss business with, eh?"

"My cousin Zillah Wildrose, mister," answered Melky, solemnly, "is one of
the best! She's a better headpiece on her than what I have--and that's
saying a good deal. I was going to suggest you should come there. Talk!--
s'elp me, Mr. Purdie, it strikes me there'll be a lot of that before we've
done. What about this here affair of last night?--I've just seen Mr.
Ayscough, passing along--he's told me all about it. Do you think it's
anything to do with our business?"

"Can't say," answered Purdie. "Wait till we can discuss matters with your
cousin."

Melky led the way to the side-door of the pawnshop. Since the old man's
death, the whole establishment had been closed--Zillah had refused to do
any business until her grandfather's funeral was over. She received her
visitors in the parlour where old Daniel had been found dead: after a
moment's inspection of her, and the exchange of a few remarks about
Lauriston, Purdie suggested that they should all sit down and talk matters
over.

"Half-a-mo!" said Melky. "If we're going to have a cabinet council,
mister, there's a lady that I want to bring into it--Mrs. Goldmark. I know
something that Mrs. Goldmark can speak to--I've just been considering
matters while I was waiting for you, Mr. Purdie, and I'm going to tell you
and Zillah, and Mrs. Goldmark, of a curious fact that I know of. I'll
fetch her--and while I'm away Zillah'll show you that there book what was
found there."

Purdie looked with interest at the Spanish manuscript which seemed to be a
factor of such importance.

"I suppose you never saw this before?" he asked, as Zillah laid it on the
table before him. "And you're certain it wasn't in the place when you went
out that afternoon, leaving your grandfather alone?"

"That I'm positive of," answered Zillah. "I never saw it in my life until
my attention was drawn to it after he was dead. That book was brought in
here during my absence, and it was neither bought nor pawned--that's
absolutely certain! Of course, you know whose book it is?"

"Mr. Spencer Levendale's," answered Purdie. "Yes I know all those
particulars--and about his advertisements for it, and a little more. And I
want to discuss all that with you and your cousin. This Mrs. Goldmark--she's
to be fully trusted?"

Zillah replied that Mrs. Goldmark was worthy of entire confidence, and an
old friend, and Melky presently returning with her, Purdie suggested they
should all sit down and talk--informally and in strict privacy.

"You know why I'm concerning myself in this?" he said, looking round at
his three companions. "I'm anxious that Andie Lauriston should be fully
and entirely cleared! I've great faith in him--he's beginning what I
believe will be a successful career, and it would be a terrible thing if
any suspicion rested on him. So I want, for his sake, to thoroughly clear
up this mystery about your relative's death."

"Mister!" said Melky, in his most solemn tones. "Speaking for my cousin
there, and myself, there ain't nothing what we wouldn't do to clear Mr.
Lauriston! We ain't never had one moment's suspicion of him from the
first, knowing the young fellow as we do. So we're with you in that
matter, ain't we, Zillah?"

"Mr. Purdie feels sure of that," agreed Zillah, with a glance at
Lauriston's old schoolmate. "There's no need to answer him, Melky."

"I am sure!" said Purdie. "So--let's put our wits together--we'll consider
the question of approaching the police when we've talked amongst
ourselves. Now--I want to ask you some very private questions. They spring
out of that rare book there. There's no doubt that book belongs to Mr.
Levendale. Do either of you know if Mr. Levendale had any business
relations with the late Mr. Rubinstein?"

Zillah shook her head.

"None!--that I know of," she answered. "I've helped my grandfather in this
business for some time. I never heard him mention Mr. Levendale. Mr.
Levendale never came here, certainly."

Melky shook his head, too.

"When Mr. Ayscough, and Mr. Lauriston, and me went round to Sussex Square,
to see Mr. Levendale about that advertisement for his book," he remarked,
"he said he'd never heard of Daniel Multenius. That's a fact, mister!"

"Had Mr. Multenius any private business relations of which he didn't tell
you?" asked Purdie, turning to Zillah.

"He might have had," admitted Zillah. "He was out a good deal. I don't
know what he might do when he went out. He was--close. We--it's no use
denying it--we don't know all about it. His solicitor's making some
enquiries--I expect him here, any time, today."

"It comes to this," observed Purdie. "Your grandfather met his death by
violence, the man who attacked him came in here during your absence. The
question I want to get solved is--was the man who undoubtedly left that
book here the guilty man? If so--who is he?"

Melky suddenly broke the silence which followed upon this question.

"I'm going to tell something that I ain't told to nobody as yet!" he said.
"Not even to Zillah. After this here parlour had been cleared, I took a
look round. I've very sharp eyes, Mr. Purdie. I found this here--half-
hidden under the rug there, where the poor old man had been lying." He
pulled out the platinum solitaire, laid it on the palm of one hand, and
extended the hand to Mrs. Goldmark. "You've seen the like of that before,
ain't you?" asked Melky.

"Mercy be upon us!" gasped Mrs. Goldmark, starting in her seat. "I've the
fellow to it lying in my desk!"

"And it was left on a table in your restaurant," continued Melky, "by a
man what looked like a Colonial party--I know!--I saw it by accident in
your place the other night, and one o' your girls told me. Now then, Mr.
Purdie, here's a bit more of puzzlement--and perhaps a clue. These here
platinum solitaire cuff-links are valuable--they're worth--well, I'd give
a good few pounds for the pair. Now who's the man who lost one in this
here parlour--right there!--and the other in Mrs. Goldmark's restaurant?
For--it's a pair! There's no doubt about that, mister!--there's that same
curious and unusual device on each. Mister!--them studs has at some time
or other been made to special order!"

Purdie turned the solitaire over, and looked at Zillah.

"Have you ever seen anything like this before?" he asked.

"Never!" said Zillah. "It's as Melky says--specially made."

"And you have its fellow--lost in your restaurant?" continued Purdie,
turning to Mrs. Goldmark.

"Its very marrow," assented Mrs. Goldmark, fervently, "is in my desk! It
was dropped on one of our tables a few afternoons ago by a man who, as Mr.
Rubinstein says, looked like one of those Colonials. Leastways, my
waitress, Rosa, she picked it up exactly where he'd been sitting. So I put
it away till he comes in again, you see. Oh, yes!"

"Has he been in again?" asked Purdie.

"Never was he inside my door before!" answered Mrs. Goldmark dramatically.
"Never has he been inside it since! But--I keep his property, just so. In
my desk it is!"

Purdie considered this new evidence in silence for a moment.

"The question now is--this," he said presently. "Is the man who seems
undoubtedly to have dropped those studs the same man who brought that book
in here? Or, had Mr. Multenius two callers here during your absence, Miss
Wildrose? And--who is this mysterious man who dropped the studs--valuable
things, with a special device on them? He'll have to be traced! Mrs.
Goldmark--can you describe him, particularly?"

Before Mrs. Goldmark could reply, a knock came at the side-door, and
Zillah, going to answer it, returned presently with a middle-aged, quiet-
looking, gold-spectacled gentleman whom she introduced to Purdie as Mr.
Penniket, solicitor to the late Daniel Multenius.



CHAPTER SIXTEEN


THE DETECTIVE CALLS

Mr. Penniket, to whom the two cousins and Mrs. Goldmark were evidently
very well known, looked a polite enquiry at the stranger as he took the
chair which Melky drew forward for him.

"As Mr. Purdie is presumably discussing this affair with you," he
observed, "I take it that you intend him to hear anything I have to tell?"

"That's so, Mr. Penniket," answered Melky. "Mr. Purdie's one of us, so to
speak--you can tell us anything you like, before him. We were going into
details when you come--there's some strange business on, Mr. Penniket! And
we want to get a bit clear about it before we tell the police what we
know."

"You know something that they don't know?" asked Mr. Penniket.

"More than a bit!" replied Melky, laconically. "This here affair's
revolving itself into a network, mister, out of which somebody's going to
find it hard work to break through!"

The solicitor, who had been quietly inspecting Purdie, gave him a sly
smile.

"Then before I tell you what I have just found out," he said, turning to
Melky, "I think you had better tell me all you know, and what you have
been discussing. Possibly, I may have something to tell which bears on our
knowledge. Let us be clear!"

He listened carefully while Purdie, at Zillah's request, told him briefly
what had been said before his arrival, and Purdie saw at once that none of
the facts surprised him. He asked Mrs. Goldmark one or two questions about
the man who was believed to have dropped one of his cuff-links in her
restaurant; he asked Melky a question as to his discovery of the other; he
made no comment on the answers which they gave him. Finally, he drew his
chair nearer to the table at which they were sitting, and invited their
attention with a glance.

"There is no doubt," he said, "that the circumstances centring round the
death of my late client are remarkably mysterious! What we want to get at,
put into a nut-shell, is just this--what happened in this parlour between
half-past four and half-past five on Monday afternoon? We might even
narrow that down to--what happened between ten minutes to five and ten
minutes past five? Daniel Multenius was left alone--we know that. Some
person undoubtedly came in here--perhaps more than one person came. Who
was the person? Were there two persons? If there were two, did they come
together--or singly, separately? All that will have to be solved before we
find out who it was that assaulted my late client, and so injured him that
he died under the shock. Now, Miss Wildrose, and Mr. Rubinstein, there's
one fact which you may as well get into your minds at once. Your deceased
relative had his secrets!"

Neither Zillah nor Purdie made any comment on this, and the solicitor,
with a meaning look at Purdie, went on. "Not that Daniel Multenius
revealed any of them to me!" he continued. "I have acted for him in legal
matters for some years, but only in quite an ordinary way. He was a well-
to-do man, Mr. Purdie--a rich man, in fact, and a considerable property
owner--I did all his work of that sort. But as regards his secrets, I know
nothing--except that since yesterday, I have discovered that he certainly
had them. I have, as Miss Wildrose knows--and by her instructions--been
making some enquiries at the bank where Mr. Multenius kept his account--
the Empire and Universal, in Lombard Street--and I have made some curious
unearthings in the course of them. Now then, between ourselves--Mr. Purdie
being represented to me as in your entire confidence--I may as well tell
you that Daniel Multenius most certainly had dealings of a business nature
completely outside his business as jeweller and pawnbroker in this shop.
That's positively certain. And what is also certain is that in some of
those dealings he was, in some way or another, intimately associated with
the man whose name has already come up a good deal since Monday--Mr.
Spencer Levendale!"

"S'elp me!" muttered Melky. "I heard Levendale, with my own two ears, say
that he didn't know the poor old fellow!"

"Very likely," said Mr. Penniket, drily. "It was not convenient to him--we
will assume--to admit that he did, just then. But I have discovered--from
the bankers--that precisely two years ago, Mr. Spencer Levendale paid to
Daniel Multenius a sum of ten thousand pounds. That's a fact!"

"For what, mister?" demanded Melky.

"Can't say--nobody can say," answered the solicitor. "All the same, he
did--paid it in, himself, to Daniel Multenius's credit, at the Empire and
Universal. It went into the ordinary account, in the ordinary way, and was
used by Mr. Multenius as part of his own effects--as no doubt it was.
Now," continued Mr. Penniket, turning to Zillah, "I want to ask you a
particular question. I know you had assisted your grandfather a great deal
of late years. Had you anything to do with his banking account?"

"No!" replied Zillah, promptly. "That's the one thing I never had anything
to do with. I never saw his pass-book, nor his deposit-book, nor even his
cheque-book. He kept all that to himself."

"Just so," said Mr. Penniket. "Then, of course, you don't know that he
dealt with considerable sums--evidently quite outside this business. He
made large--sometimes very heavy--payments. And--this, I am convinced, is
of great importance to the question we are trying to solve--most of these
payments were sent to South Africa."

The solicitor glanced round his audience as if anxious to see that its
various members grasped the significance of this announcement. And Melky
at once voiced the first impression of, at any rate, three of them.

"Levendale comes from those parts!" he muttered. "Came here some two or
three years ago--by all I can gather."

"Just so," said Mr. Penniket. "Therefore, possibly this South African
business, in which my late client was undoubtedly engaged, is connected
with Mr. Levendale. That can be found out. But I have still more to tell
you--perhaps, considering everything, the most important matter of the
whole lot. On Monday morning last--that would be a few hours before his
death--Mr. Multenius called at the bank and took from it a small packet
which he had entrusted to his banker's keeping only a fortnight
previously. The bankers do not know what was in that packet--he had more
than once got them to take care of similar packets at one time or another.
But they described it to me just now. A packet, evidently enclosing a
small, hard box, some four or five inches square in all directions,
wrapped in strong cartridge paper, and heavily sealed with red wax. It
bore Mr. Multenius's name and address--written by himself. Now, then, Miss
Wildrose--he took that packet away from the bank at about twelve-thirty on
Monday noon. Have you seen anything of it?"

"Nothing!" answered Zillah with certainty. "There's no such packet here,
Mr. Penniket. I've been through everything--safes, drawers, chests, since
my grandfather died, and I've not found anything that I didn't know of. I
remember that he went out last Monday morning--he was away two hours, and
came in again about a quarter past one, but I never saw such a packet in
his possession as that you describe. I know nothing of it."

"Well," said the solicitor, after a pause, "there are the facts. And the
question now is--ought we not to tell all this to the police, at once?
This connection of Levendale with my late client--as undoubted as it seems
to have been secret--needs investigation. According to Mr. Purdie here--
Levendale has suddenly disappeared--or, at any rate, left home under
mysterious circumstances. Has that disappearance anything to do with
Multenius's death? Has it anything to do with the death of this next door
man, Parslett, last night? And has Levendale any connections with the
strange man who dropped one platinum solitaire stud in Mrs. Goldmark's
restaurant, and another in this parlour?"

No one attempted to answer these questions for a moment; then, Melky, as
if seized with a sudden inspiration, smote the table and leaned over it
towards the solicitor.

"Mr. Penniket!" he said, glancing around him as if to invite approval of
what he was about to say. "You're a lawyer, mister!--you can put things in
order and present 'em as if they was in a catalogue! Take the whole
business to New Scotland Yard, sir!--let the big men at headquarters have
a go at it. That's what I say! There's some queer mystery at the bottom of
all this, Mr. Penniket, and it ain't a one-man job. Go to the Yard,
mister--let 'em try their brains on it!"

Zillah made a murmured remark which seemed to second her cousin's
proposal, and Mr. Penniket turned to Purdie.

"I understand you to be a business man," he remarked. "What do you say?"

"As far as I can put things together," answered Purdie, "I fully agree
that there is some extraordinary mystery round and about Mr. Multenius's
death. And as the detective force at New Scotland Yard exists for the
solution of such problems--why, I should certainly tell the authorities
there everything that is known. Why not?"

"Very good," said Mr. Penniket. "Then it will be well if you two come with
me. The more information we can give to the heads of the Criminal
Investigation Department, the better. We'll go there at once."

In a few moments, the three men had gone, and Zillah and Mrs. Goldmark,
left alone, looked at each other.

"Mrs. Goldmark!" said Zillah, after a long silence. "Did you see that man,
yourself, who's supposed to have dropped that platinum solitaire in your
restaurant?"

"Did I see him?" exclaimed Mrs. Goldmark. "Do I see you, Zillah? See him I
did!--though never before, and never since! And ain't I the good memory
for faces--and won't I know him again if he comes my way? Do you know
what?--I ain't never forgotten a face what I've once looked at! Comes from
keeping an eye on customers who looks as if they might have forgot to
bring their moneys with 'em!"

"Well, I hope you'll see this man again," remarked Zillah. "I'd give a lot
to get all the mystery cleared up."

Mrs. Goldmark observed that mysteries were not cleared up in a day, and
presently went away to see that her business was being conducted properly.
She was devoting herself to Zillah in very neighbourly fashion just then,
but she had to keep running into the restaurant every hour or two to keep
an eye on things. And during one of her absences, later in the early
evening of that day, Zillah, alone in the house, answered a knock at the
door, and opening it found Ayscough outside. His look betokened news, and
Zillah led him into the parlour.

"Alone?" asked Ayscough. "Aye, well, I've something to tell you that I
want you to keep to yourself--for a bit, anyway. Those rings, you know,
that the young fellow, Lauriston, says are his, and had been his
mother's?"

"Well?" said Zillah, faintly, and half-conscious of some coming bad news.
"What of them?"

"Our people," continued the detective, "have had some expert chap--
jeweller, or something of that sort, examining those rings, and comparing
them with the rings that are in your tray. And in that tray there are
several rings which have a private mark inside them. Now, then!--those two
rings which Lauriston claims are marked in exactly the same fashion!"



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN


WHAT THE LAMPS SHONE ON

Zillah leaned suddenly back against the table by which she was standing,
and Ayscough, who was narrowly watching the effect of his news, saw her
turn very pale. She stood staring at him during a moment's silence; then
she let a sharp exclamation escape her lips, and in the same instant her
colour came back--heightened from surprise and indignation.

"Impossible!" she said. "I can't believe it; There may be marks inside our
rings--that's likely enough. But how could those marks correspond with the
marks in his rings?"

"I tell you it is so!" answered Ayscough. "I've seen the marks in both--
with my own eyes. It occurred to one of our bosses this evening to have
all the rings carefully examined by an expert--he got a man from one of
the jeweller's shops in Edgware Road. This chap very soon pointed out that
inside the two rings which young Lauriston says are his, and come to him
from his mother, are certain private marks--jewellers' marks, this man
called 'em--which are absolutely identical with similar marks which are
inside some of the rings in the tray which was found on this table. That's
a fact!--I tell you I've seen 'em--all! And--you see the significance of
it! Of course, our people are now dead certain that young Lauriston's
story is false, and that he grabbed those two rings out of that tray.
See?"

"Are you certain of it--yourself?" demanded Zillah.

Ayscough hesitated and finally shook his head.

"Well, between ourselves, I'm not!" he answered. "I've a feeling from the
first, that the lad's innocent enough. But it's a queer thing--and it's
terribly against him. And--what possible explanation can there be?"

"You say you've seen those marks," said Zillah. "Would you know them
again--on other goods?"

"I should!" replied Ayscough. "I can tell you what they are. There's the
letter M. and then two crosses--one on each side of the letter. Very
small, you know, and worn, too--this man I'm talking of used some sort of
a magnifying glass."

Zillah turned away and went into the shop, which was all in darkness.
Ayscough, waiting, heard the sound of a key being turned, then of a
metallic tinkling; presently the girl came back, carrying a velvet-lined
tray in one hand, and a jeweller's magnifying glass in the other.

"The rings in that tray you're talking about--the one you took away--are
all very old stock," she remarked. "I've heard my grandfather say he'd had
some of them thirty years or more. Here are some similar ones--we'll see
if they're marked in the same fashion."

Five minutes later, Zillah had laid aside several rings marked in the way
Ayscough had indicated, and she turned from them to him with a look of
alarm.

"I can't understand it!" she exclaimed. "I know that these rings, and
those in that tray at the police-station, are part of old stock that my
grandfather had when he came here. He used to have a shop, years ago, in
the City--I'm not quite sure where, exactly--and this is part of the stock
he brought from it. But, how could Mr. Lauriston's rings bear those marks?
Because, from what I know of the trade, those are private marks--my
grandfather's private marks!"

"Well, just so--and you can imagine what our people are inclined to say
about it," said the detective. "They say now that the two rings which
Lauriston claims never were his nor his mother's, but that he stole them
out of your grandfather's tray. They're fixed on that, now."

"What will they do?" asked Zillah, anxiously. "Is he in danger?"

Ayscough gave her a knowing look.

"Between you and me," he said, lowering his voice to a whisper, "I came
around here privately--on my own hook, you know. I should be sorry if this
really is fixed on the young fellow--there's a mystery, but it may be
cleared up. Now, he's gone off to find somebody who can prove that those
rings really were his mother's. You, no doubt, know where he's gone?"

"Yes--but I'm not going to tell," said Zillah firmly. "Don't ask me!"

"Quite right--I don't want to know myself," answered Ayscough. "And you'll
probably have an idea when he's coming back? All right--take a tip from
me. Keep him out of the way a bit--stop him from coming into this
district. Let him know all about those marks--and if he can clear that up,
well and good. You understand?--and of course, all this is between you and
me."

"You're very good, Mr. Ayscough," replied Zillah, warmly. "I won't forget
your kindness. And I'm certain this about the marks can be cleared up--but
I don't know how!"

"Well--do as I say," said the detective. "Just give the tip to your cousin
Melky, and to that young Scotch gentleman--let 'em keep Lauriston out of
the way for a few days. In the meantime--this is a very queer case!--
something may happen that'll fix the guilt on somebody else--conclusively.
I've my own ideas and opinions--but we shall see. Maybe we shall see a
lot--and everybody'll be more astonished than they're thinking for."

With this dark and sinister hint, Ayscough went away, and Zillah took the
rings back to the shop, and locked them up again. And then she sat down to
wait for Mrs. Goldmark--and to think. She had never doubted Lauriston's
story for one moment, and she did not doubt it now. But she was quick to
see the serious significance of what the detective had just told her and
she realized that action must be taken on the lines he had suggested. And
so, having made herself ready for going out, she excused herself to Mrs.
Goldmark when that good lady returned, and without saying anything to her
as to the nature of her errand, hurried round to Star Street, to find
Melky Rubinstein and tell him of the new development.

Mrs. Flitwick herself opened the door to Zillah and led her into the
narrow passage. But at the mention of Melky she shook her head.

"I ain't set eyes on Mr. Rubinstein not since this morning, miss," said
she. "He went out with that young Scotch gentleman what come here
yesterday asking for Mr. Lauriston, and he's never been in again--not even
to put his nose inside the door. And at twelve o'clock there come a
telegram for him--which it was the second that come this morning. The
first, of course, he got before he went out; the one that come at noon's
awaiting him. No--I ain't seen him all day!"

Zillah's quick wits were instantly at work as soon as she heard of the
telegram.

"Oh, I know all about that wire, Mrs. Flitwick!" she exclaimed. "It's as
much for me as for my cousin. Give it to me--and if Mr. Rubinstein comes
in soon--or when he comes--tell him I've got it, and ask him to come round
to me immediately--it's important."

Mrs. Flitwick produced the telegram at once, and Zillah, repeating her
commands about Melky, hurried away with it. But at the first street lamp
she paused, and tore open the envelope, and pulled out the message. As she
supposed, it was from Lauriston, and had been handed in at Peebles at
eleven o'clock that morning.

"Got necessary information returning at once meet me at King's Cross at
nine-twenty this evening. L."

Zillah looked at her watch. It was then ten minutes to nine. There was
just half an hour before Lauriston's train was due. Without a moment's
hesitation, she turned back along Star Street, hurried into Edgware Road
and hailing the first taxi-cab she saw, bade its driver to get to the
Great Northern as fast as possible. Whatever else happened, Lauriston must
be met and warned.

The taxi-cab made good headway along the Marylebone and Euston Roads, and
the hands of the clock over the entrance to King's Cross had not yet
indicated a quarter past nine when Zillah was set down close by. She
hurried into the station, and to the arrival platform. All the way along
in the cab she had been wondering what to do when she met Lauriston--not
as to what she should tell him, for that was already settled, but as to
what to advise him to do about following Ayscough's suggestion and keeping
out of the way, for awhile. She had already seen enough of him to know
that he was naturally of high spirit and courage, and that he would hate
the very idea of hiding, or of seeming to run away. Yet, what other course
was open if he wished to avoid arrest? Zillah, during her short business
experience had been brought in contact with the police authorities and
their methods more than once, and she knew that there is nothing the
professional detective likes so much as to follow the obvious--as the
easiest and safest. She had been quick to appreciate all that Ayscough
told her--she knew how the police mind would reason about it: it would be
quite enough for it to know that on the rings which Andy Lauriston said
were his there were marks which were certainly identical with those on her
grandfather's property: now that the police authorities were in possession
of that fact, they would go for Lauriston without demur or hesitation,
leaving all the other mysteries and ramifications of the Multenius affair
to be sorted, or to sort themselves, at leisure. One thing was certain--
Andie Lauriston was in greater danger now than at any moment since
Ayscough found him leaving the shop, and she must save him--against his
own inclinations if need be.

But before the train from the North was due, Zillah was fated to have yet
another experience. She had taken up a position directly beneath a
powerful lamp at the end of the arrival platform, so that Lauriston, who
would be obliged to pass that way, could not fail to see her. Suddenly
turning, to glance at the clock in the roof behind her, she was aware of a
man, young, tall, athletic, deeply bronzed, as from long contact with the
Southern sun, who stood just behind a knot of loungers, his heavy overcoat
and the jacket beneath it thrown open, feeling in his waistcoat pockets as
if for his match-box--an unlighted cigar protruded from the corner of his
rather grim, determined lips. But it was not at lips, nor at the cigar,
nor at the searching fingers that Zillah looked, after that first
comprehensive glance--her eyes went straight to an object which shone in
the full glare of the lamp above her head. The man wore an old-fashioned,
double-breasted fancy waistcoat, but so low as to reveal a good deal of
his shirt-front. And in that space, beneath his bird's-eye blue tie,
loosely knotted in a bow, Zillah saw a stud, which her experienced eyes
knew to be of platinum, and on it was engraved the same curious device
which she had seen once before that day--on the solitaire exhibited by
Melky.

The girl was instantly certain that here was the man who had visited Mrs.
Goldmark's eating-house. Her first instinct was to challenge him with the
fact--but as she half moved towards him, he found his match-box, struck a
match, and began to light his cigar. And just then came the great engine
of the express, panting its way to a halt beside them, and with it the
folk on the platform began to stir, and Zillah was elbowed aside. Her
situation was perplexing--was she to watch the man and perhaps lose
Lauriston in the crowd already passing from the train, or--

The man was still leisurely busy with his cigar, and Zillah turned and
went a few steps up the platform. She suddenly caught sight of Lauriston,
and running towards him gripped his arm, and drew him to the lamp. But in
that moment of indecision, the man had vanished.



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN


MR. STUYVESANT GUYLER

Lauriston, surprised beyond a little at seeing Zillah, found his surprise
turned into amazement as she seized his arm and forced him along the
platform, careless of the groups of passengers and the porters, crowding
about the baggage vans.

"What is it?" he demanded. "Has something happened? Where are we going?"

But Zillah held on determinedly, her eyes fixed ahead.

"Quick!" she said, pantingly. "A man I saw just now! He was there--he's
gone--while I looked for you. We must find him! He must have gone this
way. Andie!--look for him! A tall, clean-shaven man in a slouched hat and
a heavy travelling coat--a foreigner of some sort. Oh, look!"

It was the first time she had called Lauriston by his name, and he gave
her arm an involuntary pressure as they hastened along.

"But why?" he asked. "Who is he--what do you want with him? What's it all
about?"

"Oh, find him!" she exclaimed. "You don't know how important it is! If I
lose sight of him now, I'll very likely never see him again. And he must
be found--and stopped--for your sake!"

They had come to the end of the platform, by that time, and Lauriston
looked left and right in search of the man described. Suddenly he twisted
Zillah round.

"Is that he--that fellow talking to another man?" he asked. "See him--
there?"

"Yes!" said Zillah. She saw the man of the platinum stud again, and on
seeing him, stopped dead where she was, holding Lauriston back. The man,
leisurely smoking his cigar, was chatting to another man, who, from the
fact that he was carrying a small suit-case in one hand and a rug over the
other arm, had evidently come in by the just-arrived express. "Yes!" she
continued. "That's the man! And--we've just got to follow him wherever he
goes!"

"What on earth for?" asked Lauriston. "What mystery's this? Who is he?"

At that moment the two men parted, with a cordial handshake; the man of
the suit-case and the rug turned towards the stairs which led to the
underground railway; the other man walked slowly away through the front of
the station in the direction of the Great Northern Hotel. And Zillah
immediately dragged Lauriston after him, keeping a few yards' distance,
but going persistently forward. The man in front crossed the road, and
strode towards the portico of the hotel--and Zillah suddenly made up her
mind.

"We've got to speak to that man!" she said. "Don't ask why, now--you'll
know in a few minutes. Ask him if he'll speak to me?"

Lauriston caught up the stranger as he set foot on the steps leading to
the hotel door. He felt uncomfortable and foolish--but Zillah's tone left
him no option but to obey.

"I beg your pardon," said Lauriston, as politely as possible, "but--this
lady is very anxious to speak to you."

The man turned, glanced at Zillah, who had hurried up, and lifted his
slouched hat with a touch of old-fashioned courtesy. There was a strong
light burning just above them: in its glare all three looked at each
other. The stranger smiled--a little wonderingly.

"Why, sure!" he said in accents that left no doubt of his American origin.
"I'd be most happy. You're not mistaking me for somebody else?"

Zillah was already flushed with embarrassment. Now that she had run her
quarry to earth, and so easily, she scarcely knew what to do with it.

"You'll think this very strange," she said, stammeringly, "but if you
don't mind telling me something?--you see, I saw you just now in the
station, when you were feeling for your match-box, and I noticed that you
wore a platinum stud--with an unusual device on it."

The American laughed--a good-natured, genial laugh--and threw open his
coat. At the same moment he thrust his wrists forward.

"This stud!" he said. "That's so!--it is platinum, and the device is
curious. And the device is right there, too, see--on those solitaire cuff-
studs! But--"

He paused looking at Zillah, whose eyes were now fastened on the cuff-
studs, and who was obviously so astonished as to have lost her tongue.

"You seemed mighty amazed at my studs!" said the stranger, with another
laugh. "Now, you'll just excuse me if I ask--why?"

Zillah regained her wits with an effort, and became as business-like as
usual.

"Don't, please, think I'm asking idle and purposeless questions," she
said. "Have you been long in London?"

"A few days only," answered the stranger, readily enough.

"Have you read of what's already called the Praed Street Murder in the
papers?" continued Zillah.

"Yes--I read that," the stranger said, his face growing serious. "The
affair of the old man--the pawnbroker with the odd name. Yes!"

"I'm the old man's granddaughter," said Zillah, brusquely. "Now, I'll tell
you why I was upset by seeing your platinum stud. A solitaire stud, made
of platinum, and ornamented with exactly the same device as yours, was
found in our parlour after my grandfather's death--and another, evidently
the fellow to it, was found in an eating-house, close by. Now, do you
understand why I wished to speak to you?"

While Zillah spoke, the American's face had been growing graver and
graver, and when she made an end, he glanced at Lauriston and shook his
head.

"Say!" he said. "That's a very serious matter! You're sure the device was
the same, and the material platinum?"

"I've been reared in the jewellery trade," replied Zillah. "The things I'm
talking of are of platinum--and the device is precisely the same as that
on your stud."

"Well!--that's mighty queer!" remarked the American. "I can't tell you why
it's queer, all in a minute, but I do assure you it's just about the
queerest thing I ever heard of in my life--and I've known a lot of
queerness. Look here!--I'm stopping at this hotel--will you come in with
me, and we'll just get a quiet corner and talk some? Come right in, then."

He led the way into the hotel, through the hall, and down a corridor from
which several reception rooms opened. Looking into one, a small smoking
lounge, and finding it empty, he ushered them aside. But on the threshold
Zillah paused. Her business instincts were by this time fully aroused. She
felt certain that whoever this stranger might he, he had nothing to do
with the affair in Praed Street, and yet might be able to throw
extraordinary light on it, and she wanted to take a great step towards
clearing it up. She turned to the American.

"Look here!" she said. "I've told you what I'm after, and who I am. This
gentleman is Mr. Andrew Lauriston. Did you read his name in the paper's
account of that inquest?"

The American glanced at Lauriston with some curiosity.

"Sure!" he answered. "The man that found the old gentleman dead."

"Just so," said Zillah. "There are two friends of ours making enquiries on
Mr. Lauriston's behalf at this moment. One of them's my cousin, Mr.
Rubinstein; the other's Mr. Purdie, an old friend of Mr. Lauriston's. I've
an idea where'll they'll be, just now--do you mind if I telephone them to
come here, at once, so that they can hear what you have to tell us?"

"Not in the least!" assented the American heartily. "I'll be glad to help
in any way I can--I'm interested. Here!--there's a telephone box right
there--you go in now, and call those fellows up and tell 'em to come right
along, quick!"

He and Lauriston waited while Zillah went into the telephone box: she felt
sure that Melky and Purdie would have returned to Praed Street by that
time, and she rang up Mrs. Goldmark at the Pawnshop to enquire. Within a
minute or two she had rejoined Lauriston and the American--during her
absence the stranger had been speaking to a waiter, and he now led his two
guests to a private sitting-room.

"We'll be more private in this apartment," he observed. "No fear of
interruption or being overheard. I've told the waiter man there's two
gentlemen coming along, and they're to be brought in here as soon as they
land. Will they be long?"

"They'll be here within twenty minutes," answered Zillah. "It's very kind
of you to take so much trouble!"

The American drew an easy chair to the fire, and pointed Zillah to it.

"Well," he remarked, "I guess that in a fix of this sort, you can't take
too much trouble! I'm interested in this case--and a good deal more than
interested now that you tell me about these platinum studs. I reckon I can
throw some light on that, anyway! But we'll keep it till your friends
come. And I haven't introduced myself--my name's Stuyvesant Guyler. I'm a
New York man--but I've knocked around some--pretty considerable, in fact.
Say!--have you got any idea that this mystery of yours is at all connected
with South Africa? And--incidentally--with diamonds?"

Zillah started and glanced at Lauriston.

"What makes you think of South Africa--and of diamonds?" she asked.

"Oh, well--but that comes into my tale," answered Guyler. "You'll see in
due course. But--had it?"

"I hadn't thought of diamonds, but I certainly had of South Africa,"
admitted Zillah.

"Seems to be working in both directions," said Guyler, meditatively. "But
you'll see that when I tell you what I know."

Purdie and Melky Rubinstein entered the room within the twenty minutes
which Zillah had predicted--full of wonder to find her and Lauriston in
company with a total stranger. But Zillah explained matters in a few
words, and forbade any questioning until Mr. Stuyvesant Guyler had told
his story.

"And before I get on to that," said Guyler, who had been quietly
scrutinizing his two new visitors while Zillah explained the situation,
"I'd just like to see that platinum solitaire that Mr. Rubinstein picked
up--if he's got it about him?"

Melky thrust a hand into a pocket.

"It ain't never been off me, mister, since I found it!" he said, producing
a little packet wrapped in tissue paper. "There you are!"

Guyler took the stud which Melky handed to him and laid it on the table
around which they were all sitting. After glancing at it for a moment, he
withdrew the studs from his own wrist-bands and laid them by its side.

"Yes, that's sure one of the lot!" he observed musingly. "I guess there's
no possible doubt at all on that point. Well!--this is indeed mighty
queer! Now, I'll tell you straight out. These studs--all of 'em--are parts
of six sets of similar things, all made of that very expensive metal,
platinum, in precisely the same fashion, and ornamented with the same
specially invented device, and given to six men who had been of assistance
to him in a big deal, as a little mark of his appreciation, by a man that
some few years ago made a fortune in South Africa. That's so!"

Zillah turned on the American with a sharp look of enquiry.

"Who was he?" she demanded. "Tell us his name!"

"His name," replied Guyler, "was Spencer Levendale--dealer in diamonds."



CHAPTER NINETEEN


PURDIE STANDS FIRM

The effect produced by this announcement was evidently exactly that which
the American expected, and he smiled, a little grimly, as he looked from
one face to another. As for his hearers, they first looked at each other
and then at him, and Guyler laughed and went on.

"That makes you jump!" he said. "Well, now, at the end of that inquest
business in the papers the other day I noticed Spencer Levendale's name
mentioned in connection with some old book that was left, or found in Mr.
Daniel Multenius's back-parlour. Of course, I concluded that he was the
same Spencer Levendale I'd known out there in South Africa, five years
ago. And to tell you the truth, I've been watching your papers, morning
and evening, since, to see if there was any more news of him. But so far I
haven't seen any."

Purdie and Melky exchanged glances, and in response to an obvious hint
from Melky, Purdie spoke.

"We can give you some news, then," he said. "It'll be common property
tomorrow morning. Levendale has mysteriously disappeared from his house,
and from his usual haunts!--and nobody knows where he is. And it's
considered that this disappearance has something to do with the Praed
Street affair."

"Sure!" assented Guyler. "That's just about a dead certainty. And in the
Praed Street affair, these platinum stud things are going to play a good
part, and when you and your police have got to the bottom of it, you'll
sure find that something else has a big part, too!"

"What?" asked Purdie.

"Why, diamonds!" answered the American, with a quiet smile. "Just
diamonds! Diamonds'll be at the bottom of the bag--sure!"

There was a moment of surprised silence, and then Melky turned eagerly to
the American.

"Mister!" he said. "Let's be getting at something! What do you know, now,
about this here Levendale?"

"Not much," replied Guyler. "But I'm open to tell what I do know. I've
been a bit of a rolling stone, do you see--knocked about the world, pretty
considerable, doing one thing and another, and I've falsified the old
saying, for I've contrived to gather a good bit of moss in my rollings.
Well, now, I was located in Cape Town for a while, some five years ago,
and I met Spencer Levendale there. He was then a dealer in diamonds--can't
say in what way exactly--for I never exactly knew--but it was well known
that he'd made a big pile, buying and selling these goods, and he was a
very rich man. Now I and five other men--all of different nationalities--
were very useful to Levendale in a big deal that he was anxious to carry
through--never mind what it was--and he felt pretty grateful to us, I
reckon. And as we were all warmish men so far as money was concerned, it
wasn't the sort of thing that he could hand out cheques for, so he hit on
the notion of having sets of studs made of platinum--which is, as you're
aware, the most valuable metal known, and on every stud he had a device of
his own invention carefully engraved. Here's my set!--and what Mr.
Rubinstein's got there is part of another. Now, then, who's the man who's
been dropping his cuff-links about?"

Purdie, who had listened with deep attention to the American's statement,
immediately put a question.

"That's but answered by asking you something," he said. "You no doubt know
the names of the men to whom those sets of studs were given?"

But to Purdie's disappointment, the American shook his head.

"Well, now, I just don't!" he replied. "The fact is--as you would
understand if you knew the circumstances--this was a queer sort of a
secret deal, in which the assistance of various men of different
nationality was wanted, and none of us knew any of the rest. However, I
did come across the Englishman who was in it--afterwards. Recognized him,
as a matter of fact, by his being in possession of those studs."

"And who was he?" asked Purdie.

"A man named Purvis--Stephen Purvis," answered Guyler. "Sort of man like
myself--knocked around, taking up this and that, as long as there was
money in it. I came across him in Johannesburg, maybe a year after that
deal I was telling of. He didn't know who the other fellows were,
neither."

"You've never seen him since?" suggested Purdie. "You don't know where he
is?"

"Not a ghost of a notion!" said Guyler. "Didn't talk with him more than
once, and then only for an hour or so."

"Mister!" exclaimed Melky, eagerly. "Could you describe this here Purvis,
now? Just a bit of a description, like?"

"Sure!" answered the American. "That is--as I remember him. Biggish, raw-
boned, hard-bitten sort of a man--about my age--clean-shaven--looked more
of a Colonial than an Englishman--he'd been out in South Africa, doing one
thing and another, since he was a boy."

"S'elp me if that doesn't sound like the man who was in Mrs. Goldmark's
restaurant!" said Melky. "Just what she describes, anyhow!"

"Why, certainly--I reckon that is the man," remarked Guyler. "That's what
I've been figuring on, all through. I tell you all this mystery is around
some diamond affair in which this lady's grandfather, and Mr. Spencer
Levendale, and this man Purvis have been mixed up--sure! And the thing--in
my humble opinion--is to find both of them! Now, then, what's been done,
and what's being done, in that way?"

Melky nodded at Purdie, as much as to invite him to speak.

"The authorities at New Scotland Yard have the Levendale affair in hand,"
said Purdie. "We've been in and out there, with Mr. Multenius's solicitor,
all the afternoon and evening. But, of course, we couldn't tell anything
about this other man because we didn't know anything, till now. You'll
have no objection to going there tomorrow?"

"Not at all!" replied Guyler, cheerfully. "I'm located at this hotel for a
week or two. I struck it when I came here from the North, a few days back,
and it suits me very well, and I guess I'll just stop here while I'm in
London this journey. No, I've no objection to take a hand. But--it seems
to me--there's still a lot of difficulty about this young gentleman here--
Mr. Lauriston. I read all the papers carefully, and sized up his
predicament. Those rings, now?"

Zillah suddenly remembered all that Ayscough had told her that evening.
She had forgotten the real motive of her visit to King's Cross in her
excitement in listening to the American's story. She now turned to Purdie
and the other two.

"I'd forgotten!" she exclaimed. "The danger's still there. Ayscough's been
at the shop tonight. The police have had an expert examining those rings,
and the rings in the tray. He says there are marks--private, jewellers'
marks in the two rings which correspond with marks in our rings. In fact,
there's no doubt of it. And now, the police are certain that the two rings
did belong to our tray--and--and they're bent on arresting--Andie!"

Lauriston flushed hotly with sheer indignation.

"That's all nonsense--what the police say!" he exclaimed. "I've found out
who gave those two rings to my mother! I can prove it! I don't care a hang
for the police and their marks--those rings are mine!"

Purdie laid a quiet hand on Lauriston's arm.

"None of us know yet what you've done or found out at Peebles about the
rings," he said. "Tell us! Just give us the brief facts."

"I'm going to," answered Lauriston, still indignant. "I thought the whole
thing over as I went down in the train. I remembered that if there was one
person living in Peebles who would be likely to know about my mother and
those rings, it would be an old friend of hers, Mrs. Taggart--you know
her, John."

"I know Mrs. Taggart--go on," said Purdie.

"I didn't know if Mrs. Taggart was still living," continued Lauriston.
"But I was out early this morning and I found her. She remembers the rings
well enough: she described them accurately--what's more she told me what I
didn't know--how they came into my mother's possession. You know as well
as I do, John, that my father and mother weren't over well off--and my
mother used to make a bit of extra money by letting her rooms to summer
visitors. One summer she had a London solicitor, a Mr. Killick, staying
there for a month--at least he came for a month, but he was taken ill, and
he was there more than two months. My mother nursed him through his
illness--and after he'd returned to London, he sent her those rings. And--
if there are marks on them," concluded Lauriston, "that correspond with
marks on the rings in that tray, all I have to say is that those marks
must have been there when Mr. Killick bought them!--for they've never been
out of our possession--my mother's and mine--until I took them to pawn."

Zillah suddenly clapped her hands--and she and Melky exchanged significant
glances which the others did not understand.

"That's it!" she exclaimed. "That's what puzzled me at first. Now I'm not
puzzled any more. Melky knows what I mean."

"What she means, mister," assented Melky, tapping Purdie's arm, "is
precisely what struck me at once. It's just as Mr. Lauriston here says--
them private marks were on the rings when Mr. Killick bought them. Them
two rings, and some of the rings in the tray what's been mentioned all
come from the same maker! There ain't nothing wonderful in all that to me
and my cousin Zillah there!--we've been brought up in the trade, d'ye see?
But the police!--they're that suspicious that--well, the thing to do,
gentlemen, is to find this here Mr. Killick."

"Just so," agreed Purdie. "Where is he to be found, Andie?"

But Lauriston shook his head, disappointedly.

"That's just what I don't know!" he answered. "It's five and twenty years
since he gave my mother those rings, and according to Mrs. Taggart, he was
then a middle-aged man, so he's now getting on in years. But--if he's
alive, I can find him."

"We've got to find him," said Purdie, firmly. "In my opinion, he can give
some evidence that'll be of more importance than the mere identifying of
those rings--never mind what it is I'm thinking of, now. We must see to
that tomorrow."

"But in the meantime," broke in Zillah. "Andie must not go home--to Mrs.
Flitwick's! I know what Ayscough meant tonight--and remember, all of you,
it was private between him and myself. If he goes home, he may be
arrested, any minute. He must be kept out of the way of the police for a
bit, and--"

Purdie rose from the table and shook his head determinedly.

"No," he said. "None of that! We're going to have no running away, no
hiding! Andie Lauriston's not going to show the least fear of the police,
or of any of their theories. He's just going to follow my orders--and I'm
going to take him to my hotel for the night--leave him to me! I'm going to
see this thing right through to the finish--however it ends. Now, let's
separate. Mr. Guyler!"

"Sir?" answered the American. "At your service."

"Then meet me at my hotel tomorrow morning at ten," said Purdie. "There's
a new chapter to open."



CHAPTER TWENTY


THE PARSLETT AFFAIR

At a quarter past ten o'clock on the morning following Ayscough's
revelation to Zillah, the detective was closeted with a man from the
Criminal Investigation Department at New Scotland Yard in a private room
at the local police station, and with them was the superior official who
had been fetched to the pawnshop in Praed Street immediately after the
discovery of Daniel Multenius's body by Andie Lauriston. And this official
was stating his view of the case to the two detectives--conscious that
neither agreed with him.

"You can't get over the similarity of the markings of those rings!" he
said confidently. "To my mind the whole thing's as plain as a pikestaff--
the young fellow was hard up--he confessed he hadn't a penny on him!--he
went in there, found the shop empty, saw those rings, grabbed a couple,
was interrupted by the old man--and finished him off by scragging him!
That's my opinion! And I advise getting a warrant for him and getting on
with the work--all the rest of this business belongs to something else."

Ayscough silently glanced at the man from New Scotland Yard--who shook his
head in a decided negative.

"That's not my opinion!" he said with decision. "And it's not the opinion
of the people at headquarters. We were at this affair nearly all
yesterday afternoon with that little Jew fellow, Rubinstein, and the young
Scotch gentleman, Mr. Purdie, and our conclusion is that there's something
of a big sort behind old Multenius's death. There's a regular web of
mystery! The old man's death--that book, which Levendale did not leave in
the 'bus, in spite of all he says, and of his advertisements!--Levendale's
unexplained disappearance--the strange death of this man Parslett--the
mystery of those platinum studs dropped in the pawnbroker's parlour and in
Mrs. Goldmark's eating house--no!--the whole affair's a highly complicated
one. That's my view of it."

"And mine," said Ayscough. He looked at the unbelieving official, and
turned away from him to glance out of the window into the street. "May I
never!" he suddenly exclaimed. "There's young Lauriston coming here, and
Purdie with him--and a fellow who looks like an American. I should say
Lauriston's got proof about his title to those rings--anyway, he seems to
have no fear about showing himself here--case of walking straight into the
lions' den, eh?"

"Bring 'em all in!" ordered the superior official, a little surlily.
"Let's hear what it's all about!"

Purdie presently appeared in Ayscough's rear, preceding his two
companions. He and the detective from New Scotland Yard exchanged nods;
they had seen a good deal of each other the previous day. He nodded also
to the superior official--but the superior official looked at Lauriston.

"Got that proof about those rings?" he enquired. "Of course, if you
have--"

"Before Mr. Lauriston says anything about that," interrupted Purdie, "I
want you to hear a story which this gentleman, Mr. Stuyvesant Guyler, of
New York, can tell you. It's important--it bears right on this affair. If
you just listen to what he can tell--"

The two detectives listened to Guyler's story about the platinum studs
with eager, if silent interest: in the end they glanced at each other and
then at the local official, who seemed to be going through a process of
being convinced against his will.

"Just what I said a few minutes ago," muttered the New Scotland Yard man.
"A highly complicated affair! Not going to be got at in five minutes."

"Nor in ten!" said Ayscough laconically. He glanced at Guyler. "You could
identify this man Purvis if you saw him?" he asked.

"Why, certainly!" answered the American. "I guess if he's the man who was
seen in that eating-house the other day he's not altered any--or not
much."

The man at the desk turned to Purdie, glancing at Lauriston.

"About those rings?" he asked. "What's Mr. Lauriston got to say?"

"Let me tell," said Purdie, as Lauriston was about to speak. "Mr.
Lauriston," he went on, "has been to Peebles, where his father and mother
lived. He has seen an old friend of theirs, Mrs. Taggart, who remembers
the rings perfectly. Moreover, she knows that they were given to the late
Mrs. Lauriston by a Mr. Edward Killick, a London solicitor, who, of
course, will be able to identify them. As to the marks, I think you'll
find a trade explanation of that--those rings and the rings in Multenius's
tray probably came from the same maker. Now, I find, on looking through
the directory, that this Mr. Edward Killick has retired from practice, but
I've also found out where he now lives, and I propose to bring him here.
In the meantime--I want to know what you're going to do about Mr.
Lauriston? Here he is!"

The superior official glanced at the New Scotland Yard man.

"I suppose your people have taken this job entirely in hand, now?" he
asked.

"Entirely!" answered the detective.

"Got any instructions about Mr. Lauriston?" asked the official. "You
haven't? Mr. Lauriston's free to go where he likes, then, as far as we're
concerned, here," he added, turning to Purdie. "But--he'd far better stay
at hand till all this is cleared up."

"That's our intention," said Purdie. "Whenever you want Mr. Lauriston,
come to me at my hotel--he's my guest there, and I'll produce him. Now
we're going to find Mr. Killick."

He and Lauriston and Guyler walked out together; on the steps of the
police-station Ayscough called him back.

"I say!" he said, confidentially. "Leave that Mr. Killick business alone
for an hour or two. I can tell you of something much more interesting than
that, and possibly of more importance. Go round to the Coroner's Court--
Mr. Lauriston knows where it is."

"What's on?" asked Lauriston.

"Inquest on that man Parslett," replied Ayscough with a meaning nod.
"You'll hear some queer evidence if I'm not mistaken. I'm going there
myself, presently."

He turned in again, and the three young men looked at each other.

"Say!" remarked Guyler, "I reckon that's good advice. Let's go to this
court."

Lauriston led them to the scene of his own recent examination by Mr.
Parminter. But on this occasion the court was crowded; it was with great
difficulty that they contrived to squeeze themselves into a corner of it.
In another corner, but far away from their own, Lauriston saw Melky
Rubinstein; Melky, wedged in, and finding it impossible to move, made a
grimace at Lauriston and jerked his thumb in the direction of the door, as
a signal that he would meet him there when the proceedings were over.

The inquest had already begun when Purdie and his companions forced their
way into the court. In the witness-box was the dead man's widow--a
pathetic figure in heavy mourning, who was telling the Coroner that on the
night of her husband's death he went out late in the evening--just to take
a walk round, as he expressed it. No--she had no idea whatever of where he
was going, nor if he had any particular object in going out at all. He had
not said one word to her about going out to get money from any one. After
he went out she never saw him again until she was fetched to St. Mary's
Hospital, where she found him in the hands of the doctors. He died,
without having regained consciousness, just after she reached the
hospital.

Nothing very startling so far, thought Purdie, at the end of the widow's
evidence, and he wondered why Ayscough had sent them round. But more
interest came with the next witness--a smart, bustling, middle-aged man,
evidently a well-to-do business man, who entered the box pretty much as if
he had been sitting down in his own office, to ring his bell and ask for
the day's letters. A whisper running round the court informed the
onlookers that this was the gentleman who picked Parslett up in the
street. Purdie and his two companions pricked their ears.

Martin James Gardiner--turf commission agent--resident in Portsdown Road,
Maida Vale. Had lived there several years--knew the district well--did not
know the dead man by sight at all--had never seen him, that he knew of,
until the evening in question.

"Tell us exactly what happened, Mr. Gardiner--in your own way," said the
Coroner.

Mr. Gardiner leaned over the front of the witness-box, and took the court
and the public into his confidence--genially.

"I was writing letters until pretty late that night," he said. "A little
after eleven o'clock I went out to post them at the nearest pillar-box. As
I went down the steps of my house, the deceased passed by. He was walking
down Portsdown Road in the direction of Clifton Road. As he passed me, he
was chuckling--laughing in a low tone. I thought he was--well, a bit
intoxicated when I heard that, but as I was following him pretty closely,
I soon saw that he walked straight enough. He kept perhaps six or eight
yards in front of me until we had come to within twenty yards or so of the
corner of Clifton Road. Then, all of a sudden--so suddenly that it's
difficult for me to describe it!--he seemed to--well, there's no other
word for it than--collapse. He seemed to give, you understand--shrank up,
like--like a concertina being suddenly shut up! His knees gave--his whole
body seemed to shrink--and he fell in a heap on the pavement!"

"Did he cry out--scream, as if in sudden pain--anything of that sort?"
asked the Coroner.

"There was a sort of gurgling sound--I'm not sure that he didn't say a
word or two, as he collapsed," answered the witness. "But it was so sudden
that I couldn't catch anything definite. He certainly never made the
slightest sound, except a queer sort of moaning, very low, from the time
he fell. Of course, I thought the man had fallen in a fit. I rushed to
him; he was lying, sort of crumpled up, where he had fallen. There was a
street-lamp close by--I saw that his face had turned a queer colour, and
his eyes were already closed--tightly. I noticed, too, that his teeth were
clenched, and his fingers twisted into the palms of his hands."

"Was he writhing at all--making any movement?" enquired the Coroner.

"Not a movement! He was as still as the stones he was lying on!" said the
witness. "I'm dead certain he never moved after he fell. There was nobody
about, just then, and I was just going to ring the bell of the nearest
house when a policeman came round the corner. I shouted to him--he came
up. We examined the man for a minute; then I ran to fetch Dr. Mirandolet,
whose surgery is close by there. I found him in; he came at once, and
immediately ordered the man's removal to the hospital. The policeman got
help, and the man was taken off. Dr. Mirandolet went with him. I returned
home."

No questions of any importance were asked of Mr. Gardiner, and the
Coroner, after a short interchange of whispers with his officer, glanced
at a group of professional-looking men behind the witness-box.

"Call Dr. Mirandolet!" he directed.

Purdie at that moment caught Ayscough's eye. And the detective winked at
him significantly as a strange and curious figure came out from the crowd
and stepped into the witness-box.



CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE


WHAT MANNER OF DEATH?

One of the three companions who stood curiously gazing at the new witness
as he came into full view of the court had seen him before. Lauriston,
who, during his residence in Paddington, had wandered a good deal about
Maida Vale and St. John's Wood, instantly recognized Dr. Mirandolet as a
man whom he had often met or passed in those excursions and about whom he
had just as often wondered. He was a notable and somewhat queer figure--a
tall, spare man, of striking presence and distinctive personality--the
sort of man who would inevitably attract attention wherever he was, and at
whom people would turn to look in the most crowded street. His aquiline
features, almost cadaverous complexion, and flashing, deep-set eyes, were
framed in a mass of raven-black hair which fell in masses over a loosely
fitting, unstarched collar, kept in its place by a voluminous black silk
cravat; his thin figure, all the sparer in appearance because of his broad
shoulders and big head, was wrapped from head to foot in a mighty cloak,
raven-black as his hair, from the neck of which depended a hood-like cape.
Not a man in that court would have taken Dr. Mirandolet for anything but a
foreigner, and for a foreigner who knew next to nothing of England and the
English, and John Purdie, whose interest was now thoroughly aroused, was
surprised as he heard the witness's answer to the necessary preliminary
questions.

Nicholas Mirandolet--British subject--born in Malta--educated in England--
a licentiate of the Royal College of Surgeons and of the Royal College of
Physicians--in private practice at Portsdown Road, Maida Vale, for the
last ten years.

"I believe you were called to the deceased by the last witness, Dr.
Mirandolet?" asked the Coroner. "Just so! Will you tell us what you
found?"

"I found the deceased lying on the pavement, about a dozen yards from my
house," answered Dr. Mirandolet, in a sharp, staccato voice. "A policeman
was bending over him. Mr. Gardiner hurriedly told us what he had seen. My
first thought was that the man was in what is commonly termed a fit--some
form of epileptic seizure, you know. I hastily examined him--and found
that my first impression was utterly wrong."

"What did you think--then?" enquired the Coroner.

Dr. Mirandolet paused and began to drum the edge of the witness-box with
the tips of his long, slender white fingers. He pursed his clean-shaven
lips and looked meditatively around him--leisurely surveying the faces
turned on him. Finally he glanced at the Coroner, and snapped out a reply.

"I do not know what I thought!"

The Coroner looked up from his notes--in surprise.

"You--don't know what you thought?" he asked.

"No!" said Dr. Mirandolet. "I don't. And I will tell you why. Because I
realized--more quickly than it takes me to tell it--that here was
something that was utterly beyond my comprehension!"

"Do you mean--beyond your skill?" suggested the Coroner.

"Skill?" retorted the witness, with a queer, twisting grimace. "Beyond my
understanding! I am a quick observer--I saw within a few seconds that here
was a man who had literally been struck down in the very flush of life as
if--well, to put it plainly, as if some extraordinary power had laid a
blasting finger on the very life-centre within him. I was--dumfounded!"

The Coroner sat up and laid aside his pen.

"What did you do?" he asked quietly.

"Bade the policeman get help, and an ambulance, and hurry the man to St.
Mary's Hospital, all as quickly as possible," answered Dr. Mirandolet.
"While the policeman was away, I examined the man more closely. He was
dying then--and I knew very well that nothing known to medical science
could save him. By that time he had become perfectly quiet; his body had
relaxed into a normal position; his face, curiously coloured when I first
saw it, had become placid and pale; he breathed regularly, though very
faintly--and he was steadily dying. I knew quite well what was happening,
and I remarked to Mr. Gardiner that the man would be dead within half-an-
hour."

"I believe you got him to the hospital within that time?" asked the
Coroner.

"Yes--within twenty-five minutes of my first seeing him," said the
witness. "I went with the ambulance. The man died very soon after
admission, just as I knew he would. No medical power on earth could have
saved him!"

The Coroner glanced at the little knot of professional men in the rear of
the witness-box and seemed to be debating within himself as to whether he
wanted to ask Dr. Mirandolet any more questions. Eventually he turned
again to him.

"What your evidence amounts to, Dr. Mirandolet, is this," he said. "You
were called to the man and you saw at once that you yourself could do
nothing for him, so you got him away to the hospital as quickly as you
possibly could. Just so!--now, why did you think you could do nothing for
him?"

"I will tell you--in plain words," answered Dr. Mirandolet. "Because I did
not recognize or understand one single symptom that I saw! Because,
frankly, I knew very well that I did not know what was the matter! And so
--I hurried him to people who ought to know more than I do and are
reputedly cleverer than I am. In short--I recognized that I was in the
presence of something--something!--utterly beyond my skill and
comprehension!"

"Let me ask you one or two further questions," said the Coroner. "Have you
formed any opinion of your own as to the cause of this man's death?"

"Yes!" agreed the witness, unhesitatingly. "I have! I believe him to have
been poisoned--in a most subtle and cunning fashion. And"--here Dr.
Mirandolet cast a side-glance at the knot of men behind him--"I shall be
intensely surprised if that opinion is not corroborated. But--I shall be
ten thousand times more surprised if there is any expert in Europe who can
say what that poison was!"

"You think it was a secret poison?" suggested the Coroner.

"Secret!" exclaimed Dr. Mirandolet. "Aye--secret is the word. Secret--yes!
And--sure!"

"Is there anything else you can tell us?" asked the Coroner.

"Only this," replied the witness, after a pause. "It may be material. As I
bent over this man as he lay there on the pavement I detected a certain
curious aromatic odour about his clothes. It was strong at first; it
gradually wore off. But I directed the attention of the policeman and Mr.
Gardiner to it; it was still hanging about him, very faintly, when we got
him to the hospital: I drew attention to it there."

"It evidently struck you--that curious odour?" said the Coroner.

"Yes," answered Dr. Mirandolet. "It did. It reminded me of the East--I
have lived in the East--India, Burmah, China. It seemed to me that this
man had got hold of some Eastern scent, and possibly spilt some on his
clothes. The matter is worth noting. Because--I have heard--I cannot say I
have known--of men being poisoned in inhalation."

The Coroner made no remark--it was very evident from his manner that he
considered Dr. Mirandolet's evidence somewhat mystifying. And Dr.
Mirandolet stepped down--and in response to the official invitation Dr.
John Sperling-Lawson walked into the vacated witness-box.

"One of the greatest authorities on poisons living," whispered Lauriston
to Purdie, while Dr. Sperling-Lawson was taking the oath and answering the
formal questions. "He's principal pathologist at that hospital they're
talking about, and he constantly figures in cases of this sort. He's
employed by the Home Office too--it was he who gave such important
evidence in that Barnsbury murder case not so long since--don't you
remember it?"

Purdie did remember, and he looked at the famous expert with great
interest. There was, however, nothing at all remarkable about Dr.
Sperling-Lawson's appearance--he was a quiet, self-possessed, plain-faced
gentleman who might have been a barrister or a banker for all that any one
could tell to the contrary. He gave his evidence in a matter-of-fact tone
--strongly in contrast to Dr. Mirandolet's somewhat excited answers--but
Purdie noticed that the people in court listened eagerly for every word.

He happened to be at the hospital, said Dr. Sperling-Lawson, when the man
Parslett was brought in, and he saw him die. He fully agreed with Dr.
Mirandolet that it was impossible to do anything to save the man's life
when he was brought to the hospital, and he was quite prepared to say that
the impossibility had existed from the moment in which Gardiner had seen
Parslett collapse. In other words, when Parslett did collapse, death was
on him.

"And--the cause of death?" asked the Coroner.

"Heart failure," replied the witness.

"Resulting from--what?" continued the Coroner.

Dr. Sperling-Lawson hesitated a moment--amidst a deep silence.

"I cannot answer that question," he said at last. "I can only offer an
opinion. I believe--in fact, I am sure!--the man was poisoned. I am
convinced he was poisoned. But I am forced to admit that I do not know
what poison was used, and that after a most careful search I have not yet
been able to come across any trace or sign of any poison known to me. All
the same, I am sure he died from the effects of poison, but what it was,
or how administered, frankly, I do not know!"

"You made a post-mortem examination?" asked the Coroner.

"Yes," replied the specialist, "in company with Dr. Seracold. The deceased
was a thoroughly healthy, well-nourished man. There was not a trace of
disease in any of the organs--he was evidently a temperate man, and likely
to live to over the seventy years' period. And, as I have said, there was
not a trace of poison. That is, not a trace of any poison known to me."

"I want to ask you a particularly important question," said the Coroner.
"Are there poisons, the nature of which you are unacquainted with?"

"Yes!" answered the specialist frankly. "There are. But--I should not
expect to hear of their use in London."

"Is there any European expert who might throw some light on this case?"
asked the Coroner.

"Yes," said Dr. Sperling-Lawson. "One man--Professor Gagnard, of Paris. As
a matter of fact, I have already sent certain portions of certain organs
to him--by a special messenger. If he cannot trace this poison, then no
European nor American specialist can. I am sure of this--the secret is an
Eastern one."

"Gentlemen," said the Coroner, "we will adjourn for a week. By that time
there may be a report from Paris."

The crowd surged out into the damp November morning, eagerly discussing
the evidence just given. Purdie, Lauriston, and Guyler, all equally
mystified, followed, already beginning to speculate and to theorize.
Suddenly Melky Rubinstein hurried up to them, waving a note.

"There was a fellow waiting outside with this from Zillah," said Melky.
"She'd heard you were all here, and she knew I was. We're to go there at
once--she's found some letters to her grandfather from that man Purvis!
Come on!--it's another step forward!"



CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO


MR. KILLICK GOES BACK

Ayscough and the man from New Scotland Yard came out of the court at that
moment in close and serious conversation: Melky Rubinstein left the other
three, and hurried to the two detectives with his news; together, the six
men set off for Praed Street. And Purdie, who by this time was developing
as much excited interest as his temperament and business habits permitted,
buttonholed the Scotland Yard man and walked alongside him.

"What's your professional opinion about what we've just heard in there?"
he asked. "Between ourselves, of course."

The detective, who had already had several long conversations with Purdie
at headquarters during the previous afternoon and evening, and knew him
for a well-to-do young gentleman who was anxious to clear his friend
Lauriston of all suspicion, shook his head. He was a quiet, sagacious,
middle-aged man who evidently thought deeply about whatever he had in
hand.

"It's difficult to say, Mr. Purdie," he answered. "I've no doubt that when
we get to the bottom of this case it'll turn out to be a very simple one--
but the thing is to get to the bottom. The ways are complicated, sir--
uncommonly so! At present we're in a maze--seeking the right path."

"Do you think that this Parslett affair has anything to do with the
Multenius affair?" asked Purdie.

"Yes--undoubtedly!" answered the detective. "There's no doubt whatever in
my own mind that the man who poisoned Parslett is the man who caused the
old pawnbroker's death--none! I figure it in this way. Parslett somehow,
caught a glimpse of that man leaving Multenius's shop--by the side-door,
no doubt--and knew him--knew him very well, mind you! When Parslett heard
of what had happened in Multenius's back-parlour, he kept his knowledge to
himself, and went and blackmailed the man. The man gave him that fifty
pounds in gold to keep his tongue quiet--no doubt arranging to give him
more, later on--and at the same time he cleverly poisoned him. That's my
theory, Mr. Purdie."

"Then--the only question now is--who's the man?" suggested Purdie.

"That's it, sir--who's the man?" agreed the detective. "One thing's quite
certain--if my theory's correct. He's a clever man--and an expert in the
use of poisons."

Purdie walked on a minute or two in silence, thinking.

"It's no use beating about the bush," he said at last. "Do you suspect Mr.
Levendale--after all you've collected in information--and after what I
told you about what his butler saw--that bottle and phial?"

"I think that Levendale's in it," replied the detective, cautiously. "I'm
sure he's in it--in some fashion. Our people are making no end of
enquiries about him this morning, in various quarters--there's half-a-
dozen of our best men at work in the City and the West End, Mr. Purdie.
He's got to be found! So, too, has this man Stephen Purvis--whoever he is.
We must find him, too."

"Perhaps these letters that Melky Rubinstein speaks of may throw some
light on that," said Purdie. "There must be some way of tracing him,
somewhere."

They were at the pawnshop by that time, and all six trooped in at the
side-entrance. Old Daniel Multenius, unconscious of all the fuss and
bother which his death had caused, was to be quietly interred that
afternoon, and Zillah and Melky were already in their mourning garments.
But Zillah had lost none of her business habits and instincts, and while
the faithful Mrs. Goldmark attended to the funeral guests in the upstairs
regions, she herself was waiting in the back-parlour for these other
visitors. On the table before her, evidently placed there for inspection,
lay three objects to which she at once drew attention--one, an old-
fashioned, double-breasted fancy waistcoat, evidently of considerable age,
and much worn, the others, two letters written on foreign notepaper.

"It never occurred to me," said Zillah, plunging into business at once,
"at least, until an hour or two ago, to examine the clothes my grandfather
was wearing at the time of his death. As a matter of fact he'd been
wearing the same clothes for months. I've been through all his pockets.
There was nothing of importance--except these letters. I found those in a
pocket in the inside of that waistcoat--there! Read them."

The men bent over the unfolded letters, and Ayscough read them aloud.

"MACPHERSON'S HOTEL, CAPE TOWN,

"_September 17th_, 1912.

"Dear Sir,--I have sent the little article about which I have already
written you and Mr. L. fully, to your address by ordinary registered post.
Better put it in your bank till I arrive--shall write you later about date
of my arrival. Faithfully yours,

"Stephen Purvis."

"That," remarked Ayscough, glancing at the rest, "clearly refers to
whatever it was that Mr. Multenius took from his bank on the morning of
his death. It also refers to Mr. Levendale--without doubt."

He drew the other letter to him and read it out.

"CAPE TOWN,

"_October 10th_, 1912.

"Dear Sir,--Just a line to say I leave here by s.s. _Golconda_ in a
day or two--this precedes me by today's mail. I hope to be in England
November 15th--due then, anyway--and shall call on you immediately on
arrival. Better arrange to have Mr. S. L. to meet you and me at once.
Faithfully,

"Stephen Purvis."

"November 15th?" remarked Ayscough. "Mr. Multenius died on November 19th.
So--if Purvis did reach here on the 15th he'd probably been about this
quarter before the 19th. We know he was at Mrs. Goldmark's restaurant on
the 18th, anyway! All right, Miss Wildrose--we'll take these letters with
us."

Lauriston stopped behind when the rest of the men went out--to exchange a
few words alone with Zillah. When he went into the street, all had gone
except Purdie, who was talking with Melky at the entrance to the side-
alley.

"That's the sure tip at present, mister," Melky was saying. "Get that
done--clear that up. Mr. Lauriston," he went on, "you do what your friend
says--we're sorting things out piece by piece."

Purdie took Lauriston's arm and led him away.

"What Melky says is--go and find out what Mr. Killick can prove," he said.
"Best thing to do, too, Andie, for us. Now that these detectives are
fairly on the hunt, and are in possession of a whole multitude of queer
details and facts, we'll just do our bit of business--which is to clear
you entirely. There's more reasons than one why we should do that, my
man!"

"What're you talking about, John?" demanded Lauriston. "You've some idea
in that head of yours!"

"The idea that you and that girl are in love with each other!" said Purdie
with a sly look.

"I'll not deny that!" asserted Lauriston, with an ingenuous blush. "We
are!"

"Well, you can't ask any girl to marry you, man, while there's the least
bit of suspicion hanging over you that you'd a hand in her grandfather's
death!" remarked Purdie sapiently. "So we'll just eat a bit of lunch
together, and then get a taxi-cab and drive out to find this old gentleman
that gave your mother the rings. Come on to the hotel."

"You're spending a fine lot of money over me, John!" exclaimed Lauriston.

"Put it down that I'm a selfish chap that's got interested, and is
following his own pleasure!" said Purdie. "Man alive!--I was never mixed
up in a detective case before--it beats hunting for animals, this hunting
for men!"

By a diligent search in directories and reference books early that
morning, Purdie and Lauriston had managed to trace Mr. Edward Killick,
who, having been at one time a well-known solicitor in the City, had
followed the practice of successful men and retired to enjoy the fruit of
his labours in a nice little retreat in the country. Mr. Killick had
selected the delightful old-world village of Stanmore as the scene of his
retirement, and there, in a picturesque old house, set in the midst of
fine trees and carefully trimmed lawns, Purdie and Lauriston found him--a
hale and hearty old gentleman, still on the right side of seventy, who
rose from his easy chair in a well-stocked library to look in astonishment
from the two cards which his servant had carried to him at the persons and
faces of their presenters.

"God bless my soul!" he exclaimed. "Are you two young fellows the sons of
old friends of mine at Peebles?"

"We are, sir," answered Purdie. "This is Andrew Lauriston, and I am John
Purdie. And we're very glad to find that you remember something about our
people, Mr. Killick."

Mr. Killick again blessed himself, and after warmly shaking hands with his
visitors, bade them sit down. He adjusted his spectacles, and looked both
young men carefully over.

"I remember your people very well indeed!" he said. "I used to do a bit of
fishing in the Tweed and in Eddleston Water with your father, Mr. Purdie--
and I stopped some time with your father and mother, at their house, Mr.
Lauriston. In fact, your mother was remarkably kind to me--she nursed me
through an illness with which I was seized when I was in Peebles."

Lauriston and Purdie exchanged glances--by common consent Purdie became
spokesman for the two.

"Mr. Killick," he said, "it's precisely about a matter arising out of that
illness of yours that we came to see you! Let me explain something first--
Andie Lauriston here has been living in London for two years--he's a
literary gift, and he hopes to make a name, and perhaps a fortune. I've
succeeded to my father's business, and I'm only here in London on a visit.
And it's well I came, for Andie wanted a friend. Now, Mr. Killick, before
I go further--have you read in the newspapers about what's called the
Praed Street Mystery?"

The old gentleman shook his head.

"My dear young sir!" he answered, waving his hand towards his books. "I'm
not a great newspaper reader--except for a bit of politics. I never read
about mysteries--I've wrapped myself up in antiquarian pursuits since I
retired. No!--I haven't read about the Praed Street Mystery--nor even
heard of it! I hope neither of you are mixed up in it?"

"Considerably!" answered Purdie. "In more ways than one. And you can be of
great help. Mr. Killick--when you left Peebles after your illness, you
sent Mrs. Lauriston a present of two valuable rings. Do you remember?"

"Perfectly--of course!" replied the old gentleman. "To be sure!"

"Can you remember, too, from whom you bought those rings?" enquired Purdie
eagerly.

"Yes!--as if it were yesterday!" said Mr. Killick. "I bought them from a
City jeweller whom I knew very well at that time--a man named Daniel
Molteno!"



CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE


MR. KILLICK'S OPINION

The old solicitor's trained eye and quick intelligence saw at once that
this announcement immediately conveyed some significant meaning to his two
young visitors. Purdie and Lauriston, in fact, had immediately been struck
by the similarity of the names Molteno and Multenius, and they exchanged
another look which their host detected and knew to convey a meaning. He
leaned forward in his chair.

"Now, that strikes you--both!" he said. "What's all this about? Better
give me your confidence."

"That's precisely what we came here to do, sir," responded Purdie, with
alacrity. "And with your permission I'll tell you the whole story. It's a
long one, and a complicated one, Mr. Killick!--but I daresay you've heard
many intricate stories in the course of your legal experience, and you'll
no doubt be able to see points in this that we haven't seen. Well, it's
this way--and I'll begin at the beginning."

The old gentleman sat in an attitude of patient and watchful attention
while Purdie, occasionally prompted and supplemented by Lauriston, told
the whole story of the Praed Street affair, from Lauriston's first visit
to the pawnshop up to the events of that morning. Once or twice he asked a
question; one or twice he begged the narrator to pause while he considered
a point: in the end he drew out his watch--after which he glanced out of
his window.

"Do I gather that the taxi-cab which I see outside there is being kept by
you two young men?" he asked.

"It is," answered Purdie. "It's important that we should lose no time in
getting back to town, Mr. Killick."

"Just so!" agreed Mr. Killick, moving towards his library door. "But I'm
going with you--as soon as I've got myself into an overcoat. Now!" he
added, a few minutes later, when all three went out to the cab. "Tell the
man to drive us straight to that police-station you've been visiting of
late--and till we get there, just let me think quietly--I can probably say
more about this case than I'm yet aware of. But--if it will give you any
relief, I can tell you this at once--I have a good deal to tell. Strange!
--strange indeed how things come round, and what a small world this is,
after all!"

With this cryptic utterance Mr. Killick sank into a corner of the cab,
where he remained, evidently lost in thought, until, nearly an hour later,
they pulled up at the door of the police-station. Within five minutes they
were closeted with the chief men there--amongst whom were Ayscough and the
detective from New Scotland Yard.

"You know me--or of me--some of you?" observed the old solicitor, as he
laid a card on the desk by which he had been given a chair. "I was very
well known in the City police-courts, you know, until I retired three
years ago. Now, these young gentlemen have just told me all the facts of
this very strange case, and I think I can throw some light on it--on part
of it, anyway. First of all, let me see those two rings about which there
has been so much enquiry."

Ayscough produced the rings from a locked drawer; the rest of those
present looked on curiously as they were examined and handled by Mr.
Killick. It was immediately evident that he had no doubt about his
recognition and identification of them--after a moment's inspection of
each he pushed them back towards the detective.

"Certainly!" he said with a confidence that carried conviction. "Those are
the rings which I gave to Mrs. Lauriston, this young man's mother. I knew
them at once. If it's necessary, I can show you the receipt which I got
with them from the seller. The particulars are specified in that receipt--
and I know that I still have it. Does my testimony satisfy you?"

The chief official present glanced at the man from New Scotland Yard, and
receiving a nod from him, smiled at the old solicitor.

"I think we can rely on your evidence, Mr. Killick," he said. "We had to
make certain, you know. But these marks--isn't that a curious coincidence,
now, when you come to think of it?"

"Not a bit of it!" replied Mr. Killick. "And I'll tell you why--that's
precisely what I've come all the way from my own comfortable fireside at
Stanmore to do! There's no coincidence at all. I've heard the whole story
of this Praed Street affair now from these two lads. And I've no more
doubt than I have that I see you, that the old pawnbroker whom you knew
hereabouts as Daniel Multenius was the same man Daniel Molteno--from whom
I bought those rings, years ago! Not the slightest doubt!"

None of those present made any remark on this surprising announcement, and
Mr. Killick went on.

"I was, as some of you may know, in practice in the City--in Moorgate
Street, as a matter of fact," he said. "Daniel Molteno was a jeweller in
Houndsditch. I occasionally acted for him--professionally. And
occasionally when I wanted anything in the way of jewellery, I went to his
shop. He was then a man of about fifty, a tall, characteristically Hebraic
sort of man, already patriarchal in appearance, though he hadn't a grey
hair in his big black beard. He was an interesting man, profoundly learned
in the history of precious stones. I remember buying those rings from him
very well indeed--I remember, too, what I gave him for them--seventy-five
pounds for the two. Those private marks inside them are, of course, his--
and so they're just the same as his private marks inside those other rings
in the tray. But that's not what I came here to tell you--that's merely
preliminary."

"Deeply interesting, anyway, sir," observed Ayscough. "And, maybe, very
valuable."

"Not half so valuable as what I'm going to tell you," replied Mr. Killick,
with a dry chuckle, "Now, as I understand it, from young Mr. Purdie's
account, you're all greatly excited at present over the undoubted
connection with this Praed Street mystery of one Mr. Spencer Levendale,
who is, I believe, a very rich man, a resident in one of the best parts of
this district, and a Member of Parliament. It would appear from all you've
discovered, amongst you, up to now, that Spencer Levendale has been
privately mixed up with old Daniel Multenius in some business which seems
to be connected with South Africa. Now, attend to what I say:--About the
time that I knew Daniel Molteno in Houndsditch, Daniel Molteno had a
partner--a junior partner, whose name, however, didn't appear over the
shop. He was a much younger man than Daniel--in fact, he was quite a young
man--I should say he was then about twenty-three or four--not more. He was
of medium height, dark, typically Jewish, large dark eyes, olive skin,
good-looking, smart, full of go. And his name--the name I knew him by--was
Sam Levin." The other men in the room glanced at each other--and one of
them softly murmured what all was thinking.

"The same initials!"

"Just so!" agreed Mr. Killick. "That's what struck me--Sam Levin: Spencer
Levendale. Very well!--I continue. One day I went to Daniel Molteno's shop
to get something repaired, and it struck me that I hadn't seen Sam Levin
the last two or three times I had been in. 'Where's your partner?' I asked
of Daniel Molteno. 'I haven't seen him lately.' 'Partner no longer, Mr.
Killick,' said he. 'We've dissolved. He's gone to South Africa.' 'What to
do there?' I asked. 'Oh,' answered Daniel Molteno, 'he's touched with this
fever to get at close quarters with the diamond fields! He's gone out
there to make a fortune, and come back a millionaire.' 'Well!' I said.
'He's a likely candidate.' 'Oh, yes!' said Daniel. 'He'll do well.' No
more was said--and, as far as I can remember, I never saw Daniel Molteno
again. It was some time before I had occasion to go that way--when I did,
I was surprised to see a new name over the shop. I went in and asked where
its former proprietor was. The new shopkeeper told me that Mr. Molteno had
sold his business to him. And he didn't know where Mr. Molteno had gone,
or whether he'd retired from business altogether; he knew nothing--and
evidently didn't care, either, so--that part of my memories comes to an
end!"

"Mr. Spencer Levendale is a man of just under fifty," remarked Ayscough,
after a thoughtful pause, "and I should say that twenty-five years ago,
he'd be just such a man as Mr. Killick has described."

"You can take it from me--considering all that I've been told this
afternoon--" said the old solicitor, "that Spencer Levendale is Sam Levin
--come back from South Africa, a millionaire. I'm convinced of it! And now
then, gentlemen, what does all this mean? There's no doubt that old
Multenius and Levendale were secretly mixed up. What in? What's the
extraordinary mystery about that book--left in Multenius's back parlour
and advertised for immediately by Levendale as if it were simply
invaluable? Why has Levendale utterly disappeared? And who is this man
Purvis--and what's he to do with it? You've got the hardest nuts to crack
--a whole basketful of 'em!--that ever I heard of. And I've had some
little experience of crime!"

"I've had some information on Levendale and Purvis this very afternoon,"
said Ayscough. He turned to the other officials. "I hadn't a chance of
telling you of it before," he continued. "I was at Levendale's house at
three o'clock, making some further enquiries. I got two pieces of news. To
start with--that bottle out of which Levendale filled a small phial, which
he put in his waistcoat pocket when he went out for the last time--you
remember, Mr. Purdie, that his butler told you of that incident--well,
that bottle contains chloroform--I took a chemist there to examine it and
some other things. That's item one. The other's a bit of information
volunteered by Levendale's chauffeur. The morning after Mr. Multenius's
death, and after you, Mr. Lauriston, Mr. Rubinstein, and myself called on
Levendale, Levendale went off to the City in his car. He ordered the
chauffeur to go through Hyde Park, by the Victoria Gate, and to stop by
the Powder Magazine. At the Powder Magazine he got out of the car and
walked down towards the bridge on the Serpentine. The chauffeur had him in
view all the way, and saw him join a tall man, clean-shaven, much browned,
who was evidently waiting for him. They remained in conversation, at the
entrance to the bridge, some five minutes or so--then the stranger went
across the bridge in the direction of Kensington, and Levendale returned
to his car. Now, in my opinion, that strange man was this Purvis we've
heard of. And that seems to have been the last time any one we've come
across saw him. That night, after his visit to his house, and his taking
the phial of chloroform away with him, Levendale utterly disappeared, too
--and yet sent a wire to his butler, from close by, next morning, saying
he would be away for a few days! Why didn't he call with that message
himself!"

Mr. Killick, who had listened to Ayscough with close attention, laughed,
and turned to the officials with a sharp look.

"Shall I give you people a bit of my opinion after hearing all this?" he
said. "Very well, then--Levendale never did send that wire! It was sent in
Levendale's name--to keep things quiet. I believe that Levendale's been
trapped--and Purvis with him!"



CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR


THE ORANGE-YELLOW DIAMOND

His various listeners had heard all that the old solicitor had said, with
evident interest and attention--now, one of them voiced what all the rest
was thinking.

"What makes you think that, Mr. Killick?" asked the man from New Scotland
Yard. "Why should Levendale and Purvis have been trapped?"

Mr. Killick--who was obviously enjoying this return to the arena in which,
as some of those present well knew, he had once played a distinguished
part, as a solicitor with an extensive police-court practice--twisted
round on his questioner with a sly, knowing glance.

"You're a man of experience!" he answered. "Now come!--hasn't it struck
you that something went before the death of old Daniel Multenius--whether
that death arose from premeditated murder, or from sudden assault? Eh?--
hasn't it?"

"What, then?" asked the detective dubiously. "For I can't say that it has
--definitely. What do you conjecture did go before that?"

Mr. Killick thumped his stout stick on the floor.

"Robbery!" he exclaimed, triumphantly. "Robbery! The old man was robbed of
something! Probably--and there's nothing in these cases like considering
possibilities--he caught the thief in the act of robbing him, and lost his
life in defending his property. Now, supposing Levendale and Purvis were
interested--financially--in that property, and set their wits to work to
recover it, and in their efforts got into the hands of--shall we suppose a
gang?--and got trapped? Or," concluded Mr. Killick with great emphasis and
meaning, "for anything we know--murdered? What about that theory?"

"Possible!" muttered Ayscough. "Quite possible!"

"Consider this," continued the old solicitor. "Levendale is a well-known
man--a Member of Parliament--a familiar figure in the City, where he's
director of more than one company--the sort of man whom, in ordinary
circumstances, you'd be able to trace in a few hours. Now, you tell me
that half-a-dozen of your best men have been trying to track Levendale for
two days and nights, and can't get a trace of him! What's the inference? A
well-known man can't disappear in that way unless for some very grave
reason! For anything we know, Levendale--and Purvis with him--may be
safely trapped within half-a-mile of Praed Street--or, as I say, they may
have been quietly murdered. Of one thing I'm dead certain, anyway--if you
want to get at the bottom of this affair, you've got to find those two
men!"

"It would make a big difference if we had any idea of what it was that
Daniel Multenius had in that packet which he fetched from his bank on the
day of the murder," remarked Ayscough. "If there's been robbery, that may
have been the thief's object."

"That pre-supposes that the thief knew what was in the packet," said
Purdie. "Who is there that could know? We may take it that Levendale and
Purvis knew--but who else would?"

"Aye!--and how are we to find that out?" asked the New Scotland Yard man.
"If I only knew that much--"

But even at that moment--and not from any coincidence, but from the law of
probability to which Mr. Killick had appealed--information on that very
point was close at hand. A constable tapped at the door, and entering,
whispered a few words to the chief official, who having whispered back,
turned to the rest as the man went out of the room.

"Here's something likely!" he said. "There's a Mr. John Purvis, from
Devonshire, outside. Says he's the brother of the Stephen Purvis who's
name's been in the papers as having mysteriously disappeared, and wants
to tell the police something. He's coming in."

The men in the room turned with undisguised interest as the door opened
again, and a big, fresh-coloured countryman, well wrapped up in a stout
travelling coat, stepped into the room and took a sharp glance at its
occupants. He was evidently a well-to-do farmer, this, and quite at his
ease--but there was a certain natural anxiety in his manner as he turned
to the official, who sat at the desk in the centre of the group.

"You're aware of my business, sir?" he asked quietly.

"I understand you're the brother of the Stephen Purvis we're wanting to
find in connection with this Praed Street mystery," answered the official.
"You've read of that in the newspaper, no doubt, Mr. Purvis? Take a seat--
you want to tell us something? As a matter of fact, we're all discussing
the affair!"

The caller took the chair which Ayscough drew forward and sat down,
throwing open his heavy overcoat, and revealing a whipcord riding-suit of
light fawn beneath it.

"You'll see I came here in a hurry, gentlemen," he said, with a smile.
"I'd no thoughts of coming to London when I left my farm this morning, or
I'd have put London clothes on! The fact is--I farm at a very out-of-the-
way place between Moretonhampstead and Exeter, and I never see the daily
papers except when I drive into Exeter twice a week. Now when I got in
there this morning, I saw one or two London papers--last night's they
were--and read about this affair. And I read enough to know that I'd best
get here as quick as possible!--so I left all my business there and then,
and caught the very next express to Paddington. And here I am! And now--
have you heard anything of my brother Stephen more than what's in the
papers? I've seen today's, on the way up."

"Nothing!" answered the chief official. "Nothing at all! We've purposely
kept the newspapers informed, and what there is in the morning's papers is
the very latest. So--can you tell us anything?"

"I can tell you all I know myself," replied John Purvis, with a solemn
shake of his head. "And I should say it's a good deal to do with Stephen's
disappearance--in which, of course, there's some foul play! My opinion,
gentlemen, is that my brother's been murdered! That's about it!"

No one made any remark--but Mr. Killick uttered a little murmur of
comprehension, and nodded his head two or three times.

"Murdered, poor fellow, in my opinion," continued John Purvis. "And I'll
tell you why I think so. About November 8th or 9th--I can't be sure to a
day--I got a telegram from Stephen, sent off from Las Palmas, in the
Canary Islands, saying he'd be at Plymouth on the 15th, and asking me to
meet him there. So I went to Plymouth on the morning of the 15th. His
boat, the _Golconda_, came in at night, and we went to an hotel
together and stopped the night there. We hadn't met for some years, and of
course he'd a great deal to tell--but he'd one thing in particular--he'd
struck such a piece of luck as he'd never had in his life before!--and he
hadn't been one of the unlucky ones, either!"

"What was this particular piece of luck?" asked Mr. Killick.

John Purvis looked round as if to make sure of general attention.

"He'd come into possession, through a fortunate bit of trading, up country
in South Africa, of one of the finest diamonds ever discovered!" he
answered. "I know nothing about such things, but he said it was an orange-
yellow diamond that would weigh at least a hundred and twenty carats when
cut, and was worth, as far as he could reckon, some eighty to ninety
thousand pounds. Anyway, that was what he'd calculated he was going to get
for it here in London--and what he wanted to see me about, in addition to
telling me of his luck, was that he wanted to buy a real nice bit of
property in Devonshire, and settle down in the old country. But--I'm
afraid his luck's turned to a poor end! Gentlemen!--I'm certain my
brother's been murdered for that diamond!"

The police officials, as with one consent, glanced at Mr. Killick, and by
their looks seemed to invite his assistance. The old gentleman nodded and
turned to the caller.

"Now, Mr. Purvis," he said, "just let me ask you a few questions. Did your
brother tell you that this diamond was his own, sole property?"

"He did, sir!" answered the farmer. "He said it was all his own."

"Did he tell you where it was--what he had done with it?"

"Yes! He said that for some years he'd traded in small parcels of such
things with two men here in London--Multenius and Levendale--he knew both
of them. He'd sent the diamond on in advance to Multenius, by ordinary
registered post, rather than run the risk of carrying it himself."

"I gather from that last remark that your brother had let some other
person or persons know that he possessed this stone?" said Mr. Killick.
"Did he mention that? It's of importance."

"He mentioned no names--but he did say that one or two knew of his luck,
and he'd an idea that he'd been watched in Cape Town, and followed on the
_Golconda_," replied John Purvis. "He laughed about that, and said he
wasn't such a fool as to carry a thing like that on him."

"Did he say if he knew for a fact that the diamond was delivered to
Multenius?" asked Mr. Killick.

"Yes, he did. He found a telegram from Multenius at Las Palmas,
acknowledging the receipt. He mentioned to me that Multenius would put the
diamond in his bank, till he got to London himself."

Mr. Killick glanced at the detective--the detectives nodded.

"Very good," continued Mr. Killick. "Now then--: you'd doubtless talk a
good deal about this matter--did your brother tell you what was to be done
with the diamond? Had he a purchaser in view?"

"Yes, he said something about that," replied John Purvis. "He said that
Multenius and Levendale would make--or were making--what he called a
syndicate to buy it from him. They'd have it cut--over in Amsterdam, I
think it was. He reckoned he'd get quite eighty thousand from the
syndicate."

"He didn't mention any other names than those of Multenius and Levendale?"

"No--none!"

"Now, one more question. Where did your brother leave you--at Plymouth?"

"First thing next morning," said John Purvis. "We travelled together as
far as Exeter. He came on to Paddington--I went home to my farm. And I've
never heard of him since--till I read all this in the papers."

Mr. Killick got up and began to button his overcoat. He turned to the
police.

"Now you know what we wanted to know!" he said. "That diamond is at the
bottom of everything! Daniel Multenius was throttled for that diamond--
Parslett's death arose out of that diamond--everything's arisen from that
diamond! And, now that you police folks know all this--you know what to
do. You want the man, or men, who were in Daniel Multenius's shop about
five o'clock on that particular day, and who carried off that diamond. Mr.
Purvis!--are you staying in town?"

The farmer shook his head--but not in the negative.

"I'm not going out of London, till I know what's become of my brother!" he
said.

"Then come with me," said Mr. Killick. He said a word or two to the
police, and then, beckoning Lauriston and Purdie to follow with Purvis,
led the way out into the street. There he drew Purdie towards him. "Get a
taxi-cab," he whispered, "and we'll all go to see that American man you've
told me of--Guyler. And when we've seen him, you can take me to see Daniel
Multenius's granddaughter."



CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE


THE DEAD MAN'S PROPERTY

Old Daniel Multenius had been quietly laid to rest that afternoon, and at
the very moment in which Mr. Killick and his companions were driving away
from the police station to seek Stuyvesant Guyler at his hotel, Mr.
Penniket was closeted with Zillah and her cousin Melky Rubinstein in the
back-parlour of the shop in Praed Street--behind closed and locked doors
which they had no intention of opening to anybody. Now that the old man
was dead and buried, it was necessary to know how things stood with
respect to his will and his property, and, as Mr. Penniket had remarked as
they drove back from the cemetery, there was no reason why they should not
go into matters there and then. Zillah and Melky were the only relations--
and the only people concerned, said Mr. Penniket. Five minutes would put
them in possession of the really pertinent facts as regards the provisions
of the will--but there would be details to go into. And now they were all
three sitting round the table, and Mr. Penniket had drawn two papers from
his inner pocket--and Zillah regarding him almost listlessly, and Melky
with one of his quietly solemn expression. Each had a pretty good idea of
what was coming and each regarded the present occasion as no more than a
formality.

"This is the will," said Mr. Penniket, selecting and unfolding one of the
documents. "It was made about a year ago--by me. That is, I drafted it.
It's a short, a very short and practical will, drafted from precise
instructions given to me by my late client, your grandfather. I may as
well tell you in a few words what it amounts to. Everything that he left
is to be sold--this business as a going concern; all his shares; all his
house property. The whole estate is to be realized by the executors--your
two selves. And when that's done, you're to divide the lot--equally. One
half is yours, Miss Wildrose; Mr. Rubinstein, the other half is yours.
And," concluded Mr. Penniket, rubbing his hands, "you'll find you're very
fortunate--not to say wealthy--young people, and I congratulate you on
your good fortune! Now, perhaps, you'd like to read the will?"

Mr. Penniket laid the will on the table before the two cousins, and they
bent forward and read its legal phraseology. Zillah was the first to look
up and to speak.

"I never knew my grandfather had any house property," she said. "Did you,
Melky?"

"S'elp me, Zillah, if I ever knew what he had in that way!" answered
Melky. "He had his secrets and he could be close. No--I never knew of his
having anything but his business. But then, I might have known that he'd
invest his profits in some way or other."

The solicitor unfolded the other document.

"Here's a schedule, prepared by Mr. Multenius himself, and handed by him
to me not many weeks ago, of his property outside this business," he
remarked. "I'll go through the items. Shares in the Great Western Railway.
Shares in the London, Brighton, and South Coast Railway. Government Stock.
Certain American Railway Stock. It's all particularized--and all gilt-
edged security. Now then, about his house property. There's a block of
flats at Hampstead. There are six houses at Highgate. There are three
villas in the Finchley Road. The rents of all these have been collected by
Messrs. Holder and Keeper, estate agents, and evidently paid by them
direct to your esteemed relative's account at his bank. And then--to wind
up--there is a small villa in Maida Vale, which he let furnished--you
never heard of that?"

"Never!" exclaimed Zillah, while Melky shook his head.

"There's a special note about that at the end of this schedule," said Mr.
Penniket. "In his own hand--like all the rest. This is what he says. 'N.
B. Molteno Lodge, Maida Vale--all the furniture, pictures, belongings in
this are mine--I have let it as a furnished residence at L12 a month, all
clear, for some years past. Let at present, on same terms, rent paid
quarterly, in advance, to two Chinese gentlemen, Mr. Chang Li and Mr. Chen
Li--good tenants."

Zillah uttered another sharp exclamation and sprang to her feet. She
walked across to an old-fashioned standup desk which stood in a corner of
the parlour, drew a bunch of keys from her pocket, and raised the lid.

"That explains something!" she said. "I looked into this desk the other
day--grandfather used to throw letters and papers in there sometimes,
during the day, and then put them away at night. Here's a cheque here that
puzzled me--I don't know anything about it. But--it'll be a quarter's rent
for that house. Look at the signatures!"

She laid a cheque before Melky and Mr. Penniket and stood by while they
looked at it. There was nothing remarkable about the cheque--made out to
Mr. Daniel Multenius on order for L36--except the two odd looking names at
its foot--_Chang Li: Chen Li_. Otherwise, it was just like all other
cheques--and it was on a local bank, in Edgware Road, and duly crossed.
But Melky instantly observed the date, and put one of his long fingers to
it.

"November 18th," he remarked. "The day he died. Did you notice that,
Zillah?"

"Yes," answered Zillah. "It must have come in by post and he's thrown it,
as he often did throw things, into that desk. Well--that's explained!
That'll be the quarter's rent, then, for this furnished house, Mr.
Penniket?"

"Evidently!" agreed the solicitor. "Of course, there's no need to give
notice to these two foreigners--yet. It'll take a little time to settle
the estate, and you can let them stay on awhile. I know who they are--your
grandfather mentioned them--two medical students, of University College.
They're all right. Well, now, that completes the schedule. As regards
administering the estate--"

A sudden gentle but firm knock at the side-door brought Zillah to her feet
again.

"I know that knock," she remarked. "It's Ayscough, the detective. I
suppose he may come in, now?"

A moment later Ayscough, looking very grave and full of news, had joined
the circle round the table. He shook his head as he glanced at Mr.
Penniket.

"I came on here to give you a bit of information," he said. "There's been
an important development this afternoon. You know the name of this Stephen
Purvis that's been mentioned as having been about here? Well, this
afternoon his brother turned up from Devonshire. He wanted to see us--to
tell us something. He thinks Stephen's been murdered!"

"On what grounds?" asked the solicitor.

"It turns out Stephen had sent Mr. Multenius a rare fine diamond--uncut--
from South Africa," answered Ayscough. "Worth every penny of eighty
thousand pounds!"

He was closely watching Zillah and Melky as he gave this piece of news,
and he was quick to see their utter astonishment. Zillah turned to the
solicitor; Melky slapped the table.

"That's been what the old man fetched from his bank that day!" he
exclaimed. "S'elp me if I ain't beginning to see light! Robbery--before
murder!"

"That's about it," agreed Ayscough. "But I'll tell you all that's come
out."

He went on to narrate the events of the afternoon, from the arrival of Mr.
Killick and his companions at the police station to the coming of John
Purvis, and his three listeners drank in every word with rising interest.
Mr. Penniket became graver and graver.

"Where's Mr. Killick now--and the rest of them?" he asked in the end.

"Gone to find that American chap--Guyler," answered Ayscough. "They did
think he might be likely--having experience of these South African
matters--to know something how Stephen Purvis may have been followed. You
see--you're bound to have some theory! It looks as if Stephen Purvis had
been tracked--for the sake of that diamond. The thieves probably tracked
it to this shop--most likely attacked Mr. Multenius for it. They'd most
likely been in here just before young Lauriston came in."

"But where does Stephen Purvis come in--then?" asked Mr. Penniket.

"Can't say yet--," replied Ayscough, doubtfully. "But--it may be that he--
and Levendale--got an idea who the thieves were, and went off after them,
and have got--well, trapped, or, as John Purvis suggests, murdered. It's
getting a nicer tangle than ever!"

"What's going to be done?" enquired the solicitor.

"Why!" said Ayscough. "At present, there's little more to be done than
what is being done! There's no end of publicity in the newspapers about
both Levendale and Purvis. Every newspaper reporter in London's on the
stretch for a thread of news of 'em! And we're getting posters and bills
out, all over, advertising for them--those bills'll be outside every
police-station in London--and over a good part of England--by tomorrow
noon. And, of course, we're all at work. But you see, we haven't so far,
the slightest clue as to the thieves! For there's no doubt, now, that it
was theft first, and the rest afterwards."

Mr. Penniket rose and gathered his papers together.

"I suppose," he remarked, "that neither of you ever heard of this diamond,
nor of Mr. Multenius having charge of it? No--just so. An atmosphere of
secrecy all over the transaction. Well--all I can say, Ayscough, is this
--you find Levendale. He's the man who knows."

When the solicitor had gone, Ayscough turned to Zillah.

"You never saw anything of any small box, packet, or anything of that
sort, lying about after your grandfather's death?" he asked. "I'm thinking
of what that diamond had been enclosed in, when he brought it from the
bank. My notion is that he was examining that diamond when he was
attacked, and in that case the box he'd taken it from would be lying
about, or thrown aside."

"You were in here yourself, before me," said Zillah.

"Quite so--but I never noticed anything," remarked Ayscough.

"Neither have I," replied Zillah. "And don't you think that whoever seized
that diamond would have the sense to snatch up anything connected with it!
I believe in what Mr. Penniket said just now--you find Levendale. If
there's a man living who knows who killed my grandfather, Levendale's that
man. You get him."

Mrs. Goldmark came in just then, to resume her task of keeping Zillah
company, and the detective left. Melky snatched up his overcoat and
followed him out, and in the side-passage laid a hand on his arm.

"Look here, Mr. Ayscough!" he whispered confidentially. "I want you!
There's something turned up in there, just now, that I ain't said a word
about to either Penniket or my cousin--but I will to you. Do you know
what, Mr. Ayscough--listen here;"--and he went on to tell the detective
the story of the furnished house in Maida Vale, its Chinese occupants, and
their cheque. "Dated that very day the old man was scragged!" exclaimed
Melky. "Now, Mr. Ayscough, supposing that one o' those Chinks called here
with that cheque that afternoon when Zillah was out, and found the old man
alone, and that diamond in his hand--eh?"

Ayscough started and gave a low, sharp whistle.

"Whew!" he said. "By George, that's an idea! Where's this house, do you
say? Molteno Lodge, Maida Vale? I know it--small detached house in a
garden. I say!--let's go and take a look round there!"

"It's what I was going to propose--and at once," responded Melky. "Come
on--but on the way, we'll pay a bit of a call. I want to ask a question of
Dr. Mirandolet."



CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX


THE RAT

Ayscough and Melky kept silence, until they had exchanged the busy streets
for the quieter by-roads which lie behind the Paddington Canal--then, as
they turned up Portsdown Road, the detective tapped his companion's arm.

"What do you know about these two Chinese chaps that have this furnished
house of yours?" he asked. "Much?--or little?"

"We don't know nothing at all, Mr. Ayscough--me and my cousin Zillah,"
replied Melky. "Never heard of 'em! Never knew they were there! Never knew
the old man had furnished house to let in Maida Vale! He was close, the
old man was, about some things. That was one of 'em. However, Mr.
Penniket, he knew of this--but only recently. He says they're all right--
medical students at one of the hospitals--yes, University College. That's
in Gower Street, ain't it? The old man--he put in a note about there here
Molteno Lodge that these Chinks were good tenants. I know what he'd mean
by that!--paid their rent regular, in advance."

"Oh, I know they've always plenty of money, these chaps!" observed
Ayscough. "I've been wondering if I'd ever seen these two. But Lor' bless
you!--there's such a lot o' foreigners in this quarter, especially
Japanese and Siamese--law students and medical students and such like--
that you'd never notice a couple of Easterns particularly--and I've no
doubt they wear English clothes. Now, what do you want to see this doctor
for?" he asked as they halted by Dr. Mirandolet's door. "Anything to do
with the matter in hand?"

"You'll see in a minute," replied Melky as he rang the bell. "Just a
notion that occurred to me. And it has got to do with it."

Dr. Mirandolet was in, and received his visitors in a room which was half-
surgery and half-laboratory, and filled to the last corner with the
evidences and implements of his profession. He was wearing a white linen
operating jacket, and his dark face and black hair looked all the darker
and blacker because of it. Melky gazed at him with some awe as he dropped
into the chair which Mirandolet indicated and found the doctor's piercing
eyes on him.

"Just a question or two, mister!" he said, apologetically. "Me and Mr.
Ayscough there is doing a bit of looking into this mystery about Mr.
Multenius, and knowing as you was a big man in your way, it struck me
you'd tell me something. I was at that inquest on Parslett, you know,
mister."

Mirandolet nodded and waited, and Melky gained courage.

"Mister!" he said, suddenly bending forward and tapping the doctor's knee
in a confidential fashion. "I hear you say at that inquest as how you'd
lived in the East?"

"Yes!" replied Mirandolet. "Many years. India--Burmah--China!"

"You know these Easterns, mister, and their little way?" suggested Melky.
"Now, would it be too much--I don't want to get no professional
information, you know, if it ain't etiquette!--but would it be too much to
ask you if them folks is pretty good hands at poisoning?"

Mirandolet laughed, showing a set of very white teeth, and glared at
Ayscough with a suggestion of invitation to join in his amusement. He
clapped Melky on the shoulder as if he had said something diverting.

"Good hands, my young friend?" he exclaimed. "The very best in the world!
Past masters! Adepts. Poison you while they look at you!"

"Bit cunning and artful about it, mister?" suggested Melky.

"Beyond your conception, my friend," replied Mirandolet. "Unless I very
much mistake your physiognomy, you yourself come of an ancient race which
is not without cunning and artifice--but in such matters as you refer to,
you are children, compared to your Far East folk."

"Just so, mister--I believe you!" said Melky, solemnly. "And--which of
'em, now, do you consider the cleverest of the lot--them as you say you've
lived amongst, now? You mentioned three lots of 'em, you know--Indians,
Burmese, Chinese. Which would you consider the artfullest of them three--
if it came to a bit of real underhand work, now?"

"For the sort of thing you're thinking of, my friend," answered
Mirandolet, "you can't beat a Chinaman. Does that satisfy you?"

Melky rose and glanced at the detective before turning to the doctor.

"Mister," he said, "that's precisely what I should ha' said myself. Only--
I wanted to know what a big man like you thought. Now, I know! Much
obliged to you, mister. If there's ever anything I can do for you, doctor
--if you want a bit of real good stuff--jewellery, you know--at dead cost
price--"

Mirandolet laughed and clapping Melky's shoulder again, looked at
Ayscough.

"What's our young friend after?" he asked, good-humouredly. "What's his
game?"

"Hanged if I know, doctor!" said Ayscough, shaking his head. "He's got
some notion in his head. Are you satisfied, Mr. Rubinstein?"

Melky was making for the door.

"Ain't I just said so?" he answered. "You come along of me, Mr. Ayscough,
and let's be getting about our business. Now, look here!" he said, taking
the detective's arm when they had left the house. "We're going to take a
look at them Chinks. I've got it into my head that they've something to do
with this affair--and I'm going to see 'em, and to ask 'em a question or
two. And--you're coming with me!"

"I say, you know!" remarked Ayscough. "They're respectable gentlemen--even
if they are foreigners. Better be careful--we don't know anything against
'em."

"Never you fear!" said Melky. "I'll beat 'em all right. Ain't I got a good
excuse, Mr. Ayscough? Just to ask a civil question. Begging their pardons
for intrusion, but since the lamented death of Mr. Daniel Multenius, me
and Miss Zillah Wildrose has come into his bit of property, and does the
two gentlemen desire to continue their tenancy, and is there anything we
can do to make 'em comfortable--see? Oh, I'll talk to 'em all right!"

"What're you getting at, all the same?" asked the detective. "Give it a
title!"

Melky squeezed his companion's arm.

"I want to see 'em," he whispered. "That's one thing. And I want to find
out how that last cheque of theirs got into our back-parlour! Was it sent
by post--or was it delivered by hand? And if by hand--who delivered it?"

"You're a cute 'un, you are!" observed Ayscough. "You'd better join us."

"Thank you, Mr. Ayscough, but events has happened which'll keep me busy at
something else," said Melky, cheerfully. "Do you know that my good old
relative has divided everything between me and my cousin?--I'm a rich man,
now, Mr. Ayscough. S'elp me!--I don't know how rich I am. It'll take a bit
o' reckoning."

"Good luck to you!" exclaimed the detective heartily. "Glad to hear it!
Then I reckon you and your cousin'll be making a match of it--keeping the
money in the family, what?"

Melky laid his finger on the side of his nose.

"Then you think wrong!" he said. "There'll be marriages before long--for
both of us--but it'll not be as you suggest! There's Molteno Lodge, across
the road there--s'elp me, I've often seen that bit of a retreat from the
top of a 'bus, but I never knew it belonged to the poor old man!"

They had now come to the lower part of Maida Vale, where many detached
houses stand in walled-in gardens, isolated and detached from each other--
Melky pointed to one of the smaller ones--a stucco villa, whose white
walls shone in the November moonlight. Its garden, surrounded by high
walls, was somewhat larger than those of the neighbouring houses, and was
filled with elms rising to a considerable height and with tall bushes
growing beneath them.

"Nice, truly rural sort of spot," said Melky, as they crossed the road and
approached the gate in the wall. "And--once inside--uncommon private, no
doubt! What do you say, Mr. Ayscough?"

The detective was examining the gate. It was a curious sort of gate, set
between two stout pillars, and fashioned of wrought ironwork, the meshes
of which were closely intertwined. Ayscough peered through the upper part
and saw a trim lawn, a bit of statuary, a garden seat, and all the rest of
the appurtenances common to a London garden whose owners wish to remind
themselves of rusticity--also, he saw no signs of life in the house at the
end of the garden.

"There's no light in this house," he remarked, trying the gate. "Looks to
me as if everybody was out. Are you going to ring?"

Melky pointed along the front of the wall.

"There's a sort of alley going up there, between this house and the next,"
he said. "Come round--sure to be a tradesman's entrance--a side-door--up
there."

"Plenty of spikes and glass-bottle stuff on those walls, anyhow!" remarked
Ayscough, as they went round a narrow alley to the rear of the villa.
"Your grandfather evidently didn't intend anybody to get into these
premises very easily, Mr. Rubinstein. Six-foot walls and what you might
call regular fortifications on top of 'em! What are you going to do,
now?"

Melky had entered a recess in the side-wall and was examining a stout door
on which, plainly seen in the moonlight, were the words _Tradesman's
Entrance_. He turned the handle--and uttered an exclamation.

"Open!" he said. "Come on, Mr. Ayscough--we're a-going in! If there is
anybody at home, all right--if there ain't, well, still all right. I'm
going to have a look round."

The detective followed Melky into a paved yard at the back of the villa.
All was very still there--and the windows were dark.

"No lights, back or front," remarked Ayscough. "Can't be anybody in. And I
say--if either of those Chinese gents was to let himself in with his key
at the front gate and find us prowling about, it wouldn't look very well,
would it, now? Why not call again--in broad daylight?"

"Shucks!" said Melky. "Ain't I one o' the landlords of this desirable bit
o' property? And didn't we find that door open? Come round to the front."

He set off along a gravelled path which ran round the side of the house,
and ascended the steps to the porticoed front door. And there he rang the
bell--and he and his companion heard its loud ringing inside the house.
But no answer came--and the whole place seemed darker and stiller than
before.

"Of course there's nobody in!" muttered Ayscough. "Come on--let's get out
of it."

Melky made no answer. He walked down the steps, and across the lawn
beneath the iron-work gate in the street wall. A thick shrubbery of holly
and laurel bushes stood on his right--and as he passed it something darted
out--something alive and alert and sinuous--and went scudding away across
the lawn.

"Good Lord!" said Ayscough. "A rat! And as big as a rabbit!"

Melky paused, looked after the rat, and then at the place from which it
had emerged. And suddenly he stepped towards the shrubbery and drew aside
the thick cluster of laurel branches. Just as suddenly he started back on
the detective, and his face went white in the moonbeams.

"Mr. Ayscough!" he gasped. "S'elp me!--there's a dead man here! Look for
yourself!"



CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN


THE EMPTY HOUSE

Ayscough had manifested a certain restiveness and dislike to the
proceedings ever since his companion had induced him to enter the back
door of Molteno Lodge--these doings appeared to him informal and
irregular. But at Melky's sudden exclamation his professional instincts
were aroused, and he started forward, staring through the opening in the
bushes made by Melky's fingers.

"Good Lord!" he said. "You're right. One of the Chinamen!"

The full moon was high in a cloudless sky by that time, and its rays fell
full on a yellow face--and on a dark gash that showed itself in the yellow
neck below. Whoever this man was, he had been killed by a savage
knifethrust that had gone straight and unerringly through the jugular
vein. Ayscough pointed to a dark wide stain which showed on the earth at
the foot of the bushes.

"Stabbed!" he muttered. "Stabbed to death! And dragged in here--look at
that--and that!"

He turned, pointing to more stains on the gravelled path behind them--
stains which extended, at intervals, almost to the entrance door in the
outer wall. And then he drew a box of matches from his pocket, and
striking one, went closer and held the light down to the dead man's face.
Melky, edging closer to his elbow, looked, too.

"One of those Chinamen, without a doubt!" said Ayscough, as the match
flickered and died out. "Or, at any rate, a Chinaman. And--he's been dead
some days! Well!--this is a go!"

"What's to be done?" asked Melky. "It's murder!"

Ayscough looked around him. He was wondering how it was that a dead man
could lie in that garden, close to a busy thoroughfare, along which a
regular stream of traffic of all descriptions was constantly passing, for
several days, undetected. But a quick inspection of the surroundings
explained matters. The house itself filled up one end of the garden; the
other three sides were obscured from the adjacent houses and from the
street by high walls, high trees, thick bushes. The front gate was locked
or latched--no one had entered--no one, save the owner of the knife that
had dealt that blow, had known a murdered man lay there behind the
laurels. Only the rat, started by Melky's footsteps, had known.

"Stay here!" said Ayscough. "Well--inside the gate, then--don't come out--
I don't want to attract attention. There'll be a constable somewhere
about."

He walked down to the iron-work gate, Melky following close at his heels,
found and unfastened the patent latch, and slipped out into the road. In
two minutes he was back again with a policeman. He motioned the man inside
and once more fastened the door.

"As you know this beat," he said quietly, as if continuing a conversation
already begun, "you'll know the two Chinese gentlemen who have this
house?"

"Seen 'em--yes," replied the policeman. "Two quiet little fellows--seen
'em often--generally of an evening."

"Have you seen anything of them lately?" asked Ayscough.

"Well, now I come to think of it, no, I haven't," answered the policeman.
"Not for some days."

"Have you noticed that the house was shut up--that there were no lights in
the front windows?" enquired the detective.

"Why, as a matter of fact, Mr. Ayscough," said the policeman, "you never
do see any lights here--the windows are shuttered. I know that, because I
used to give a look round when the house was empty."

"Do you know what servants they kept--these two?" asked Ayscough.

"They kept none!" answered the policeman. "Seems to me--from what bit I
saw, you know--they used the house for little more than sleeping in. I've
seen 'em go out of a morning, with books and papers under their arms, and
come home at night--similar. But there's no servants there. Anything
wrong, Mr. Ayscough?"

Ayscough moved toward the bushes.

"There's this much wrong," he answered. "There's one of 'em lying dead
behind those laurels with a knife-thrust through his throat! And I should
say, from the look of things, that he's been lying there several days.
Look here!"

The policeman looked--and beyond a sharp exclamation, remained stolid. He
glanced at his companions, glanced round the garden--and suddenly pointed
to a dark patch on the ground.

"There's blood there!" he said. "Blood!"

"Blood!" exclaimed Ayscough. "There's blood all the way down this path!
The man's been stabbed as he came in at that door, and his body was then
dragged up the path and thrust in here. Now then!--off you go to the
station, and tell 'em what we've found. Get help--he'll have to be taken
to the mortuary. And you'll want men to keep a watch on this house--tell
the inspector all about it and say I'm here. And here--leave me that lamp
of yours."

The policeman took off his bull's eye lantern and handed it over. Ayscough
let him out of the door, and going back to Melky, beckoned him towards the
house.

"Let's see if there's any way of getting in here," he said. "My
conscience, Mr. Rubinstein!--you must have had some instinct about coming
here tonight! We've hit on something--but Lord bless me if I know what it
is!"

"Mr. Ayscough!" said Melky. "I hadn't a notion of aught like that--it's
give me a turn! But don't I know what it means, Mr. Ayscough--not half!
It's all of a piece with the rest of it! Murder, Mr. Ayscough--bloody
murder! All on account of that orange-yellow diamond we've heard of--at
last. Ah!--if I'd known there was that at the bottom of this affair, I'd
ha' been a bit sharper in coming to conclusions, I would so! Diamond worth
eighty thousand pounds--."

Ayscough, who had been busy at the front door of the house, suddenly
interrupted his companion's reflections.

"The door's open!" he exclaimed. "Open! Not even on the latch. Come on!"

Melky shrank back at the prospect of the unlighted hall. There was a
horror in the garden, in that bright moonlight--what might there not be in
that black, silent house?

"Well, turn that there bull's eye on!" he said. "I don't half fancy this
sort of exploration. We'd ought to have had revolvers, you know."

Ayscough turned on the light and advanced into the hall. There was nothing
there beyond what one would expect to see in the hall of a well-furnished
house, nor was there anything but good furniture, soft carpets, and old
pictures to look at in the first room into which he and Melky glanced. But
in the room behind there were evidences of recent occupation--a supper-
table was laid: there was food on it, a cold fowl, a tongue--one plate had
portions of both these viands laid on it, with a knife and fork crossed
above them; on another plate close by, a slice of bread lay, broken and
crumbled--all the evidences showed that supper had been laid for two, that
only one had sat down to it: that he had been interrupted at the very
beginning of his meal--a glass half-full of a light French wine stood near
the pushed-aside plate.

"Looks as if one of 'em had been having a meal, had had to leave it, and
had never come back to it," remarked Ayscough. "Him outside, no doubt.
Let's see the other rooms."

There was nothing to see beyond what they would have expected to see--
except that in one of the bedrooms, in a drawer pulled out from a
dressing-table and left open, lay a quantity of silver and copper, with
here and there a gold coin shining amongst it. Ayscough made a significant
motion of his head at the sight.

"Another proof of--hurry!" he said. "Somebody's cleared out of this place
about as quick as he could! Money left lying about--unfinished meal--door
open--all sure indications. Well, we've seen enough for the present. Our
people'll make a thorough search later. Come downstairs again."

Neither Ayscough nor Melky were greatly inclined for conversation or
speculation, and they waited in silence near the gate, both thinking of
the still figure lying behind the laurel bushes until the police came.
Then followed whispered consultations between Ayscough and the inspector,
and arrangements for the removal of the dead man to the mortuary and the
guardianship and thorough search of the house--and that done, Ayscough
beckoned Melky out into the road.

"Glad to be out of that--for this time, anyway!" he said, with an air of
relief. "There's too much atmosphere of murder and mystery--what they call
Oriental mystery--for me in there, Mr. Rubinstein! Now then, there's
something we can do, at once. Did I understand you to say these two were
medical students at University College?"

"So Mr. Penniket said," replied Melky. "S'elp me! I never heard of 'em
till this afternoon!"

"You're going to hear a fine lot about 'em before long, anyway!" remarked
Ayscough.

"Well--we'll just drive on to Gower Street--somebody'll know something
about 'em there, I reckon."

He walked forward until he came to the cab-rank at the foot of St. John's
Wood Road, where he bundled Melky into a taxi-cab, and bade the driver get
away to University College Hospital at his best pace. There was little
delay in carrying out that order, but it was not such an easy task on
arrival at their destination to find any one who could give Ayscough the
information he wanted. At last, after they had waited some time in a
reception room a young member of the house-staff came in and looked an
enquiry.

"What is it you want to know about these two Chinese students?" he asked a
little impatiently, with a glance at Ayscough's card. "Is anything wrong?"

"I want to know a good deal!" answered Ayscough. "If not just now, later.
You know the two men I mean--Chang Li and Chen Li--brothers, I take it?"

"I know them--they've been students here since about last Christmas,"
answered the young surgeon. "As a matter of fact they're not brothers--
though they're very much alike, and both have the same surname--if Li is a
surname. They're friends--not brothers, so they told us."

"When did you see them last?" asked Ayscough.

"Not for some days, now you mention it," replied the surgeon. "Several
days. I was remarking on that today--I missed them from a class."

"You say they're very much alike," remarked the detective. "I suppose you
can tell one from the other?"

"Of course! But--what is this? I see you're a detective sergeant. Are they
in any bother--trouble?"

"The fact of the case," answered Ayscough, "is just this--one of them's
lying dead at our mortuary, and I shall be much obliged if you'll step
into my cab outside and come and identify him. Listen--it's a case of
murder!"

Twenty minutes later, Ayscough, leading the young house-surgeon into a
grim and silent room, turned aside the sheet from a yellow face.

"Which one of 'em is it?" he asked.

The house-surgeon started as he saw the wound in the dead man's throat.

"This is Chen!" he answered.



CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT


THE L500 BANK NOTE

Ayscough drew the sheet over the dead man's face and signed to his
companion to follow him outside, to a room where Melky Rubinstein, still
gravely meditating over the events of the evening, was awaiting their
reappearance.

"So that," said Ayscough, jerking his thumb in the direction of the
mortuary, "that's Chen Li! You're certain?"

"Chen Li! without a doubt!" answered the house-surgeon. "I know him well!"

"The younger of the two?" suggested Ayscough.

The house-surgeon shook his head.

"I can't say as to that," he answered. "It would be difficult to tell
which of two Chinese, of about the same age, was the older. But that's
Chen. He and the other, Chang Li, are very much alike, but Chen was a
somewhat smaller and shorter man."

"What do you know of them?" inquired Ayscough. "Can you say what's known
at your hospital?"

"Very little," replied the house-surgeon. "They entered, as students
there--we have several foreigners--about last Christmas--perhaps at the
New Year. All that I know of them is that they were like most Easterns--
very quiet, unassuming, inoffensive fellows, very assiduous in their
studies and duties, never giving any trouble, and very punctual in their
attendance."

"And, you say, they haven't been seen at the hospital for some days?"
continued Ayscough. "Now, can you tell me--it's important--since what
precise date they've been absent?"

The house-surgeon reflected for a moment--then he suddenly drew out a
small memorandum book from an inner pocket.

"Perhaps I can," he answered, turning the pages over. "Yes--both these men
should have been in attendance on me--a class of my own, you know--on the
20th, at 10.35. They didn't turn up. I've never seen them since--in fact,
I'm sure they've never been at the hospital since."

"The 20th?" observed Ayscough. He looked at Melky, who was paying great
attention to the conversation. "Now let's see--old Mr. Multenius met his
death on the afternoon of the 18th. Parslett was poisoned on the night of
the 19th. Um!"

"And Parslett was picked up about half-way between the Chink's house and
his own place, Mr. Ayscough--don't you forget that!" muttered Melky. "I'm
not forgetting--don't you make no error!"

"You don't know anything more that you could tell us about these two?"
asked the detective, nodding reassuringly at Melky and then turning to the
house-surgeon. "Any little thing?--you never know what helps."

"I can't!" said the house-surgeon, who was obviously greatly surprised by
what he had seen and heard. "These Easterns keep very much to themselves,
you know. I can't think of anything."

"Don't know anything of their associates--friends--acquaintances?"
suggested Ayscough. "I suppose they had some--amongst your students?"

"I never saw them in company with anybody--particularly--except a young
Japanese who was in some of their classes," replied the house-surgeon. "I
have seen them talking with him--in Gower Street."

"What's his name?" asked Ayscough, pulling out a note-book.

"Mr. Mori Yada," answered the house-surgeon promptly. "He lives in Gower
Street--I don't know the precise number of the house. Yes, that's the way
to spell his name. He's the only man I know who seemed to know these two."

"Have you seen him lately?" asked Ayscough.

"Oh, yes--regularly--today, in fact," said the house-surgeon.

He waited a moment in evident expectation of other questions; as the
detective asked none--"I gather," he remarked, "that Chang Li has
disappeared?"

"The house these two occupied is empty," replied Ayscough.

"I am going to suggest something," said the house-surgeon. "I know--from
personal observation--that there is a tea-shop in Tottenham Court Road--a
sort of quiet, privately-owned place--Pilmansey's--which these two used to
frequent. I don't know if that's of any use to you?"

"Any detail is of use, sir," answered Ayscough, making another note. "Now,
I'll tell this taxi-man to drive you back to the hospital. I shall call
there tomorrow morning, and I shall want to see this young Japanese
gentleman, too. I daresay you see that this is a case of murder--and
there's more behind it!"

"You suspect Chang Li?" suggested the house-surgeon as they went out to
the cab.

"Couldn't say that--yet," replied Ayscough, grimly. "For anything I know,
Chang Li may have been murdered, too. But I've a pretty good notion what
Chen Li was knifed for!"

When the house-surgeon had gone away, Ayscough turned to Melky.

"Come back to Molteno Lodge," he said. "They're searching it. Let's see if
they've found anything of importance."

The house which had been as lifeless and deserted when Melky and the
detective visited it earlier in the evening was full enough of energy and
animation when they went back. One policeman kept guard at the front gate;
another at the door of the yard; within the house itself, behind closed
doors and drawn shutters and curtains, every room was lighted and the
lynx-eyed men were turning the place upside down. One feature of the
search struck the newcomers immediately--the patch of ground whereon Melky
had found the dead man had been carefully roped off. Ayscough made a
significant motion of his hand towards it.

"Good!" he said, "that shows they've found footprints. That may be useful.
Let's hear what else they've found."

The man in charge of these operations was standing within the dining-room
when Ayscough and Melky walked in, and he at once beckoned them into the
room and closed the door.

"We've made two or three discoveries," he said, glancing at Ayscough. "To
start with, there were footprints of a rather unusual sort round these
bushes where the man was lying--so I've had it carefully fenced in around
there--we'll have a better look at 'em, in daylight. Very small prints,
you understand--more like a woman's than a man's."

Ayscough's sharp eyes turned to the hearth--there were two or three pairs
of slippers lying near the fender and he pointed to them.

"These Chinamen have very small feet, I believe," he said. "The footprints
are probably theirs. Well--what else?"

"This," answered the man in charge, producing a small parcel from the
side-pocket of his coat, and proceeding to divest it of a temporary
wrapping. "Perhaps Mr. Rubinstein will recognize it. We found it thrown
away in a fire-grate in one of the bedrooms upstairs--you see, it's half
burnt."

He produced a small, stoutly-made cardboard box, some three inches square,
the outer surface of which was covered with a thick, glossy-surfaced dark-
green paper, on which certain words were deeply impressed in gilt letters.
The box was considerably charred and only fragments of the lettering on
the lid remained intact--but it was not difficult to make out what the
full wording had been.

. . . . _enius_,
  . . ._nd jeweller_,
    . . _ed Street_.

"That's one of the late Mr. Multenius's boxes," affirmed Melky at once.
"Daniel Multenius, Pawnbroker and Jeweller, Praed Street--that's the full
wording. Found in a fireplace, d'ye say, mister? Ah--and what had he taken
out of it before he threw the box away, now, Mr. Ayscough--whoever it was
that did throw it away?"

"That blessed orange and yellow diamond, I should think!" said Ayscough.
"Of course! Well, anything else?"

The man in charge carefully wrapped up and put away the jeweller's box;
then, with a significant glance at his fellow-detective, he slipped a
couple of fingers into his waistcoat pocket and drew out what looked like
a bit of crumpled paper.

"Aye!" he answered. "This! Found it--just there! Lying on the floor, at
the end of this table."

He opened out the bit of crumpled paper as he spoke and held it towards
the other two. Ayscough stared, almost incredulously, and Melky let out a
sharp exclamation.

"S'elp us!" he said. "A five-hundred-pound bank-note!"

"That's about it," remarked the exhibitor. "Bank of England note for five
hundred of the best! And--a good 'un, too. Lying on the floor."

"Take care of it," said Ayscough laconically. "Well--you haven't found any
papers, documents, or anything of that sort, that give any clue?"

"There's a lot of stuff there," answered the man in charge, pointing to a
pile of books and papers on the table, "but it seems to be chiefly
exercises and that sort of thing. I'll look through it myself, later."

"See if you can find any letters, addresses, and so on," counselled
Ayscough. He turned over some of the books, all of them medical works and
text-books, opening some of them at random. And suddenly he caught sight
of the name which the house-surgeon had given him half-an-hour before,
written on a fly-leaf: Mori Yada, 491, Gower Street--and an idea came into
his mind. He bade the man in charge keep his eyes open and leave nothing
unexamined, and tapping Melky's arm, led him outside. "Look here!" he
said, drawing out his watch, as they crossed the hall, "it's scarcely ten
o'clock, and I've got the address of that young Jap. Come on--we'll go and
ask him a question or two."

So for the second time that evening, Melky, who was beginning to feel as
if he were on a chase which pursued anything but a straight course, found
himself in Gower Street again, and followed Ayscough along, wondering what
was going to happen next, until the detective paused at the door of a tall
house in the middle of the long thoroughfare and rang the bell. A smart
maid answered that ring and looked dubiously at Ayscough as he proffered a
request to see Mr. Mori Yada. Yes--Mr. Yada was at home, but he didn't
like to see any one, of an evening when he was at his studies, and--in
fact he'd given orders not to be disturbed at that time.

"I think he'll see me, all the same," said Ayscough, drawing out one of
his professional cards. "Just give him that, will you, and tell him my
business is very important."

He turned to Melky when the girl, still looking unwilling, had gone away
upstairs, and gave him a nudge of the elbow.

"When we get up there--as we shall," whispered Ayscough, "you watch this
Jap chap while I talk to him. Study his face--and see if anything
surprises him."

"Biggest order, mister--with a Jap!" muttered Melky. "Might as well tell
me to watch a stone image--their faces is like wood!"

"Try it!" said Ayscough. "Flicker of an eyelid--twist of the lip--
anything! Here's the girl back again."

A moment later Melky, treading close on the detective's heels, found
himself ushered into a brilliantly-lighted, rather over-heated room,
somewhat luxuriously furnished, wherein, in the easiest of chairs, a cigar
in his lips, a yellow-backed novel in his hand, sat a slimly-built,
elegant young gentleman whose face was melting to a smile.



CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE


MR. MORI YADA

Ayscough was on his guard as soon as he saw that smile. He had had some
experience of various national characteristics in his time, and he knew
that when an Eastern meets you with a frank and smiling countenance you
had better keep all your wits about you. He began the exercise of his own
with a polite bow--while executing it, he took a rapid inventory of Mr.
Mori Yada. About--as near as he could judge--two or three and twenty; a
black-haired, black-eyed young gentleman; evidently fastidious about his
English clothes, his English linen, his English ties, smart socks, and
shoes--a good deal of a dandy, in short--and, judging from his
surroundings, very fond of English comfort--and not averse to the English
custom of taking a little spirituous refreshment with his tobacco. A
decanter stood on the table at his elbow; a syphon of mineral water reared
itself close by; a tumbler was within reach of Mr. Yada's slender
yellowish fingers.

"Servant, sir!" said Ayscough. "Detective Sergeant Ayscough of the
Criminal Investigation Department--friend of mine, this, sir, Mr. Yada, I
believe--Mr. Mori Yada?"

Mr. Yada smiled again, and without rising, indicated two chairs.

"Oh, yes!" he said in excellent English accents. "Pleased to see you--will
you take a chair--and your friend! You want to talk to me?"

Ayscough sat down and unbuttoned his overcoat.

"Much obliged, sir," he said. "Yes--the fact is, Mr. Yada, I called to see
you on a highly important matter that's arisen. Your name, sir, was given
to me tonight by one of the junior house-surgeons at the hospital up the
street--Dr. Pittery."

"Oh, yes, Dr. Pittery--I know," agreed Yada. "Yes?"

"Dr. Pittery tells me, sir," continued Ayscough, "that you know two
Chinese gentlemen who are fellow-students of yours at the hospital, Mr.
Yada?"

The Japanese bowed his dark head and blew out a mouthful of smoke from his
cigar.

"Yes!" he answered readily, "Mr. Chang Li--Mr. Chen Li. Oh, yes!"

"I want to ask you a question, Mr. Yada," said Ayscough, bending forward
and assuming an air of confidence. "When did you see those two gentlemen
last--either of them?"

Yada leaned back in his comfortably padded chair and cast his quick eyes
towards the ceiling. Suddenly he jumped to his feet.

"You take a little drop of whisky-and-soda?" he said hospitably, pushing a
clean glass towards Ayscough. "Yes--I will get another glass for your
friend, too. Help yourselves, please, then--I will look in my diary for an
answer to your question. You excuse me, one moment."

He walked across the room to a writing cabinet which stood in one corner,
and took up a small book that lay on the blotting-pad; while he turned
over its pages, Ayscough, helping himself and Melky to a drink, winked at
his companion with a meaning expression.

"I have not seen either Mr. Chang Li or Mr. Chen Li since the morning of
the 18th November," suddenly said Yada. He threw the book back on the
desk, and coming to the hearthrug, took up a position with his back to the
fire and his hands in the pockets of his trousers. He nodded politely as
his visitors raised their glasses to him. "Is anything the matter, Mr.
Detective-Sergeant?" he asked.

Ayscough contrived to press his foot against Melky's as he gave a direct
answer to this question.

"The fact of the case is, Mr. Yada," he said, "one of these two young men
has been murdered! murdered, sir!"

Yada's well-defined eyebrows elevated themselves--but the rest of his face
was immobile. He looked fixedly at Ayscough for a second or two--then he
let out one word.

"Which?"

"According to Dr. Pittery--Chen Li," answered Ayscough. "Dr. Pittery
identified him. Murdered, Mr. Yada, murdered! Knifed!--in the throat."

The reiteration of the word murdered appeared to yield the detective some
sort of satisfaction--but it apparently made no particular impression on
the Japanese. Again he rapped out one word.

"Where?"

"His body was found in the garden of the house they rented in Maida Vale,"
replied Ayscough. "Molteno Lodge. No doubt you've visited them there, Mr.
Yada?"

"I have been there--yes, a few times," assented Yada. "Not very lately.
But--where is Chang Li?"

"That's what we don't know--and what we want to know," said Ayscough.
"He's not been seen at the hospital since the 20th. He didn't turn up
there--nor Chen, either, at a class, that day. And you say you haven't
seen them either since the 18th?"

"I was not at the hospital on the 19th," replied Yada. He threw away the
end of his cigar, picked up a fresh one from a box which stood on the
table, pushed the box towards his visitors, and drew out a silver match-
box. "What are the facts of this murder, Mr. Detective-Sergeant?" he
asked quietly. "Murder is not done without some object--as a rule."

Ayscough accepted the offered cigar, passed the box to Melky and while he
lighted his selection, thought quietly. He was playing a game with the
Japanese, and it was necessary to think accurately and quickly. And
suddenly he made up his mind and assumed an air of candour.

"It's like this, Mr. Yada," he said. "I may as well tell you all about it.
You've doubtless read all about this Praed Street mystery in the
newspapers? Well, now, some very extraordinary developments have arisen
out of the beginnings of that, it turns out."

Melky sat by, disturbed and uncomfortable, while Ayscough reeled off a
complete narrative of the recent discoveries to the suave-mannered,
phlegmatic, calmly-listening figure on the hearthrug. He did not
understand the detective's doings--it seemed to him the height of folly to
tell a stranger, and an Eastern stranger at that, all about the fact that
there was a diamond worth eighty thousand pounds at the bottom of these
mysteries and murders. But he discharged his own duties, and watched Yada
intently--and failed to see one single sign of anything beyond ordinary
interest in his impassive face.

"So there it is, sir," concluded Ayscough. "I've no doubt whatever that
Chen Li called at Multenius's shop to pay the rent; that he saw the
diamond in the old man's possession and swagged him for it; that Parslett
saw Chen Li slip away from that side-door and, hearing of Multenius's
death, suspected Chen Li of it and tried to blackmail him; that Chen Li
poisoned Parslett--and that Chen Li himself was knifed for that diamond.
Now--by whom? Chang Li has--disappeared!"

"You suspect Chang Li?" asked Yada.

"I do," exclaimed Ayscough. "A Chinaman--a diamond worth every penny of
eighty thousand pounds--Ah!" He suddenly lifted his eyes to Yada with a
quick enquiry. "How much do you know of these two?" he asked.

"Little--beyond the fact that they were fellow-students of mine," answered
Yada. "I occasionally visited them--occasionally they visited me--that is
all."

"Dr. Pittery says they weren't brothers?" suggested Ayscough.

"So I understood," assented Yada. "Friends."

"You can't tell us anything of their habits?--haunts?--what they usually
did with themselves when they weren't at the hospital?" asked the
detective.

"I should say that when they weren't at the hospital, they were at their
house--reading," answered Yada, drily. "They were hard workers."

Ayscough rose from his chair.

"Well, much obliged to you, sir," he said. "As your name was mentioned as
some sort of a friend of theirs, I came to you. Of course, most of what
I've told you will be in all the papers tomorrow. If you should hear
anything of this Chang Li, you'll communicate with us, Mr. Yada?"

The Japanese smiled--openly.

"Most improbable, Mr. Detective-Sergeant!" he answered. "I know no more
than what I have said. For more information, you should go to the Chinese
Legation."

"Good idea, sir--thank you," said Ayscough.

He bowed himself and Melky out; once outside the street-door he drew his
companion away towards a part which lay in deep shadow. Some repairing
operations to the exterior of a block of houses were going on there;
underneath a scaffolding which extended over the sidewalk Ayscough drew
Melky to a halt.

"You no doubt wondered why I told that chap so much?" he whispered.
"Especially about that diamond! But I had my reasons--and particularly for
telling him about its value."

"It isn't what I should ha' done, Mr. Ayscough," said Melky, "and it
didn't ought to come out in the newspapers, neither--so I think! 'Tain't a
healthy thing to let the public know there's an eighty-thousand pound
diamond loose somewhere in London--and as to telling that slant-eyed
fellow in there--"

"You wait a bit, my lad!" interrupted Ayscough. "I had my reasons--good
'uns. Now, look here, we're going to watch that door awhile. If the Jap
comes out--as I've an idea he will--we're going to follow. And as you're
younger, and slimmer, and less conspicuous than I am, if he should emerge,
keep on the shadowy side of the street, at a safe distance, and follow him
as cleverly as you can. I'll follow you."

"What new game's this?" asked Melky.

"Never mind!" replied Ayscough. "And, if it does come to following, and he
should take a cab, contrive to be near--there's a good many people about,
and if you're careful he'll never see you. And--there, now, what did I
tell you? He's coming out, now! Be handy--more depends on it than you're
aware of."

Yada, seen clearly in the moonlight which flooded that side of the street,
came out of the door which they had left a few minutes earlier. His smart
suit of grey tweed had disappeared under a heavy fur-collared overcoat; a
black bowler hat surmounted his somewhat pallid face. He looked neither to
right nor left, but walked swiftly up the street in the direction of the
Euston Road. And when he had gone some thirty yards, Ayscough pushed Melky
before him out of their retreat.

"You go first," he whispered, "I'll come after you. Keep an eye on him as
far as you can--didn't I tell you he'd come out when we'd left? Be wary!"

Melky slipped away up the street on the dark side and continued to track
the slim figure quickly advancing in the moonlight. He followed until they
had passed the front of the hospital--a few yards further, and Yada
suddenly crossed the road in the direction of the Underground Railway. He
darted in at the entrance to the City-bound train, and disappeared, and
Melky, uncertain what to do, almost danced with excitement until Ayscough
came leisurely towards him. "Quick! quick!" exclaimed Melky. "He's gone
down there--City trains. He'll be off unless you're on to him!"

But Ayscough remained quiescent and calmly relighted his cigar.

"All right, my lad," he said. "Let him go--just now. I've seen--what I
expected to see!"



CHAPTER THIRTY


THE MORTUARY

Melky, who had grown breathless in his efforts to carry out his
companion's wishes, turned and looked at him with no attempt to conceal
his wonder.

"Well, s'elp me if you ain't a cool 'un, Mr. Ayscough!" he exclaimed.
"Here you troubles to track a chap to this here Underground Railway, seen
him pop into it like a rabbit into a hole--and let's him go! What did we
follow him up Gower Street for? Just to see him set off for a ride?"

"All right, my lad!" repeated Ayscough. "You don't quite understand our
little ways. Wait here a minute."

He drew one of his cards from his pocket and carrying it into the booking
office exchanged a few words with the clerk at the window. Presently he
rejoined Melky. "He took a ticket for Whitechapel," remarked Ayscough as
he strolled quietly up. "Ah! now what does a young Japanese medical
student want going down that way at eleven o'clock at night? Something
special, no doubt, Mr. Rubinstein. However, I'm going westward just now.
Just going to have a look in at the Great Western Hotel, to see if Mr.
Purdie heard anything from that American chap--and then I'm for home and
bed. Like to come to the hotel with me?"

"Strikes me we might as well make a night of it!" remarked Melky as they
recrossed the road and sought a west-bound train. "We've had such an
evening as I never expected! Mr. Ayscough! when on earth is this going to
come to something like a clearing-up?"

Ayscough settled himself in a corner of a smoking-carriage and leaned
back.

"My own opinion," he said, "is that it's coming to an end. Tomorrow, the
news of the Chinaman's murder'll be the talk of the town. And if that
doesn't fetch Levendale out of whatever cranny he's crept into, hanged if
I know what will!"

"Ah! you think that, do you?" said Melky. "But--why should that news fetch
him out?"

"Don't know!" replied Ayscough, almost unconcernedly. "But I'm almost
certain that it will. You see--I think Levendale's looking for Chen Li.
Now, if Levendale hears that Chen Li's lying dead in our mortuary--what?
See?"

Melky murmured that Mr. Ayscough was a cute 'un, and relapsed into thought
until the train pulled up at Praed Street. He followed the detective up
the streets and across the road to the hotel, dumbly wondering how many
times that day he had been in and about that quarter on this apparently
interminable chase. He was getting dazed--but Ayscough who was still
smoking the cigar which Yada had given him, strode along into the hotel
entrance apparently as fresh as paint.

Purdie had a private sitting-room in connection with his bedroom, and
there they found him and Lauriston, both smoking pipes and each evidently
full of thought and speculation. They jumped to their feet as the
detective entered.

"I say!" exclaimed Lauriston. "Is this true?--this about the Chinese chap?
Is it what they think at your police-station?--connected with the other
affairs? We've been waiting, hoping you'd come in!"

"Ah!" said Ayscough, dropping into a chair. "We've been pretty busy, me
and Mr. Rubinstein there--we've had what you might call a pretty full
evening's work of it. Yes--it's true enough, gentlemen--another step in
the ladder--another brick in the building! We're getting on, Mr. Purdie,
we're getting on! So you've been round to our place?--they told you,
there!"

"They gave us a mere outline," answered Purdie. "Just the bare facts. I
suppose you've heard nothing of the other Chinaman?"

"Not a circumstance--as yet," said Ayscough. "But I'm in hopes--I've done
a bit, I think, towards it--with Mr. Rubinstein's help, though he doesn't
quite understand my methods. But you, gentlemen--I came in to hear if
you'd anything to tell about Guyler. What did he think about what John
Purvis had to tell us this afternoon?"

"He wasn't surprised," answered Purdie. "Don't you remember that he
assured us from the very start that diamonds would be found to be at the
bottom of this. But he surprised us!"

"Aye? How?" asked Ayscough. "Some news?"

"Guyler swears that he saw Stephen Purvis this very morning," replied
Purdie. "He's confident of it!"

"Saw Stephen Purvis--this very morning!" exclaimed Ayscough. "Where, now?"

"Guyler had business down in the City--in the far end of it," said
Purdie. "He was crossing Bishopsgate when he saw Stephen Purvis--he swears
it was Stephen Purvis!--nothing can shake him! He, Purvis, was just
turning the corner into a narrow alley running out of the street. Guyler
rushed after him--he'd disappeared. Guyler waited, watching that alley, he
says, like a cat watches a mouse-hole--and all in vain. He watched for an
hour--it was no good."

"Pooh!" said Ayscough. "If it was Purvis, he'd walked straight through the
alley and gone out at the other end."

"No!" remarked Lauriston. "At least, not according to Guyler. Guyler says
it was a long, narrow alley--Purvis could have reached one end by the time
he'd reached the other. He says--Guyler--that on each side of that alley
there are suites of offices--he reckoned there were a few hundred separate
offices in the lot, and that it would take him a week to make enquiry at
the doors of each. But he's certain that Purvis disappeared into one block
of them and dead certain that it was Stephen Purvis that he saw. So--
Purvis is alive!"

"Where's the other Purvis--the farmer?" asked Ayscough.

"Stopping with Guyler at the Great Northern," answered Lauriston. "We've
all four been down in the City, looking round, this evening. Guyler and
John Purvis are going down again first thing in the morning. John Purvis,
of course, is immensely relieved to know that Guyler's certain about his
brother. I say!--do you know what Guyler's theory is about that diamond of
Stephen's?"

"No--and what might Mr. Guyler's theory be, now Mr. Lauriston?" enquired
the detective. "There's such a lot of ingenious theories about that one
may as well try to take in another. Mr. Rubinstein there is about weary of
theories."

But Melky was pricking his ears at the mere mention of anything relating
to the diamond.

"That's his chaff, Mr. Lauriston," he said. "Never mind him! What does
Guyler think?"

"Well, of course, Guyler doesn't know yet about the Chinese development,"
said Lauriston. "Guyler thinks the robbery has been the work of a gang--a
clever lot of diamond thieves who knew about Stephen Purvis's find of the
orange-yellow thing and put in a lot of big work about getting it when it
reached England. And he believes that that gang has kidnapped Levendale,
and that Stephen Purvis is working in secret to get at them. That's
Guyler's notion, anyhow."

"Well!" said Ayscough. "And there may be something in it! For this search
--how do we know that at any rate one of these Chinamen mayn't have had
some connection with this gang? You never know--and to get a dead straight
line at a thing's almost impossible. However, we've taken steps to have
the news about the diamond and about this Chen Li appear in tomorrow
morning's papers, and if that doesn't rouse the whole town--"

A tap at the door prefaced the entrance of a waiter, who looked
apologetically at its inmates.

"Beg pardon, gentlemen," he said, "Mr. Ayscough? Gentleman outside would
like a word with you, if you please, sir."

Ayscough picked up his hat and walked out--there, waiting a little way
down the corridor, an impressive figure in his big black cloak and wide-
brimmed hat, stood Dr. Mirandolet. He strode forward as the detective
advanced.

"I heard you were here, so I came up," he said, leading Ayscough away.
"Look here, my friend--one of your people has told me of this affair at
Molteno Lodge--the discovery of the Chinaman's dead body."

"That young fellow, Rubinstein, who called on you early this evening, and
got me to accompany him discovered it," said Ayscough, who was wondering
what the doctor was after. "I was with him."

"I have heard, too," continued Mirandolet, "also from one of your people,
about the strange story of the diamond which came out this afternoon, from
the owner's brother. Now--I'll tell you why after--I want to see that dead
Chinaman! I've a particular reason. Will you come with me to the
mortuary?"

Ayscough's curiosity was aroused by Mirandolet's manner, and without going
back to Purdie's room, he set out with him. Mirandolet remained strangely
silent until they came to the street in which the mortuary stood.

"A strange and mysterious matter this, my friend!" he said. "That little
Rubinstein man might have had some curious premonition when he came to me
tonight with his odd question about Chinese!"

"Just what I said myself, doctor!" agreed Ayscough.

"It did look as if he'd a sort of foreboding, eh? But--Hullo!"

He stopped short as a taxi-cab driven at a considerable speed, came
rushing down the street and passing them swiftly turned into the wider
road beyond. And the sudden exclamation was forced from his lips because
it seemed to him that as the cab sped by he saw a yellow-hued face within
it--for the fraction of a second. Quick as that glimpse was, Ayscough was
still quicker as he glanced at the number on the back of the car--and
memorized it.

"Odd!" he muttered, "odd! Now, I could have sworn--" He broke off, and
hurried after Mirandolet who had stridden ahead. "Here we are, doctor," he
said, as they came to the door of the mortuary. "There's a man on night
duty here, so there's no difficulty about getting in."

There was a drawing of bolts, a turning of keys; the door opened, and a
man looked out and seeing Ayscough and Dr. Mirandolet, admitted them into
an ante-room and turned up the gas.

"We want to see that Chinaman, George," said the detective. "Shan't keep
you long."

"There's a young foreign doctor just been to see him, Mr. Ayscough," said
the man. "You'd pass his car down the street--he hasn't been gone three
minutes. Young Japanese--brought your card with him."

Ayscough turned on the man as if he had given him the most startling news
in the world.

"What?" he exclaimed, "Japanese? Brought my card?"

"Showed me it as soon as he got here," answered the attendant, surprised
at Ayscough's amazement. "Said you'd given it to him, so that he could
call here and identify the body. So, of course, I let him go in."

Ayscough opened his mouth in sheer amazement. But before he could get out
a word, Mirandolet spoke, seizing the mortuary-keeper by the arm in his
eagerness.

"You let that man--a Japanese--see the dead Chinaman--_alone_?" he
demanded.

"Why, of course!" the attendant answered surlily. "He'd Mr. Ayscough's
card, and--"

Mirandolet dropped the man's arm and threw up his own long white hands.

"Merciful Powers!" he vociferated. "He has stolen the diamond!"



CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE


THE MIRANDOLET THEORY

The silence that followed on this extraordinary exclamation was suddenly
broken: the mortuary keeper, who had been advancing towards a door at the
side of the room, dropped a bunch of keys. The strange metallic sound of
their falling roused Ayscough, who had started aside, and was staring,
open-mouthed, at Mirandolet's waving hands. He caught the doctor by the
arm.

"What on earth do you mean?" he growled. "Speak man--what is it?"

Mirandolet suddenly laughed.

"What is it?" he exclaimed. "Precisely what I said, in plain language!
That fellow has, of course, gone off with the diamond--worth eighty
thousand pounds! Your card!--Oh, man, man, whatever have you been doing?
Be quick!--who is this Japanese?--how came he by your card? Quick, I say!
--if you want to be after him!"

"Hanged if I know what this means!" muttered Ayscough. "As to who he is--
if he's the fellow I gave a card to, he's a young Japanese medical
student, one Yada, that was a friend of those Chinese--I called on him
tonight, with Rubinstein, to see if we could pick up a bit of information.
Of course, I sent in my professional card to him. But--we saw him set off
to the East End!"

"Bah!" laughed Mirandolet. "He has--what you call done you brown, my
friend! He came--here! And he has got away--got a good start--with that
diamond in his pocket!"

"What the devil do you mean by that?" said Ayscough, hotly. "Diamond!
Diamond! Where should he find the diamond--here? In a deadhouse? What are
you talking about?"

Mirandolet laughed again, and giving the detective a look that was very
like one of pitying contempt, turned to the amazed mortuary keeper.

"Show us that dead man!" he said.

The mortuary keeper, who had allowed his keys to lie on the floor during
this strange scene, picked them up, and selecting one, opened, and threw
back the door by which he was standing. He turned on the light in the
mortuary chamber, and Mirandolet strode in, with Ayscough, sullen and
wondering, at his heels.

Chen Li lay where the detective had last seen him, still and rigid, the
sheet drawn carefully over his yellow face. Without a word Mirandolet drew
that sheet aside, and motioning his companion to draw nearer, pointed to a
skull-cap of thin blue silk which fitted over the Chinaman's head.

"You see that!" he whispered. "You know what's beneath it!--something that
no true Chinaman ever parts with, even if he does come to Europe, and does
wear English dress and English headgear--his pigtail! Look here!"

He quietly moved the skull-cap, and showed the two astonished men a
carefully-coiled mass of black hair, wound round and round the back of the
head. And into it he slipped his own long, thin fingers--to draw them out
again with an exclamation which indicated satisfaction with his own
convictions.

"Just as I said," he remarked. "Gone! Mr. Detective--that's where Chen Li
hid the diamond--and that Japanese man has got it. And now--you'd better
be after him--half-an-hour's start to him is as good as a week's would be
to you."

He drew the sheet over the dead face and strode out, and Ayscough
followed, angry, mystified, and by no means convinced.

"Look here!" he said, as they reached the ante-room; "that's all very
well, Dr. Mirandolet, but it's only supposition on your part!"

"Supposition that you'll find to be absolute truth, my good friend!"
retorted Mirandolet, calmly. "I know the Chinese--better than you think.
As soon as I heard of this affair tonight, I came to you to put you up to
the Chinese trick of secreting things of value in their pigtails--it did
not occur to me that the diamond might be there in this case, but I
thought you would probably find something. But when we reached this
mortuary, and I heard that a Japanese had been here, presenting your card
when he had no business to present it, I guessed immediately what had
happened--and now that you tell me that you told him all about this
affair, well--I am certain of my assertion. Mr. Detective--go after the
diamond!"

He turned as if to leave the place, and Ayscough followed.

"He mayn't been after the diamond at all!" he said, still resentful and
incredulous. "Is it very likely he'd think it to be in that dead chap's
pigtail when the other man's missing? It's Chang that's got that diamond--
not Chen."

"All right, my friend!" replied Mirandolet. "Your wisdom is superior to
mine, no doubt. So--I wish you good-night!"

He strode out of the place and turned sharply up the street, and Ayscough,
after a growl or two, went back to the mortuary keeper.

"How long was that Jap in there?" he asked, nodding at the death chamber.

"Not a minute, Mr. Ayscough!" replied the man. "In and out again, as you
might say."

"Did he say anything when he came out?" enquired the detective.

"He did--two words," answered the keeper. "He said, 'That's he!' and
walked straight out, and into his car."

"And when he came he told you I'd sent him?" demanded Ayscough.

"Just that--and showed me your card," assented the man. "Of course, I'd no
reason to doubt his word."

"Look here, George!" said Ayscough, "you keep this to yourself! Don't say
anything to any of our folks if they come in. I don't half believe what
that doctor said just now--but I'll make an enquiry or two. Mum's the
word, meanwhile. You understand, George?"

George answered that he understood very well, and Ayscough presently left
him. Outside, in the light of the lamp set over the entrance to the
mortuary, he pulled out his watch. Twelve o'clock--midnight. And
somewhere, that cursed young Jap was fleeing away through the London
streets--having cheated him, Ayscough, at his own game!

He had already reckoned things up in connection with Yada. Yada had been
having him--even as Melky Rubinstein had suspected and suggested--all
through that conversation at Gower Street. Probably, Yada, from his window
in the drawing-room floor of his lodging-house, had watched him and Melky
slip across the street and hide behind the hoarding opposite. And then
Yada had gone out, knowing he was to be followed, and had tricked them
beautifully, getting into an underground train going east, and, in all
certainty, getting out again at the next station, chartering a cab, and
returning west--with Ayscough's card in his pocket.

But Ayscough knew one useful thing--he had memorized the letters and
numbers of the taxi-cab in which Yada had sped by him and Mirandolet, L.C.
2571--he had kept repeating that over and over. Now he took out his note-
book and jotted it down--and that done he set off to the police-station,
intent first of all on getting in touch with New Scotland Yard by means of
the telephone.

Ayscough, like most men of his calling in London, had a considerable
amount of general knowledge of things and affairs, and he summoned it to
his aid in this instance. He knew that if the Japanese really had become
possessed of the orange and yellow diamond (of which supposition, in spite
of Mirandolet's positive convictions, he was very sceptical) he would most
certainly make for escape. He would be off to the Continent, hot foot.
Now, Ayscough had a good acquaintance with the Continental train services
--some hours must elapse before Yada could possibly get a train for Dover,
or Folkstone, or Newhaven, or the shortest way across, or to any other
ports such as Harwich or Southampton, by a longer route. Obviously, the
first thing to do was to have the stations at Victoria, and Charing Cross,
and Holborn Viaduct, and London Bridge carefully watched for Yada. And for
two weary hours in the middle of the night he was continuously at work on
the telephone, giving instructions and descriptions, and making
arrangements to spread a net out of which the supposed fugitive could not
escape.

And when all that was at last satisfactorily arranged, Ayscough was
conscious that it might be for nothing. He might be on a wrong track
altogether--due to the suspicions and assertions of that queer man,
Mirandolet. There might be some mystery--in Ayscough's opinion there
always was mystery wherever Chinese or Japanese or Hindus were concerned.
Yada might have some good reason for wishing to see Chen Li's dead body,
and have taken advantage of the detective's card to visit it. This
extraordinary conduct might be explained. But meanwhile Ayscough could not
afford to neglect a chance, and tired as he was, he set out to find the
driver of the taxicab whose number he had carefully set down in his
notebook.

There was little difficulty in this stage of the proceedings; it was
merely a question of time, of visiting a central office and finding the
man's name and address. By six o'clock in the morning Ayscough was at a
small house in a shabby street in Kentish Town, interviewing a woman who
had just risen to light her fire, and was surlily averse to calling up a
husband, who, she said, had not been in bed until nearly four. She was not
any more pleased when Ayscough informed her of his professional status--
but the man was fetched down.

"You drove a foreigner--a Japanese--to the mortuary in Paddington last
night?" said Ayscough, plunging straight into business, after telling the
man who he was. "I saw him--just a glimpse of him--in your cab, and I took
your number. Now, where did you first pick him up?"

"Outside the Underground, at King's Cross," replied the driver promptly.

This was precisely what Ayscough had expected; so far, so good; his own
prescience was proving sure.

"Anything wrong, mister?" asked the driver.

"There may be," said Ayscough. "Well--you picked him up there, and drove
him straight to the mortuary?"

"No--I didn't," said the man. "We made a call first. Euston. He went in
there, and, I should say, went to the left luggage office, 'cause he came
back again with a small suit-case--just a little 'un. Then we went on to
that mortuary."

Euston! A small suit-case! More facts--Ayscough made notes of them.

"Well," he said, "and when you drove away from the mortuary, where did you
go then?"

"Oxford Circus," answered the driver, "set him down--his orders--right
opposite the Tube Station--t'other side of the street."

"Did you see which way he went--then?" enquired Ayscough.

"I did. Straight along Oxford Street--Tottenham Court Road way," said the
driver, "carrying his suitcase--which it was, as I say, on'y a little 'un
--and walking very fast. Last I see of him was that, guv'nor."

Ayscough went away and got back to more pretentious regions. He was dead
tired and weary with his night's work, and glad to drop in at an early-
opened coffee-shop and get some breakfast. While he ate and drank a boy
came in with the first editions of the newspapers. Ayscough picked one up
--and immediately saw staring headlines:--

THE PADDINGTON MYSTERIES.
NEW AND STARTLING FEATURES.
DIAMOND WORTH L80,000 BEING LOOKED FOR
MURDER IN MAIDA VALE

Ayscough laid down the paper and smiled. Levendale--if not dead--could
scarcely fail to see that!



CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO


ONE O'CLOCK MIDNIGHT

Five minutes after Ayscough had gone away with Dr. Mirandolet the hotel
servant who had summoned him from Purdie's sitting-room knocked at the
door for the second time and put a somewhat mystified face inside.

"Beg pardon, sir," he said, glancing at Purdie, who was questioning Melky
Rubinstein as to the events of the evening in their relation to the house
in Maida Vale. "Two ladies outside, sir--waiting to see you. But they
don't want to come in, sir, unless they know who's here--don't want to
meet no strangers, sir."

Purdie jumped to his feet, and putting the man aside looked into the
dimly-lighted corridor. There, a few paces away, stood Zillah--and, half
hidden by her, Mrs. Goldmark.

"Come in--come in!" he exclaimed. "Nobody here but Andie Lauriston and
Melky Rubinstein. You've something to tell--something's happened?"

He ushered them into the room, sent the hotel servant, obviously in a
state of high curiosity about these happenings, away, and closed the door.

"S'elp me!" exclaimed Melky, "there ain't no other surprises, Zillah? You
ain't come round at this time o' night for nothing! What you got to tell,
Zillah?--another development?"

"Mrs. Goldmark has something to tell," answered Zillah. "We didn't know
what to do, and you didn't come, Melky--nobody come--and so we locked the
house and thought of Mr. Purdie. Mrs. Goldmark has seen somebody!"

"Who?" demanded Melky. "Somebody, now? What somebody?"

"The man that came to her restaurant," replied Zillah. "The man who lost
the platinum solitaire!"

Mrs. Goldmark who had dropped into the chair which Purdie had drawn to the
side of the table for her, wagged her head thoughtfully.

"This way it was, then," she said, with a dramatic suggestion of personal
enjoyment in revealing a new feature of the mystery, "I have a friend who
lives in Stanhope Street--Mrs. Isenberg. She sends to me at half-past-ten
to tell me she is sick. I go to see her--immediate. I find her very
poorly--so! I stop with her till past eleven, doing what I can. Then her
sister, she comes--I can do no more--I come away. And I walk through
Sussex Square, as my road back to Praed Street and Zillah. But before I am
much across Sussex Square, I stop--sudden, like that! For what? Because--I
see a man! That man! Him what drops his cuff-link on my table. Oh, yes!"

"You're sure it was that man, Mrs. Goldmark?" enquired Melky, anxiously.
"You don't make no mistakes, so?"

"Do I mistake myself if I say I see you, Mr. Rubinstein?" exclaimed Mrs.
Goldmark, solemnly and with emphasis. "No, I don't make no mistakes at
all. Is there not gas lamps?--am I not blessed with good eyes? I see him--
like as I see you there young gentleman and Zillah. Plain!"

"Well--and what was he doing?" asked Purdie, desirous of getting at facts.
"Did he come out of a house, or go into one, or--what?"

"I tell you," replied Mrs. Goldmark, "everything I tell you--all in good
time. It is like this. A taxicab comes up--approaching me. It stops--by
the pavement. Two men--they get out. Him first. Then another. They pay the
driver--then they walk on a little--just a few steps. They go into a
house. The other man--he lets them into that house. With a latch-key. The
door opens--shuts. They are inside. Then I go to Zillah and tell her what
I see. So!"

The three young men exchanged glances, and Purdie turned to the informant.

"Mrs. Goldmark," he said, "did you know the man who opened the door?"

"Not from another!" replied Mrs. Goldmark. "A stranger to me!"

"Do you know Mr. Levendale--by sight?" asked Purdie.

"Often, since all this begins, I ask myself that question," said Mrs.
Goldmark, "him being, so to speak, a neighbour. No, that I do not, not
being able to say he was ever pointed out to me."

"Well, you can describe the man who pulled out his latch-key and opened
the door, anyhow," remarked Purdie. "You took a good look at him, I
suppose!"

"And a good one," answered Mrs. Goldmark. "He was one of our people--I saw
his nose and his eyes. And I was astonished to see so poor-looking a man
have a latch-key to so grand a mansion as that!--he was dressed in poor
clothes, and looked dirty and mean."

"A bearded dark man?" suggested Purdie.

"Not at all," said Mrs. Goldmark. "A clean-shaved man--though dark he
might be."

Purdie looked at Melky and shook his head.

"That's not Levendale!" he said, "Clean-shaven! Levendale's bearded and
mustached--and I should say a bit vain of his beard. Um! you're dead
certain, Mrs. Goldmark, about the other man?"

"As that I tell you this," insisted Mrs. Goldmark. "I see him as plain as
what I see him when he calls at my establishment and leaves his jewellery
on my table. Oh, yes--I don't make no mistake, Mr. Purdie."

Purdie looked again at Melky--this time with an enquiry in his glance.

"Don't ask me, Mr. Purdie!" said Melky. "I don't know what to say. Sounds
like as if these two went into Levendale's house. But what man would have
a latch-key to that but Levendale himself? More mystery!--ain't I full of
it already? Now if Mr. Ayscough hadn't gone away--"

"Look here!" said Purdie, coming to a sudden decision, "I'm going round
there. I want to know what this means--I'm going to know. You ladies had
better go home. If you others like to come as far as the corner of Sussex
Square, come. But I'm going to Levendale's house alone. I'll find
something out."

He said no more until, Zillah and Mrs. Goldmark having gone homeward, and
he and his two companions having reached a side street leading into Sussex
Square, he suddenly paused and demanded their attention!

"I've particular reasons for wanting to go into that house alone," he
said. "There's no danger--trust me. But--if I'm not out again in a quarter
of an hour or so, you can come there and ask for me. My own impression is
that I shall find Levendale there. And--as you're aware, Andie--I know
Levendale." He left them standing in the shadow of a projecting portico
and going up to Levendale's front door, rang the bell. There was no light
in any of the windows; all appeared to be in dead stillness in the house;
somewhere, far off in the interior, he heard the bell tinkle. And
suddenly, as he stood waiting and listening, he heard a voice that sounded
close by him and became aware that there was a small trap or grille in the
door, behind which he made out a face.

"Who is that?" whispered the voice.

"John Purdie--wanting to see Mr. Levendale," he answered promptly.

The door was just as promptly opened, and as Purdie stepped within was as
quickly closed behind him. At the same instant the click of a switch
heralded a flood of electric light, and he started to see a man standing
at his side--a man who gave him a queer, deprecating smile, a man who was
not and yet who was Levendale.

"Gracious me!" exclaimed Purdie, "it isn't--"

"Yes!" said Levendale, quietly. "But it is, though! All right, Purdie--
come this way."

Purdie followed Levendale into a small room on the right of the hall--a
room in which the remains of a cold, evidently impromptu supper lay on a
table lighted by a shaded lamp. Two men had been partaking of that supper,
but Levendale was alone. He gave his visitor another queer smile, and
pointed, first to a chair and then to a decanter.

"Sit down--take a drink," he said. "This is a queer meeting! We haven't
seen each other since--"

"Good God, man!" broke in Purdie, staring at his host. "What's it all
mean? Are you--disguised?"

Levendale laughed--ruefully--and glanced at the mean garments which Mrs.
Goldmark had spoken of.

"Necessity!" he said. "Had to! Ah!--I've been through some queer times--
and in queer places. Look here--what do you know?"

"Know!" cried Purdie. "You want me to tell you all I know--in a sentence?
Man!--it would take a month! What do you know? That's more like it!"

Levendale passed a hand across his forehead--there was a weariness in his
gesture which showed his visitor that he was dead beat.

"Aye, just so!" he said. "But--tell me! has John Purvis come looking for
his brother?"

"He has!" answered Purdie. "He's in London just now."

"Has he told about that diamond?--told the police?" demanded Levendale.

"He has!" repeated Purdie. "That's all known. Stephen Purvis--where is
he?"

"Upstairs--asleep--dead tired out," said Levendale. "We both are! Night
and day--day and night--I could fall on this floor and sleep--"

"You've been after that diamond?" suggested Purdie.

"That--and something else," said Levendale.

"Something else?" asked Purdie. "What then?"

"Eighty thousand pounds," answered Levendale. "Just that!"

Purdie stood staring at him. Then he suddenly put a question.

"Do you know who murdered that old man in Praed Street?" he demanded.
"That's what I'm after."

"No!" said Levendale, promptly. "I don't even know that he was murdered!"
He, too, stared at his visitor for a moment; then "But I know more than a
little about his being robbed," he added significantly.

Purdie shook his head. He was puzzled and mystified beyond measure.

"This is getting too deep for me!" he said. "You're the biggest mystery of
all, Levendale. Look here!" he went on. "What are you going to do? This
queer disappearance of yours--this being away--coming back without your
beard and dressed like that!--aren't you going to explain? The police--"

"Yes!" said Levendale. "Ten o'clock this morning--the police-station. Be
there--all of you--anybody--anybody who likes--I'm going to tell the
police all I know. Purvis and I, we can't do any more--baffled, you
understand! But now--go away, Purdie, and let me sleep--I'm dead done
for!"

Within ten minutes of leaving them, Purdie was back with Lauriston and
Melky Rubinstein, and motioning them away from Sussex Square.

"That's more extraordinary than the rest!" he said, as they all moved off.
"Levendale's there, in his own house, right enough! And he's shaved off
his beard and mustache, and he's wearing tramp's clothes and he and
Stephen Purvis have been looking night and day, for that confounded
diamond, and for eighty thousand pounds! And--what's more, Levendale does
not know who killed Daniel Multenius or that he was murdered! But, by
George, sirs!" he added, as high above their heads the clock of St.
James's Church struck one, "he knows something big!--and we've got to wait
nine hours to hear it!"



CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE


SECRET WORK

The inner room of the police-station, at ten o'clock that morning, was
full of men. Purdie, coming there with Lauriston at five minutes before
the hour, found Melky Rubinstein hanging about the outer door, and had
only just time to warn his companion to keep silence as to their midnight
discovery before Guyler and John Purvis drove up in one cab and Mr.
Killick in another. Inside, Ayscough, refreshed by his breakfast and an
hour's rest, was talking to the inspector and the man from New Scotland
Yard--all these looked enquiringly at the group which presently crowded in
on them.

"Any of you gentlemen got any fresh news?" demanded the inspector, as he
ran his eye over the expectant faces "No?--well, I suppose you're all
wanting to know if we have?" He glanced at Ayscough, who was pointing out
certain paragraphs in one of the morning newspapers to the Scotland Yard
man. "The fact is," he continued, "there have been queer developments
since last night--and I don't exactly know where we are! My own opinion is
that we'd better wait a few hours before saying anything more definite--to
my mind, these newspapers are getting hold of too much news--giving
information to the enemy, as it were. I think you'd all better leave
things to us, gentlemen--for a while." There was rather more than a polite
intimation in this that the presence of so many visitors was not wanted--
but John Purvis at once assumed a determined attitude.

"I want to know exactly what's being done, and what's going to be done,
about my brother!" he said. "I'm entitled to that! That's the job I came
about--myself--as for the rest--"

"Your brother's here!" said Purdie, who was standing by the window and
keeping an eye on the street outside. "And Mr. Levendale with him--hadn't
you better have them straight in?" he went on, turning to the inspector.
"They both look as if they'd things to tell."

But Ayscough had already made for the door and within a moment was
ushering in the new arrivals. And Purdie was quick to note that the
Levendale who entered, a sheaf of morning papers in his hand, was a vastly
different Levendale to the man he had seen nine hours before, dirty,
unkempt, and worn out with weariness. The trim beard and mustache were
hopelessly lost, and there were lines on Levendale's face which they
concealed, but Levendale himself was now smartly groomed and carefully
dressed, and business-like, and it was with the air of a man who means
business that he strode into the room and threw a calm nod to the
officials.

"Now, Inspector," he said, going straight to the desk, while Stephen
Purvis turned to his brother. "I see from the papers that you've all been
much exercised about Mr. Purvis and myself--it just shows how a couple of
men can disappear and give some trouble before they're found. But here we
are!--and why we're here is because we're beaten--we took our own course
in trying to find our own property--and we're done! We can do no more--and
so we come to you."

"You should have come here at first, Mr. Levendale," said the Inspector, a
little sourly. "You'd have saved a lot of trouble--to yourselves as well
as to us. But that's neither here nor there--I suppose you've something to
tell us, sir?"

"Before I tell you anything," replied Levendale, "I want to know
something." He pointed to the morning papers which he had brought in.
"These people," he said, "seem to have got hold of a lot of information--
all got from you, of course. Now, we know what we're after--let's put it
in a nutshell. A diamond--an orange-yellow diamond--worth eighty thousand
pounds, the property of Mr. Stephen Purvis there. That's item one! But
there's another. Eighty thousand pounds in bank-notes!--my property. Now--
have any of you the least idea who's got the diamond and my money? Come!"

There was a moment's silence. Then Ayscough spoke.

"Not a definite idea, Mr. Levendale--as yet."

"Then I'll tell you," said Levendale. "A Chinese fellow--one Chang Li.
He's got them--both! And Stephen Purvis and I have been after him for all
the days and nights since we disappeared--and we're beaten! Now you'll
have to take it up--and I'd better tell you the plain truth about what's
no doubt seemed a queer business from the first. Half-an-hour's talk now
will save hours of explanation later on. So listen to me, all of you--I
already see two gentlemen here, Mr. Killick, and Mr. Guyler, who in a
certain fashion, can corroborate some particulars that I shall give you.
Keep us free from interruption, if you please, while I tell you my story."

Ayscough answered this request by going to the door and leaning against
it, and Levendale took a chair by the side of the desk and looked round at
an expectant audience.

"It's a queer and, in some respects, an involved story," he said, "but I
shall contrive to make matters plain to you before I've finished. I shall
have to go back a good many years--to a time when, as Mr. Killick there
knows, I was a partner with Daniel Molteno in a jewellery business in the
City. I left him, and went out to South Africa, where I engaged in diamond
trading. I did unusually well in my various enterprises, and some years
later I came back to London a very well-to-do man. Not long after my
return, I met my former partner again. He had changed his name to
Multenius, and was trading in Praed Street as a jeweller and pawnbroker.
Now, I had no objection to carrying on a trade with certain business
connections of mine at the Cape--and after some conversation with
Multenius he and I arranged to buy and sell diamonds together here in
London, and I at once paid over a sum of money to him as working capital.
The transactions were carried out in his name. It was he, chiefly, who
conducted them--he was as good and keen a judge of diamonds as any man I
ever knew--and no one here was aware that I was concerned in them. I never
went to his shop in Praed Street but twice--if it was absolutely necessary
for him to see me, we met in the City, at a private office which I have
there. Now you understand the exact relations between Daniel Multenius and
myself. We were partners--in secret.

"We come, then, to recent events. Early in this present autumn, we heard
from Mr. Stephen Purvis, with whom I had had some transactions in South
Africa, that he had become possessed of a rare and fine orange-yellow
diamond and that he was sending it to us. It arrived at Multenius's--
Multenius brought it to me at my city office and we examined it, after
which Multenius deposited it in his bank. We decided to buy it ourselves
--I finding the money. We knew, from our messages from Stephen Purvis,
that he would be in town on the 18th November, and we arranged everything
for that date. That date, then, becomes of special importance--what
happened at Multenius's shop in Praed Street on the afternoon of November
18th, between half-past four and half-past five is, of course, the thing
that really is of importance. Now, what did happen? I can tell you--save
as regards one detail which is, perhaps, of more importance than the other
details. Of that detail I can't tell anything--but I can offer a good
suggestion about it.

"Stephen Purvis was to call at Daniel Multenius's shop in Praed Street
between five o'clock and half-past on the afternoon of November 18th--to
complete the sale of his diamond. About noon on that day, Daniel Multenius
went to the City. He went to his bank and took the diamond away. He then
proceeded to my office, where I handed him eighty thousand pounds in bank
notes--notes of large amounts. With the diamond and these notes in his
possession, Daniel Multenius went back to Praed Street. I was to join him
there shortly after five o'clock.

"Now we come to my movements. I lunched in the City, and afterwards went
to a certain well-known book-seller's in Holborn, who had written to tell
me that he had for sale a valuable book which he knew I wanted. I have
been a collector of rare books ever since I came back to England. I spent
an hour or so at the book-seller's shop. I bought the book which I had
gone to see--paying a very heavy price for it. I carried it away in my
hand, not wrapped up, and got into an omnibus which was going my way, and
rode in it as far as the end of Praed Street. There I got out. And--in
spite of what I said in my advertisement in the newspapers of the
following morning,--I had the book in my hand when I left the omnibus. Why
I pretended to have lost it, why I inserted that advertisement in the
papers, I shall tell you presently--that was all part of a game which was
forced upon me.

"It was, as near as I can remember, past five o'clock when I turned along
Praed Street. The darkness was coming on, and there was a slight rain
falling, and a tendency to fog. However, I noticed something--I am
naturally very quick of observation. As I passed the end of the street
which goes round the back of the Grand Junction Canal basin, the street
called Iron Gate Wharf, I saw turn into it, walking very quickly, a
Chinaman whom I knew to be one of the two Chinese medical students to whom
Daniel Multenius had let a furnished house in Maida Vale. He had his back
to me--I did not know which of the two he was. I thought nothing of the
matter, and went on. In another minute I was at the pawn-shop. I opened
the door, walked in, and went straight to the little parlour--I had been
there just twice before when Daniel Multenius was alone, and so I knew my
way. I went, I say, straight through--and in the parlour doorway ran into
Stephen Purvis.

"Purvis was excited--trembling, big fellow though he is, do you see? He
will bear me out as to what was said--and done. Without a word, he turned
and pointed to where Daniel Multenius was lying across the floor--dead. 'I
haven't been here a minute!' said Purvis. 'I came in--found him, like
that! There's nobody here. For God's sake, where's my diamond?'

"Now, I was quick to think. I formed an impression within five seconds.
That Chinaman had called--found the old man lying in a fit, or possibly
dead--had seen, as was likely, the diamond on the table in the parlour,
the wad of bank-notes lying near, had grabbed the lot--and gone away. It
was a theory--and I am confident yet that it was the correct one. And I
tell you plainly that my concern from that instant was not with Daniel
Multenius, but with the Chinaman! I thought and acted like lightning.
First, I hastily examined Multenius, felt in his pockets, found that there
was nothing there that I wanted and that he was dead. Then I remembered
that on a previous visit of mine he had let me out of his house by a door
at the rear which communicated with a narrow passage running into Market
Street, and without a second's delay, I seized Purvis by the arm and
hurried him out. It was dark enough in that passage--there was not a soul
about--we crossed Market Street, turned to the right, and were in Oxford
and Cambridge Terrace before we paused. My instinct told me that the right
thing to do was to get away from that parlour. And it was not until we
were quite away from it that I realized that I had left my book behind
me!"



CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR


BAFFLED

Levendale paused at this point of his story, and looked round the circle
of attentive faces. He was quick to notice that two men were watching him
with particularly close attention--one was Ayscough, the other, the old
solicitor. And as he resumed his account he glanced meaningly at Mr.
Killick.

"I daresay some of you would like to question me--and Stephen Purvis, too
--on what I've already told you?" he said. "You're welcome to ask any
questions you like--any of you--when I've done. But--let me finish--for
then perhaps you'll fully understand what we were at.

"Purvis and I walked up and down in Oxford and Cambridge Terrace for some
time--discussing the situation. The more I considered the matter, the more
I was certain that my first theory was right--the Chinaman had got the
diamond and the bank-notes. I was aware of these two Chinamen as tenants of
Multenius's furnished house--as a matter of fact, I had been present, at
the shop in Praed Street, on one of my two visits there when they
concluded their arrangements with him. What I now thought was this--one of
them had called on the old man to do some business, or to pay the rent,
and had found him in a fit, or dead, as the result of one, had seen the
diamond and the money on the table, placed there in readiness for Purvis's
coming, and had possessed himself of both and made off. Purvis agreed with
me. And--both Purvis and myself are well acquainted with the
characteristic peculiarities, and idiosyncrasies of Chinamen!--we knew
with what we had to deal. Therefore we knew what we had to do. We wanted
the diamond and my money. And since we were uncomfortably aware of the
craft and subtlety of the thief who'd got both we knew we should have to
use craft ourselves--and of no common sort. Therefore we decided that the
very last thing we should think of would be an immediate appeal to the
police.

"Now, you police officials may, nay, will!--say that we ought to have gone
straight to you, especially as this was a case of murder. But we knew
nothing about it being a case of murder. We had seen no signs of violence
on the old man--I knew him to be very feeble, and I believed he had been
suddenly struck over by paralysis, or something of that sort. I reckoned
matters up, carefully. It was plain that Daniel Multenius had been left
alone in house and shop--that his granddaughter was out on some errand or
other. Therefore, no one knew of the diamond and the money. We did not
want any one to know. If we had gone to the police and told our tale, the
news would have spread, and would certainly have reached the Chinaman's
ears. We knew well enough that if we were to get our property back the
thief must not be alarmed--there must be nothing in the newspapers next
morning. The Chinaman must not know that the real owners of the diamond
and the bank-notes suspected him--he must not know that information about
his booty was likely to be given to the police. He must be left to
believe--for some hours at any rate--that what he had possessed himself of
was the property of a dead man who could not tell anything. But there
was my book in that dead man's parlour! It was impossible to go back and
fetch it. It was equally impossible that it should not attract attention.
Daniel Multenius's granddaughter, whom I believed to be a very sharp young
woman, would notice it, and would know that it had come into the place
during her absence. I thought hard over that problem--and finally I
drafted an advertisement and sent it off to an agency with instructions to
insert it in every morning newspaper in London next day. Why? Because I
wanted to draw a red herring across the trail!--I wanted, for the time
being, to set up a theory that some man or other had found that book in
the omnibus, had called in at Multenius's to sell or pawn it, had found
the old man alone, and had assaulted and robbed him. All this was with a
view to hoodwinking the Chinaman. Anything must be done, anything!--to
keep him ignorant that Purvis and I knew the real truth.

"But--what did we intend to do? I tell you, not being aware that old
Daniel Multenius had met his death by violence, we did not give one
second's thought to that aspect and side of the affair--we concentrated on
the recovery of our property. I knew the house in which these Chinese
lived. That evening, Purvis and I went there. We have both been
accustomed, in our time, to various secret dealings and manoeuvres, and we
entered the grounds of that house without any one being the wiser. It did
not take long to convince us that the house was empty. It remained empty
that night--Purvis kept guard over it, in an outhouse in the garden. No
one either entered or left it between our going to it and Purvis coming
away from it next morning--he stayed there, watching until it was time to
keep an appointment with me in Hyde Park. Before I met him, I had been
called upon by Detective Ayscough, Mr. Rubinstein, and Mr. Lauriston--they
know what I said to them. I could not at that time say anything else--I
had my own concerns to think of.

"When Purvis and I met we had another consultation, and we determined, in
view of all the revelations which had come out and had been published in
the papers, that the suspicion cast on young Mr. Lauriston was the very
best thing that could happen for us; it would reassure our Chinaman. And
we made up our minds that the house in Maida Vale would not be found
untenanted that night, and we arranged to meet there at eleven o'clock. We
felt so sure that our man would have read all the news in the papers, and
would feel safe, and that we should find him. But, mark you, we had no
idea as to which of the two Chinamen it was that we wanted. Of one fact,
however, we were certain--whichever it was that I had seen slip round the
corner of Iron Gate Wharf the previous day, whether it was Chang Li or
Chen Li, he would have kept his secret to himself! The thing was--to get
into that house; to get into conversation with both; to decide which was
the guilty man, and then--to take our own course. We knew what to do--and
we went fully prepared.

"Now we come to this--our second visit to the house in Maida Vale. To be
exact, it was between eleven and twelve on the second night after the
disappearance of the diamond. As on the previous night, we gained access
to the garden by the door at the back--that, on each occasion, was
unfastened, while the gate giving access to the road in Maida Vale was
securely locked. And, as on the previous night, we quickly found that up
to then at any rate, the house was empty. But not so the garden! While I
was looking round the further side of the house, Purvis took a careful
look round the garden. And presently he came to me and drew away to the
asphalted path which runs from the front gate to the front door. The moon
had risen above the houses and trees--and in its light he pointed to
bloodstains. It did not take a second look, gentlemen, to see that they
were recent--in fact, fresh. Somebody had been murdered in that garden not
many minutes--literally, minutes!--before our arrival. And within two
minutes more we found the murdered man lying behind some shrubbery on the
left of the path. I knew him for the younger of the two Chinese--the man
called Chen Li.

"This discovery, of course, made us aware that we were now face to face
with a new development. We were not long in arriving at a conclusion about
that. Chang Li had found out that his friend had become possessed of these
valuable--he might have discovered the matter of the diamond, or of the
bank-notes or both--how was immaterial. But we were convinced, putting
everything together, that he had made this discovery, had probably laid in
wait for Chen Li as he returned home that night, had run a knife into him
as he went up the garden, had dragged the body into the shrubbery,
possessed himself of the loot, and made off. And now we were face to face
with what was going, as we knew, to be the stiffest part of our work--the
finding of Chang Li. We set to work on that without a moment's delay.

"I have told you that Purvis and I have a pretty accurate knowledge of
Chinamen; we have both had deep and intimate experience of them and their
ways. I, personally, know a good deal of the Chinese Colony in London: I
have done business with Chinamen, both in London and South Africa, for
years. I had a good idea of what Chang Li's procedure would be. He would
hide--if need be, for months, until the first heat of the hue and cry
which he knew would be sure to be raised, would have cooled down. There
are several underground warrens--so to speak--in the East End, in which he
could go to earth, comfortably and safely, until there was a chance of
slipping out of the country unobserved. I know already of some of them. I
would get to know of others.

"Purvis and I got on that track--such as it was, at once. We went along to
the East End there and then--before morning I had shaved off my beard and
mustache, disguised myself in old clothes, and was beginning my work.
First thing next morning I did two things--one was to cause a telegram to
be sent from Spring Street to my butler explaining my probable absence;
the other to secretly warn the Bank of England about the bank-notes. But I
had no expectation that Chang Li would try to negotiate those--all his
energies, I knew, would be concentrated on the diamond. Nevertheless, he
might try--and would, if he tried--succeed--in changing one note, and it
was as well to take that precaution.

"Now then, next day, Purvis and I being, in our different ways, at work in
the East End, we heard the news about the Praed Street tradesman,
Parslett. That seemed to me remarkable proof of my theory. As the
successive editions of the newspapers came out during that day, and next
day, we learnt all about the Parslett affair. I saw through it at once.
Parslett, being next-door neighbour to Daniel Multenius, had probably seen
Chen Li--whom we now believed to have been the actual thief--slip away
from Multenius's door, and, when the news of Daniel's death came out, had
put two and two together, and, knowing where the Chinamen lived, had gone
to the house in Maida Vale to blackmail them. I guessed what had happened
then--Parslett, to quieten him for the moment, had been put off with fifty
pounds in gold, and promised more--and he had also been skilfully poisoned
in such a fashion that he would get safely away from the premises but die
before he got home. And when he was safe away, Chang Li had murdered Chen
Li, and made off. So--as I still think--all our theories were correct, and
the only thing to do was to find Chang."

But here Levendale paused, glanced at Stephen Purvis, and spread out his
hands with a gesture which indicated failure and disappointment. His
glance moved from Stephen Purvis to the police officials.

"All no good!" he exclaimed. "It's useless to deny it. I have been in
every Chinese den and haunt in East London--I'm certain that Chang Li is
nowhere down there. I have spent money like water--employed Chinese and
Easterns on whom I could depend--there isn't a trace of him! And so--we
gave up last night. Purvis and I--baffled. We've come to you police
people--"

"You should have done that before, Mr. Levendale," said the Inspector
severely. "You haven't given us much credit, I think, and if you'd told
all this at first--"

Before the Inspector could say more, a constable tapped at the door and
put his head into the room. His eyes sought Ayscough.

"There's a young gentleman--foreigner--asking for you, Mr. Ayscough," he
said. "Wants to see you at once--name of Mr. Yada."



CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE


YADA TAKES CHARGE

Ayscough had only time to give a warning look and a word to the others
before Mr. Mori Yada was ushered in. Every eye was turned on him as he
entered--some of the men present looking at him with wonder, some with
curiosity, two, at any rate--Levendale and Stephen Purvis--with doubt. But
Yada himself was to all outward appearance utterly indifferent to the
glances thrown in his direction: it seemed to John Purdie, who was
remembering all he had heard the night before, that the young Japanese
medical student was a singularly cool and self-possessed hand. Yada,
indeed, might have been walking in on an assemblage of personal friends,
specially gathered together in his honour. Melky Rubinstein, who was also
watching him closely, noticed at once that he had evidently made a very
careful toilet that morning. Yada's dark overcoat, thrown negligently
open, revealed a smart grey lounge suit; in one gloved hand he carried a
new bowler hat, in the other a carefully rolled umbrella. He looked as
prosperous and as severely in mode as if no mysteries and underground
affairs had power to touch him, and the ready smile with which he greeted
Ayscough was ingenuous and candid enough to disarm the most suspicious.

"Good morning, Mr. Detective," he began, as he crossed the threshold and
looked first at Ayscough and then at the ring of attentive faces. "I want
to speak to you on that little affair of last night, you know. I suppose
you are discussing it with these gentlemen? Well, perhaps I can now give
you some information that will be useful."

"Glad to hear anything, Mr. Yada," said Ayscough, who was striving hard to
conceal his surprise. "Anything that you can tell us. You've heard
something during the night, then?"

Yada laughed pleasantly, showing his white teeth. He dropped into the
chair which Ayscough pushed forward, and slowly drew off his gloves.

"I assured myself of something last night--after you left me," he said,
with a knowing look. "I used your card to advantage, Mr. Detective. I went
to the mortuary."

Ayscough contrived to signal to the Inspector to leave the talking to him.
He put his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, assumed an easy
attitude as he leaned against the door, and looked speculatively at the
new comer.

"Aye?--and what made you do that now, Mr. Yada?" he asked, half-
carelessly. "A bit of curiosity, eh?"

"Not idle curiosity, Mr. Detective," replied Yada. "I wanted to know, to
make certain, which of the two Chinamen it really was who was there--dead.
I saw him. Now I know. Chen Li!"

"Well?" said Ayscough.

Yada suddenly twisted round in his chair, and slowly glanced at the
listening men on either side of the desk. They were cool, bold, half-
insolent eyes which received face after face, showing no recognition of
any until they encountered Melky Rubinstein's watchful countenance. And to
Melky, Yada accorded a slight nod--and turned to Ayscough again.

"Which," he asked calmly, "which of these gentlemen is the owner of the
diamond? Which is the one who has lost eighty thousand pounds in bank-
notes? That is what I want to know before I say more."

In the silence which followed upon Ayscough's obvious doubt about
answering this direct question, Levendale let out a sharp, half-irritable
exclamation:

"In God's name!" he said, "who is this young man? What does he know about
the diamond and the money?"

Yada turned and faced his questioner--and suddenly smiling, thrust his
hand in his breast pocket and drew out a card-case. With a polite bow he
handed a card in Levendale's direction.

"Permit me, sir," he said suavely. "My card. As for the rest, perhaps Mr.
Detective here will tell you."

"It's this way, you see, Mr. Levendale," remarked Ayscough. "Acting on
information received from Dr. Pittery, one of the junior house-surgeons at
University College Hospital, who told me that Mr. Yada was a fellow-
student of those two Chinese, and a bit of a friend of theirs, I called on
Mr. Yada last night to make enquiries. And of course I had to tell him
about the missing property--though to be sure, that's news that's common
to everybody now--through the papers. And--what else have you to tell, Mr.
Yada?"

But Yada was watching Levendale--who, on his part, was just as narrowly
watching Yada. The other men in the room watched these two--recognizing,
as if by instinct, that from that moment matters lay between Levendale and
Yada, and not between Yada and Ayscough. They were mutually inspecting and
appraising each other, and in spite of their impassive faces, it was plain
that each was wondering about his next move.

It was Levendale who spoke first--spoke as if he and the young Japanese
were the only people in the room, as if nothing else mattered. He bent
forward to Yada.

"How much do you know?" he demanded.

Yada showed his white teeth again.

"A plain--and a wide question, Mr. Levendale!" he answered, with a laugh.
"I see that you are anxious to enlist my services. Evidently, you believe
that I do know something. But--you are not the owner of the diamond! Which
of these gentlemen is?"

Levendale made a half impatient gesture towards Stephen Purvis, who nodded
at Yada but remained silent.

"He is!" said Levendale, testily. "But you--can do your talking to me.
Again--how much do you know in this matter?"

"Enough to make it worth your while to negotiate with me," answered Yada.
"Is that as plain as your question?"

"It's what I expected," said Levendale. "You want to sell your knowledge."

"Well?" assented Yada, "I am very sure you are willing to purchase."

Once more that duel of the eyes--and to John Purdie, who prided himself on
being a judge of expressions, it was evident that the younger man was more
than the equal of the older. It was Levendale who gave way--and when he
took his eyes off Yada, it was to turn to Stephen Purvis.

Stephen Purvis nodded his head once more--and growled a little.

"Make terms with him!" he muttered. "Case of have to, I reckon!"

Levendale turned once more to the Japanese, who smiled on him.

"Look you here, Mr. Yada," said Levendale, "I don't know who you are
beyond what I'm told--your card tells me nothing except that you live--
lodge, I suppose--in Gower Street. You've got mixed up in this, somehow,
and you've got knowledge to dispose of. Now, I don't buy unless I know
first what it is I'm buying. So--let's know what you've got to sell?"

Yada swept the room with a glance.

"Before these gentlemen?" he asked. "In open market, eh?"

"They're all either police, or detectives, or concerned," retorted
Levendale. "There's no secret. I repeat--what have you got to sell?
Specify it!"

Yada lifted his hands and began to check off points on the tips of his
fingers.

"Three items, then, Mr. Levendale," he replied cheerfully. "First--the
knowledge of who has got the diamond and the money. Second--the knowledge
of where he is at this moment, and will be for some hours. Third--the
knowledge of how you can successfully take him and recover your property.
Three good, saleable items, I think--yes?"

Purdie watched carefully for some sign of greed or avarice in the
informer's wily countenance. To his surprise, he saw none. Instead, Yada
assumed an almost sanctimonious air. He seemed to consider matters--though
his answer was speedy.

"I don't want to profit--unduly--by this affair," he said. "At the same
time, from all I've heard, I'm rendering you and your friend a very
important service, and I think it only fair that I should be remunerated.
Give me something towards the expenses of my medical education, Mr.
Levendale: give me five hundred pounds."

With the briefest exchange of glances with Stephen Purvis, Levendale
pulled out a cheque-book, dashed off a cash cheque, and handed it over to
the Japanese, who slipped it into his waistcoat pocket.

"Now--your information!" said Levendale.

"To be sure," replied Yada. "Very well. Chang Li has the diamond and the
money. And he is at this moment where he has been for some days, in
hiding. He is in a secret room at a place called Pilmansey's Tea Rooms, in
Tottenham Court Road--a place much frequented by medical students from our
college. The fact of the case is, Mr. Policeman, and the rest of you
generally, there is a secret opium den at Pilmansey's, though nobody knows
of it but a few frequenters. And there!--there you will find Chang Li."

"You've seen him there?" demanded Levendale.

"I saw him there during last night--I know him to be there--he will be
there, either until you take him, or until his arrangements are made for
getting out of this country," answered Yada.

Levendale jumped up, as if for instant action. But the Inspector quietly
tapped him on the elbow.

"He promised to tell you how to take him, Mr. Levendale," he said. "Let's
know all we can--we shall have to be in with you on this, you know."

"Mr. Police-Inspector is right," said Yada. "You will have to conduct what
you call a raid. Now, do precisely what I tell you to do. Pilmansey's is
an old-fashioned place, a very old house as regards its architecture, on
the right-hand side of Tottenham Court Road. Go there today--this mid-day
--a little before one--when there are always plenty of customers. Go with
plenty of your plain-clothes men, like Mr. Ayscough there. Drop in, don't
you see, as if you were customers--let there be plenty of you, I repeat.
There are two Pilmanseys--men--middle-aged, sly, smooth, crafty men. When
you are all there, take your own lines--close the place, the doors, if you
like--but get hold of the Pilmansey men, tell them you are police, insist
on being taken to the top floor and shown their opium den. They will
object, they will lie, they will resist--you will use your own methods.
But--in that opium den you will find Chang Li--and your property!"

He had been drawing on his gloves as he spoke, and now, picking up his hat
and umbrella, Yada bowed politely to the circle and moved to the door.

"You will excuse me, now?" he said. "I have an important lecture at the
medical school which I must not miss. I shall be at Pilmansey's, myself, a
little before one--please oblige me by not taking any notice of me. I do
not want to figure--actively--in your business."

Then he was gone--and the rest of them were so deeply taken with the news
which he had communicated that no one noticed that just before Yada
fastened his last glove-button, Melky Rubinstein slipped from his corner
and glided quietly out of the room.



CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX


PILMANSEY'S TEA ROOMS

Two hours later, it being then a quarter-to-one o'clock, Purdie and
Lauriston got out of a taxi-cab at the north-end of Tottenham Court Road
and walked down the right-hand side of that busy thoroughfare, keeping
apparently careless but really vigilant eyes open for a first glimpse of
the appointed rendezvous. But Pilmansey's Tea Rooms required little
searching out. In the midst of the big modern warehouses, chiefly given up
to furniture and upholstery, there stood at that time a block of old
property which was ancient even for London. The buildings were plainly
early eighteenth century: old redbrick erections with narrow windows in
the fronts and dormer windows in the high, sloping roofs. Some of them
were already doomed to immediate dismantlement; the tenants had cleared
out, there were hoardings raised to protect passers-by from falling
masonry, and bills and posters on the threatened walls announced that
during the rebuilding, business would be carried on as usual at some other
specified address. But Pilmansey's, so far, remained untouched, and the
two searchers saw that customers were going in and out, all unaware that
before evening their favourite resort for a light mid-day meal would
attain a fame and notoriety not at all promised by its very ordinary and
commonplace exterior.

"An excellent example of the truth of the old saying that you should never
judge by appearances, Andie, my man!" remarked Purdie, as they took a
quick view of the place. "Who'd imagine that crime, dark secrets, and all
the rest of it lies concealed behind this?--behind the promise of tea and
muffins, milk and buns! It's a queer world, this London!--you never know
what lies behind any single bit of the whole microcosm. But let's see
what's to be seen inside."

The first thing to be seen inside the ground floor room into which they
stepped was the man from New Scotland Yard, who, in company with another
very ordinary-looking individual was seated at a little table just inside
the entrance, leisurely consuming coffee and beef sandwiches. He glanced
at the two men as if he had never seen them in his life, and they,
preserving equally stolid expressions with credit if not with the
detective's ready and trained ability, passed further on--only to
recognize Levendale and Stephen Purvis, who had found accommodation in a
quiet corner half-way down the room. They, too, showed no signs of
recognition, and Purdie, passing by them, steered his companion to an
unoccupied table and bade him be seated.

"Let's get our bearings," he whispered as they dropped into their seats.
"Looks as innocent and commonplace within as it appeared without, Andie.
But use your eyes--it ought to make good copy for you, this."

Lauriston glanced about him. The room in which they sat was a long, low-
ceiling apartment, extending from the street door to a sort of bar-counter
at the rear, beyond which was a smaller room that was evidently given up
to store and serving purposes. On the counter were set out provisions--
rounds of beef, hams, tongues, bread, cakes, confectionery; behind it
stood two men whom the watchers at once set down as the proprietors. Young
women, neatly gowned in black and wearing white caps and aprons, flitted
to and fro between the counter and the customers. As for the customers
they were of both sexes, and the larger proportion of them young. There
was apparently no objection to smoking at Pilmansey's--a huge cloud of
blue smoke ascended from many cigarettes, and the scent of Turkish tobacco
mingled with the fragrance of freshly-ground coffee. It was plain that
Pilmansey's was the sort of place wherein you could get a good sandwich,
good tea or coffee, smoke a cigarette or two, and idle away an hour in
light chatter with your friends between your morning and afternoon
labours.

But Lauriston's attention was mainly directed to the two men who stood
behind the bar-counter, superintending and directing their neat
assistants. Sly, smooth, crafty men--so they had been described by Mr.
Mori Yada: Lauriston's opinion coincided with that of the Japanese, on
first, outer evidence and impression. They were middle-aged, plump men who
might be, and probably were, twins, favouring mutton chop whiskers, and
good linen and black neckcloths--they might have been strong, highly-
respectable butlers. Each had his coat off; each wore a spotless linen
apron; each wielded carving knives and forks; each was busy in carving
plates of ham or tongue or beef; each contrived, while thus engaged, to
keep his sharp, beady eyes on the doings in the room in front of the
counter. Evidently a well-to-do, old-established business, this, and
highly prosperous men who owned it: Lauriston wondered that they should
run any risks by hiding away a secret opium den somewhere on their ancient
premises.

In the midst of their reflections one of the waitresses came to the table
at which the two friends sat: Lauriston quicker of wit than Purdie in such
matters immediately ordered coffee and sandwiches and until they came,
lighted a cigarette and pretended to be at ease, though he was inwardly
highly excited.

"It's as if one were waiting for an explosion to take place!" he muttered
to Purdie. "Even now I don't know what's going to happen."

"Here's Ayscough, anyway," said Purdie. "He looks as if nothing was about
to happen."

Ayscough, another man with him, was making his way unconcernedly down the
shop. He passed the man from New Scotland Yard without so much as a wink:
he ignored Levendale and Stephen Purvis; he stared blankly at Purdie and
Lauriston, and led his companion to two vacant seats near the counter. And
they had only just dropped into them when in came Mr. Killick, with John
Purvis and Guyler and slipped quietly into seats in the middle of the
room. Here then, said Lauriston to himself, were eleven men, all in a
secret--and there were doubtless others amongst the company whom he did
not know.

"But where's Melky Rubinstein?" he whispered suddenly. "I should have
thought he'd have turned up--he's been so keen on finding things out."

"There's time enough yet," answered Purdie. "It's not one. I don't see the
Jap, either. But--here's the Inspector--done up in plain clothes."

The Inspector came in with a man whom neither Purdie nor Lauriston had
ever seen before--a quietly but well-dressed man about whom there was a
distinct air of authority. They walked down the room to a table near the
counter, ordered coffee and lighted cigarettes--and the two young
Scotsmen, watching them closely, saw that they took a careful look round
as if to ascertain the strength of their forces. And suddenly, as
Lauriston was eating his second sandwich, the Inspector rose, quietly
walked to the counter and bending over it, spoke to one of the white-
aproned men behind.

"The game's begun!" whispered Lauriston. "Look!"

But Purdie's eyes were already fixed on the Pilmanseys, whom he recognized
as important actors in the drama about to be played. One of them slightly
taller, slightly greyer than the other, was leaning forward to the
Inspector, and was evidently amazed at what was being said to him, for he
started, glanced questioningly at his visitor, exchanged a hurried word or
two with him and then turned to his brother. A second later, both men laid
down their great knives and forks, left their counter, and beckoned the
Inspector to follow them into a room at the rear of the shop. And the
Inspector in his turn, beckoned Ayscough with a mere glance, and Ayscough
in his, made an inviting movement to the rest of the party.

"Come on!" said Purdie. "Let's hear what's happening."

The proprietors of the tea-rooms had led the Inspector and the man who was
with him into what was evidently a private room--and when Lauriston and
Purdie reached the door they were standing on the hearth rug, side by
side, each in a very evident state of amazement, staring at a document
which the Inspector was displaying to them. They looked up from it to
glance with annoyance, at the other men who came quietly and expectantly
crowding into the room.

"More of your people?" asked the elder man, querulously. "Look here, you
know!--we don't see the need for all this fuss, not for your interrupting
our business in this way! One or two of you, surely, would have been
enough without bringing a troop of people on to our premises--all this is
unnecessary!"

"You'll allow us to be the best judge of what's necessary and what isn't,
Mr. Pilmansey," retorted the Inspector. "There'll be no fuss, no bother--
needn't be, anyway, if you tell us what we want to know, and don't oppose
us in what we've got power to do. Here's a warrant--granted on certain
information--to search your premises. If you'll let us do that quietly."

"But for what reason?" demanded the younger man. "Our premises, indeed!
Been established here a good hundred years, and never a word against us.
What do you want to search for?"

"I'll tell you that at once," answered the Inspector. "We want a young
Chinaman, one Chang Li, who, we are informed, is concealed here, and has
valuable stolen property on him. Now, then, do you know anything about
him? Is he here?"

The two men exchanged glances. For a moment they remained silent--then the
elder man spoke, running his eye over the expectant faces watching him.

"Before I say any more," he answered, "I should just like to know where
you got your information from?"

"No!" replied the Inspector, firmly. "I shan't tell you. But I'll tell you
this much--this Chang Li is wanted on a very serious charge as it is, and
we may charge him with something much more serious. We've positive
information that he's here--and I'm only giving you sound advice when I
say that if he is here, you'll do well to show us where he is. Now, come,
Mr. Pilmansey, is he here?"

The elder Pilmansey shook his head--but the shake was more one of doubt
than of denial.

"I can't say," he answered. "He might be."

"What's that mean?" demanded the Inspector. "Might be? Surely you know
who's in your own house!"

"No!" said the elder man, "I can't say. It's this way--we've a certain
number of foreigners come here. There are few--just a few--Chinese and
Japanese--medical students, you know. Now, some time ago--a couple of
years ago--some of them asked us if we couldn't let them have three or
four rooms at the top of the house in which to start a sort of little club
of their own, so that they could have a place for their meetings, you
understand. They were all quiet, very respectable young fellows--so we
did. They have the top floor of this house. They furnished and fitted it
up themselves. There's a separate entrance--at the side of the shop. Each
of them has a latch-key of his own. So they can go in and out as they
like--they never bother us. But, as a matter of fact, there are only four
or five of them who are members now--the others have all left. That's the
real truth--and I tell you I don't know if Mr. Chang Li might be up there
or not. We know nothing about what they do in their rooms--they're only
our tenants."

"Let me ask you one question," said the Inspector, "Have either of you
ever been in those rooms since you let them to these people!"

"No!" answered the elder man. "Neither of us--at anytime!"

"Then," commanded the Inspector, "I'll thank you to come up with us to
them--now!"



CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN


CHANG LI

Not without some grumbling as to waste of time and interference with
business, the Pilmansey brothers led the way to a side door which opened
into a passage that ran along the side of the shop and from whence a
staircase rose to the upper regions of the house. The elder pointed,
significantly, to the street door at the end.

"You'll take notice that these young fellows I told you of get to the
rooms we let them through that?" he observed. "That door's always locked--
they all have latch-keys to it. They never come through the shop--we've
nothing to do with them, and we don't know anything about whatever they
may do in their rooms--all we're concerned with is that they pay their
rent and behave themselves. And quiet enough they've always been--we've
had no reason to complain."

"And, as they all have latch-keys, I suppose they can get into the place
at any hour of the day--or night?" suggested the Inspector. "There's no
bar against them coming here at night?"

"They can come in--and go out--whenever they please," answered the elder
man. "I tell you we've nothing to do with them--except as their
landlords."

"Where do you live--yourselves?" asked the Inspector. "On these premises?"

"No, we don't," replied the younger brother, who, of the two, had showed
the keenest, if most silent, resentment at the police proceedings. "We
live--elsewhere. This establishment is opened at eight in the morning, and
closed at seven in the evening. We're never here after seven--either of
us."

"So that you never see anything of these foreigners at night-time?" asked
the Inspector. "Don't know what they do, I suppose?"

"We never see anything of 'em at any time," said the elder brother. "As
you see, this passage and staircase is outside the shop. We know nothing
whatever about them beyond what I've told you."

"Well--take us up, and we'll see what we can find out," commanded the
Inspector. "We're going to examine those rooms, Mr. Pilmansey, so we'll
get it done at once."

The intervening rooms between the lower and the top floors of the old
house appeared to be given up to stores--the open doors revealed casks,
cases, barrels, piles of biscuit and confectionery boxes--nothing to
conceal there, decided the lynx-eyed men who trooped up the dingy stairs
after the grumbling proprietors. But the door on the top floor was closed
--and when Ayscough turned its handle he found it to be locked from
within.

"They've keys of their own for that, too," remarked the younger Pilmansey.
"I don't see how you're going to get in, if there's nobody inside."

"We're going in there whether there's anybody or not," said the Inspector.
"Knock, Ayscough!--knock loudly!"

The group of men gathered behind the leaders, and filling the whole of the
lobby outside the closed door, waited, expectant and excited, in the
silence which followed on Ayscough's loud beating on the upper panel. A
couple of minutes went by: the detective knocked again, more insistently.
And suddenly, and silently, the door was opened--first, an inch or two,
then a little wider, and as Ayscough slipped a stoutly booted foot inside
the crack a yellow face, lighted by a pair of narrow-slitted dark eyes,
looked out--and immediately vanished.

"In with you!" said the Inspector. "Careful, now!"

Ayscough pushed the door open and walked in, the rest crowding on his
heels. And Purdie, who was one of the foremost to enter, was immediately
cognizant of two distinct odours--one, the scent of fragrant tea, the
other of a certain heavy, narcotic something which presently overpowered
the fragrance of the tea and left an acid and bitter taste.

"Opium," he whispered to Lauriston, who was close at his elbow. "Opium!
Smell it?"

But Lauriston was more eyes than nose just then. He, like the rest of his
companions, was staring at the scene on which they had entered. The room
was of a good size--evidently, from its sloping ceilings, part of the
attic story of the old house. The walls were hung with soft, clinging,
Oriental draperies and curtains; a few easy chairs of wickerwork, a few
small tables of like make, were disposed here and there: there was an
abundance of rugs and cushions: in one corner a gas-stove was alight, and
on it stood a kettle, singing merrily.

The young man who had opened the door had retreated towards this stove;
Purdie noticed that in one hand he held a small tea-pot. And in the left-
hand corner, bent over a little table, and absorbed in their game, sat two
other young men, correctly attired in English clothes, but obviously
Chinese from their eyebrows to their toes, playing chess.

The holder of the tea-pot cast a quick glance at the disturbance of this
peaceful scene, and set down his tea-pot; the chess-players looked up for
one second, showed not the faintest sign of perturbation--and looked down
again. Then the man of the tea-pot spoke--one word.

"Yes?" he said.

"The fact is, Mister," said the elder Pilmansey, "these are police-
officers. They want one of your friends--Mr. Chang Li."

The three occupants of the room appeared to pay no attention. The chess-
players went on playing; the other man reached for a canister, and
mechanically emptied tea out of it into his pot.

"Shut and lock that door, Ayscough," said the Inspector. "Let somebody
stand by it. Now," he continued, turning to the three Chinese, "is one of
you gentlemen Mr. Chang Li?"

"No!" replied one of the chess-players. "Not one of us!"

"Is he here?" demanded the Inspector. Then seeing that he was to be met by
Oriental impassivity, he turned to the Pilmanseys. "What other rooms are
there here?" he asked.

"Two," answered the elder brother, pointing to the curtains at the rear of
the room. "One there--the other there. Behind those hangings--two smaller
rooms."

The Inspector strode forward and tore the curtains aside. He flung open
the first of the doors--and started back, catching his breath.

"Phew!" he said.

The heavy, narcotic odour which Purdie had noticed at once on entering the
rooms came afresh, out of the newly-opened door, in a thick wave. And as
the rest of them crowded after the Inspector, they saw why. This was a
small room, hung like the first one with curiously-figured curtains, and
lighted only by a sky-light, over which a square of blue stuff had been
draped. In the subdued life they saw that there was nothing in that room
but a lounge well fitted with soft cushions and pillows--and on it, his
spare figure wrapped in a loose gown, lay a young Chinaman, who, as the
foremost advanced upon him, blinked in their wondering faces out of eyes
the pupils of which were still contracted. Near him lay an opium pipe--
close by, on a tiny stand, the materials for more consumption of the drug.

The man who had accompanied the Inspector in his entrance to the tea-shop
strode forward and seized the recumbent figure by the shoulder, shaking
him gently.

"Now then!" he said, sharply, "wake up, my man! Are you Chang Li?"

The glazed eyes lifted themselves a little wonderingly; the dry lips
moved.

"Yes," he muttered. "Chang Li--yes. You want me?"

"How long have you been here?" demanded the questioner.

"How long--yes? Oh--I don't know. What do you want?" asked Chang Li. "I
don't know you."

The tea-maker thrust his head inside the room.

"He can't tell you anything," he said, with a grin. "He has been--what you
call on the break-out--with opium--ever so many days. He has--attacks that
way. Takes a fit of it--just as some of your people take to the drink.
He's coming out of it, now--and he'll be very, very unhappy tomorrow."

The Inspector twisted round on the informant.

"Look here!" he said. "Do you know how long he's been here--stupifying
himself? Is it a day--or days?"

One of the chess-players lifted a stolid face.

"He has been here--like that--several days," he said. "It's useless trying
to do anything with him when he takes the fit--the craving, you
understand?--into his head. If you want any information out of him, you'd
better call again in a few hours."

"Do you mean to tell me he's been here--like that--several days?" demanded
the Inspector.

"The young man with the tea-pot grinned again.

"He's never been at a class at the medical school since the 17th," he
announced. "I know that--he's in some classes with me. He's been here--all
the time since then."

The Inspector turned sharply on Ayscough.

"The 17th!" he exclaimed. "And that affair was on the 18th! Then--"

Chang Li was fumbling in a pocket of his gown. He found something there,
raised a hand to his lips, swallowed something. And in a few seconds, as
his eyes grew brighter, he turned a suspicious and sullen glance on the
group which stood watching him.

"What do you want?" he growled. "Who are you?"

"We want some information from you," said the Inspector. "When did you
last see your brother, or friend, or whatever he is--Chen Li?"

Chang Li shook his head--it was obvious that he had no clear recollection.

"Don't know," he answered. "Perhaps just now--perhaps tomorrow--perhaps
not for a long time."

"When were you last at home--in Maida Vale?" asked the Inspector.

But Chang Li gave no answer to that beyond a frown, and it was evident
that as his wits cleared his temper was becoming ugly. He began to look
round with more intelligence, scanning one face after another with growing
dislike, and presently he muttered certain observations to himself which,
though not in English, sounded anything but complimentary to those who
watched him. And Ayscough suddenly turned to the superior officials.

"If this man's been here ever since the 17th," he said, "he can't have had
anything to do with the affairs in Praed Street and Maida Vale! Supposing,
now--I'm only supposing--that young Jap's been lying all the time?" He
turned again--this time on the two chess-players, who had now interrupted
their game and were leaning back in their chairs, evidently amused at the
baffled faces of the searchers. "Here!" he said, "do you know one Yada--
Mori Yada--a Japanese? Is he one of you?"

"Oh, yes!" answered one of the chess-players. "Yada,--yes! We know him--a
very smart fellow, Yada. You know him--too?"

But before Ayscough could reply to this somewhat vexatious question, a man
who had been left in the tearooms came hurrying up the staircase and burst
in upon them. He made straight for the Inspector.

"Man from the office, sir, outside in a taxi!" he exclaimed breathlessly.
"You're on the wrong track--you're to get to Multenius's shop in Praed
Street at once. The real man's there!"



CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT


THE JEW AND THE JAP

When Melky Rubinstein slipped quietly out of the police-station, he
crossed the street, and taking up a position just within a narrow alley on
the other side, set himself to watch the door which he had just quitted.
There was a deep design in his mind, and he meant to carry it out--alone.

Mr. Mori Yada, apparently as cool and unconcerned as ever, presently
tripped down the steps of the police-station and went leisurely off,
swinging his neatly rolled umbrella. As long as he was within sight of the
police-station windows he kept up the same gentle pace--but as soon as he
had turned the first corner his steps were quickened, and he made for a
spot to which Melky had expected him to make--a cab-rank, on which two or
three taxi-cabs were drawn up. He had reached the first, and was
addressing the driver, when Melky, who had kept a few yards in the rear,
stole gently up to his side and tapped him on the shoulder.

"Mister!" said Melky. "A word--in private!"

Yada turned on his interrupter with the swiftness of a snake, and for a
second his white teeth showed themselves in an unmistakable snarl, and a
savage gleam came into his dark eyes. Both snarl and gleam passed as
quickly as they had come, and the next instant he was smiling--as blandly
as ever.

"Oh, yes!" he said. "It is you--how do you do? Perhaps you are going my
way--I can give you a lift--Yes?"

Melky drew his man away a yard or two, and lowered his voice to a whisper.

"Mister!" he said, with a note of deep confidence which made Yada look at
him with a sudden sense of fear. "Mister!--I wouldn't go no way at all if
I was you--just now. You're in danger, mister--you shoved your head into
the lions' den when you walked in where I've just seen you! Deep, deep is
them fellows, mister!--they're having you on toast. I know where you're
thinking of going, mister, in that cab. Don't go--take my tip!"

"How do you know where I'm going?" demanded Yada.

"I was looking over Levendale's shoulder when he wrote that bit of a
cheque, mister," answered Melky, in his quietest accents. "You're off to
his bank to turn it into cash. And--if you walk into that bank--well,
you'll never walk out again, alone! Mister!--they're going to collar you
there--there's a trap laid for you!"

Melky was watching Yada's face out of his own eye-corners, and he saw the
olive-tinted skin pale a little, and the crafty eyes contract. And on the
instant he pursued his tactics and his advantage. He had purposely steered
the Japanese into a more crowded part of the street, and now he edged him
into a bye-alley which led to a rookery of narrow bye-streets beyond. He
felt that Yada was yielding--oppressed by a fear of the unknown. But
suddenly Yada paused--drawing back from the hand which Melky had kept on
his arm.

"What are you after?" he demanded. "What is your game, eh? You think to
alarm me!--what do you want?"

"Nothing unreasonable, mister," answered Melky. "You'll easily satisfy me.
Game? Come, now, mister--I know your game! Bank first--to get some ready--
then somewhere to pick up a bit of luggage--then, a railway station.
That's it, ain't it, now? No blooming good, mister--they're ready for you
the minute you walk into that bank! If they don't take you then, they'll
only wait to follow you to the station. Mister!--you ain't a cat's
chance!--you're done--if you don't make it worth my while to help you!
See?"

Yada looked round, doubtfully. They had turned two or three corners by
that time, and were in a main street, which lay at the back of Praed
Street. He glanced at Melky's face--which suggested just then nothing but
cunning and stratagem.

"What can you do for me?" he asked. "How much do you want? You want money,
eh?"

"Make it a hundred quid, mister," said Melky. "Just a hundred of the best,
and I'll put you where all the police in London won't find you for the
rest of today, and get you out of it at night in such a fashion that
you'll be as safe as if you was at home. You won't never see your home in
Japan, again, mister, if you don't depend on yours truly! And a hundred
ain't nothing--considering what you've got at stake."

"I haven't a hundred pounds to give you," answered Yada. "I have scarcely
any money but this cheque."

"In course you ain't, mister!" agreed Melky. "I twigged your game straight
off--you only came there to the police-station to put yourself in funds
for your journey! But that's all right!--you come along of me, and let me
put you in safety--then you give me that cheque--I'll get it cashed in ten
minutes without going to any banks--see? Friend o' mine hereabouts--he'll
cash it at his bank close by--anybody'll cash a cheque o' Levendale's.
Come on, now, mister. We're close to that little port o' refuge I'm
telling you about."

The bluff was going down--Melky felt, as much as saw, that Yada was
swallowing it in buckets. And he slipped his hand within his companion's
arm, piloted him along the street, across Praed Street, round the back of
the houses into the narrow passage which communicated with the rear of the
late Daniel Multenius's premises, and in at the little door which opened
on the parlour wherein so many events had recently taken place.

"Where are you taking me?" asked Yada, suspiciously, as they crossed the
threshold.

"All serene, mister!" answered Melky, reassuringly. "Friend o' mine here
--my cousin. All right--and all secure. You're as safe here as you will be
in your grave, mister--s'elp me, you are! Zillah!"

Zillah walked into the parlour and justified Melky's supreme confidence in
her by showing no surprise or embarrassment. She gave Yada the merest
glance, and turned to Melky.

"Bit o' business with this young gentleman, Zillah," said Melky. "That
little room, upstairs, now--what?" "Oh, all right!" said Zillah,
indifferently. "You know your way--you'll be quiet enough there."

Melky signed to Yada to follow him, and led the way up the stairs to the
very top of the house. He conducted the Japanese into the small room in
which were some ancient moth-and-worm-eaten bits of furniture, an old
chest or two, and a plenitude of dust--and carefully closed the door when
he and his captive had got inside.

"Now, mister!" he said, "you're as safe here as you could be in any spot
in the wide world. Let's get to business--and let's understand each other.
You want that cheque turned into cash--you want to get out of London
tonight? All right--then hand over your check and keep quiet till I come
back. Is there anything else now--any bit of luggage you want?"

"You do all this if I pay you one hundred pounds?" asked Yada.

"That'll do me, mister," answered Melky. "I'm a poor fellow, d'ye see?--I
don't pick up a hundred quid every day, I assure you! So if there is
anything--"

"A suit-case--at the luggage office at Oxford Circus Tube," said Yada. "I
must have it--papers, you understand. If you will get me that--"

"Give me the ticket--and that cheque," said Melky. He slipped the two bits
of paper into his pocket, and made for the door. "I'll turn the key
outside," he said. "You'll be safer. Make yourself comfortable, mister--
I'll be back in an hour with the money and the goods."

Two minutes later Melky confronted Zillah in the parlour and grinned at
her. Zillah regarded him suspiciously.

"What's this, Melky?" she demanded. "What're you up to?"

"Zillah!" said Melky, "you'll be proud of your cousin, Melky Rubinstein,
before ever it's dinner-time--you will do, Zillah! And in the meantime,
keep your counsel, Zillah, while he fetches a nice large policeman."

"Is that Japanese locked in that little room?" asked Zillah.

Melky tapped the side of his nose, and without a word looked out into the
street. A policeman, large enough for all practical purposes, was lounging
along the side-walk; another, equally bulky, was looking into a shop-
window twenty yards away across the street. Within a couple of minutes
Melky had both in the back-parlour and was giving them and Zillah a swift
but particular account of his schemes.

"You're sure you're right, Melky?" asked Zillah. "You're not making any
mistake?"

"Mistake!" exclaimed Melky, satirically. "You'll see about that in a
minute! Now," he added, turning to the policemen, "you come quietly up--
and do exactly what I've told you. We'll soon know about mistakes,
Zillah!"

Yada, left to himself, had spent his time in gazing out of the dirty
window of his prison. There was not much of a prospect. The window
commanded the various backyards of that quarter. As if to consider any
possible chance of escape, he looked out. There was a projection beneath
him, a convenient water-pipe--he might make a perilous descent, if need
arose. But, somehow, he believed in that little Jew: he believed, much
more, in the little Jew's greed for a hundred pounds of ready money. The
little Jew with the cunning smile had seen his chance of making a quiet
penny, and had taken it--it was all right, said Yada, all right. And yet,
there was one horrible thought--supposing, now that Melky had got the
cheque, that he cashed it and made off with all the money, never to
return?

On top of that thought, Melky did return--much sooner than Yada had
expected. He opened the door and beckoned the prisoner out into the dark
lobby at the top of the stairs.

"Come here a minute, mister," said Melky, invitingly. "Just a word!"

Yada, all unsuspecting, stepped out--and found his arms firmly gripped by
two bulky policemen. The policemen were very quiet--but Melky laughed
gleefully while Yada screamed and cursed him. And while he laughed Melky
went through his prisoner's pockets in a knowing and skilful fashion, and
when he had found what he expected to find, he made his helpers lock Yada
up again, and taking them downstairs to the parlour laid his discoveries
on the table before them and Zillah. There was a great orange-yellow
diamond in various folds of tissue-paper, and a thick wad of bank-notes,
with an indiarubber band round them.

These valuables lay, carelessly displayed, on the table when the party
from Pilmansey's Tea Rooms came tumbling into the shop and the parlour, an
hour later. Melky was calmly smoking a cigar--and he went on smoking it as
he led the Inspector and his men upstairs to the prisoner. He could not
deprive himself of the pleasure of a dig at Ayscough.

"Went one better than you again, Mr. Ayscough," he said, as he laid his
hand on the key of the locked room. "Now if I hadn't seen through my young
gentleman--"

But there, as Melky threw open the door, his words of assurance came to an
end. His face dropped as he stared into an empty room. Yada had risked his
neck, and gone down the water-pipe.



CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE


THE DIAMOND NECKLACE

For the better part of a fortnight the sleuth-hounds of New Scotland Yard
hunted for Mr. Mori Yada in all the likely and unlikely places in London
and sent out their enquiries much further afield. They failed to find him.
One small clue they got, with little difficulty. After the hue-and-cry was
fairly out, an Edgware Road pawnbroker came forward and informed the
police that at two o'clock, or thereabouts, on the afternoon of the day on
which Yada had made his escape from the window, a young Japanese gentleman
who gave his name as Mr. Motono and his address at a small hotel close by
and who volunteered the explanation that he was temporarily short of cash
until a remittance arrived, had borrowed five pounds from him on a pearl
tie-pin which he had drawn from his cravat. That was Yada, without a
doubt--but from that point Yada vanished.

But hunger is the cleverest detective, and at the end of the fortnight,
certain officials of the Japanese embassy in London found themselves
listening to a strange tale from the fugitive, who had come to the end of
his loan, had nowhere to turn and no one but the representatives of his
nation to whom he could appeal. Yada told a strange tale--and all the
stranger because, as the police officials who were called in to hear it
anew recognized that there was probably some truth in it. It amounted,
when all was heard, to this--Yada was willing to confess that for a few
days he had been a successful thief, but he stoutly denied that he was a
murderer.

This was his story:--On the 18th November, in the evening, he was at the
club which housed itself in Pilmansey's attic. There he saw Chang Li, who,
according to the other members who were there, was beginning one of his
periodic fits of opium smoking, and had been in the inner room, stupifying
himself, since the previous day. Yada knew that it was highly necessary
that Chang Li should be in attendance at certain classes at the medical
school during the next few days, and tried to rouse him out of his
debauch, with no result. Next day, the 19th, he went to Pilmansey's again
--Chang Li was still in the realms of bliss and likely to stop there until
he had had enough of them. For two days nobody at the club nor at the
school had seen Chen Li--and Chen Li was the only person who could do
anything with Chang. So, late that night of the 19th November, Yada went
up to Maida Vale, taking Chang Li's keys with him. He admitted himself to
garden and house and found the house empty. But just as he was entering
the front door he heard the voice of Chen Li at the garden gate; he also
heard the voice of an Englishman. Also he caught something of what that
Englishman said. He was telling Chen Li that he'd better take him, the
Englishman, inside, and settle with him--or things would be all the worse.
And at that, he, Yada, had slipped into the house, quietly closed the
front door behind him, gone into the front room, hidden himself behind a
curtain and waited.

Into that front room, Chen Li had presently conducted a man. He was, said
Yada, a low-class Englishman--what is called a Cockney. He had begun to
threaten Chen Li at once. He told his tale. He was, said this fellow, next
door neighbour to Mr. Daniel Multenius, in Praed Street, Chen Li's
landlord: his name, if Chen Li wanted to know it, was Parslett, fruitier
and green-grocer, and it was there, bold as brass, over his shop-door, for
him or anybody to look at. He had a side-door to his house: that side-door
was exactly opposite a side-door in Mr. Multenius's house, opening into
his back-parlour. Now, the previous afternoon, he, Parslett, had had a
consignment of very fine mushrooms sent in--rare things at that time of
year--and knowing that the old man had a great taste for them and didn't
mind what price he paid, he stepped across with a dish of them to tempt
him. He found Mr. Multenius in his parlour--he was counting a lot of bank-
notes--they must, said Parslett, have represented a large sum. The old man
bade him leave the mushrooms, said he'd send him the money across
presently, and motioned him out. Parslett put the dish of mushrooms aside
on a chiffonier and went away. Somewhat later, chancing to be at his front
door and looking out into the street, he saw Chen Li open the door of
Multenius's shop and go swiftly away. Half-an-hour after that he heard
that something had happened at Multenius's--later in the evening he heard
definitely that the old man had been assaulted under circumstances which
pointed to murder for the sake of robbery. And then he, Parslett, now put
two and two together--and had fixed on Chen Li as the culprit. And now--
how much, was Chen Li going to pay for silence?

According to Yada, Chen Li had had little to say--his chief anxiety,
indeed, had been to find out what the man wanted. Parslett was definite
enough about that. He wanted a thousand pounds--and he wanted it in gold,
and as much of it as Chen Li could hand out there and then. He refused to
believe that Chen Li hadn't gold in considerable quantity somewhere about
--he must, said Parslett, have changed some of those notes since he had
stolen them the previous day. Chen Li protested that he had but some fifty
or sixty pounds in gold available--but he promised to have the rest of the
thousand ready on the following evening. Finally, he handed Parslett fifty
pounds, arranged that he should call the next night--and then invited him
to take a drink. Parslett pocketed the money and accepted the invitation--
and Yada, from his hiding-place, saw Chen Li go to the sideboard, mix
whisky and soda and pour into the mixture a few drops from a phial which
he took from his waistcoat pocket. Parslett drank off the contents of the
glass--and Chen Li went down to the gate with him.

Yada followed to the front door and, through a slight opening, watched.
The garden was fairly well lighted by the moon, which had recently risen.
He saw Chen Li let the man out. He saw him turn from the gate and slowly
come back towards the house. And then he saw something else--the sudden
spring, from behind a big laurel bush, of a man--a short-statured, slight-
figured man, who leapt on Chen Li with the agility of a panther. He saw
the flash of a knife in the moonlight--he heard a muffled cry, and
startled groan--and saw Chen Li pitch forward and lie evidently lifeless,
where he fell. He saw the assailant stoop, seize his victim by the
shoulders and drag him behind the shrubbery. Then, without further delay,
the murderer hurried to the gate. Evidently assured himself that there was
no one about, let himself out, and was gone.

By all the solemn oaths that he could think of, Yada swore that this was
true. Of another thing he was certain--the murderer was a Chinese.

Now began his own career of crime. He was just then very hard up. He had
spent much more than his allowance--he was in debt at his lodgings and
elsewhere. Somewhere, he felt sure, there was, in that house, the money
which Chen Li had evidently stolen from old Multenius. He immediately set
to work to find it. But he had no difficulty--the bank-notes were in the
drawer from which he had seen Chen Li take the gold which he had given to
the blackmailer, Parslett. He hurriedly transferred them to his own
pocket, and got away from the house by the door at the back of the garden
--and it was not until late that night, in the privacy of his own rooms,
that he found he had nearly eighty thousand pounds in his possession.

For some days, said Yada, he was at a loss what to do with his booty. He
was afraid of attempting to change five hundred pound notes. He made
cautious enquiries as to how that could be done--and he began to think
that the notes were so much waste paper to him. And then Ayscough called
on him--and for the first time, he heard the story of the orange-yellow
diamond.

That gave him an idea. He had a very accurate knowledge of Chinese habits
and characteristics, and he felt sure that Chen Li would have hidden that
diamond in his pig-tail. So he took advantage of his possession of the
detective's card to go to the mortuary, to get a minute or two alone with
the body, and to slip his hand underneath the dead man's silk cap. There
he found the diamond--and he knew that whether the bank-notes were to be
of any value to him or not, the diamond would be if he could only escape
to the Continent.

But--he wanted funds; wanted them badly. He thereupon conceived the bold
idea of getting a reward for his knowledge. He went to the police-station
with a merely modest motive in his mind--fifty pounds would carry him to
Vienna, where he knew how to dispose of the diamond at once, with no
questions asked. But when he found the owners of the diamond and the bank-
notes present he decided to play for higher stakes. He got what he asked
for--and, if it had not been for that little Jew, he said malevolently, he
would have got out of England that eventful afternoon. But--it was not so
written--and the game was up. Only--what he had said was true. Now let
them do what they could for him--but let them search for Chen Li's
murderer.

       *       *       *       *       *

The folk who had been chiefly concerned about the orange-yellow diamond
and the eighty thousand pounds' worth of Bank of England notes were not so
much troubled about proving the truth of Yada's strange story as Yada
himself was--the main point to them was that they had recovered their
property. Naturally they felt remarkably grateful to Melky Rubinstein for
his astuteness in circumventing Yada at what might have been the last
moment. And one day, at that portion of it when business was slack and
everybody was feeling comfortable after dinner, Melky called on Mrs.
Goldmark and became confidentially closeted with her in a little parlour
behind her establishment which she kept sacred to herself. Mrs. Goldmark,
who had quick eyes, noticed that Melky was wearing his best clothes, and a
new silk hat, and new gloves, and had put his feet into patent-leather
boots which she secretly and sympathizingly--felt to be at least a size
too small for him. He sighed as he sat near her on the sofa--and Mrs.
Goldmark looked at him with concern.

"Such a time you have lately, Mr. Rubinstein, don't you?" she said
feelingly. "Such worries--such troubles! And the risk you ran taking that
wicked young man all by yourself--so brave of you! You'd ought to have one
of these medals what they give to folks, so!"

"You think that?" responded Melky, brightening suspiciously. "Oh, Mrs.
Goldmark, your words is like wine--all my life I been wishing some
beautiful woman would say them things to me! Now I feel like I was two
foot taller, Mrs. Goldmark! But I don't want no medals--not me. Mr.
Levendale and Mr. Purvis, they came to me and say they must give me a
reward--handsome reward, you understand, for getting back their goods. So
I say no--I won't have nothing for myself--nothing. But, I say, just so--
there is one that should be rewarded. Mrs. Goldmark!--do you know what? I
think of you when I say that!"

Mrs. Goldmark uttered a feeble scream, clasped her hands, and stared at
Melky out of her melting eyes.

"Me?" she exclaimed. "Why--I ain't done nothing, Mr. Rubinstein!"

"Listen to me," persisted Melky. "What I says to Mr. Levendale is this
here--if Mrs. Goldmark hadn't had her eating establishment, and if Mr.
Purvis hadn't gone into it to eat a chop and to drop his platinum
solitaire on the table, and if Mrs. Goldmark hadn't taken care of that
platinum solitaire, and if things hadn't sprung from it--eh, what then, I
should like to know? So Mrs. Goldmark is entitled to whatever little
present there is!--that's how I put it, Mrs. Goldmark. And Mr. Levendale
and Mr. Purvis, they agreed with me--and oh, Mrs. Goldmark, ain't you
going to be nice and let me put this round your beautiful neck?"

Mrs. Goldmark screamed again as Melky produced a diamond necklace, lying
in a blue velvet bed in a fine morocco case. The glitter of the diamonds
turned both beholders hoarse with emotion.

"Do you know what, Mrs. Goldmark!" whispered Melky. "It cost a thousand
guineas--and no error! Now you bend your lovely head, and I puts it on
you--oh, ain't you more beautiful than the Queen of Sheba! And ain't you
Melky's queen, Mrs. Goldmark--say you was!"

"Lor', Mr. Rubinstein!" said Mrs. Goldmark, coyly. "It's as if you was
proposing to me!"

"Why, ain't I?" exclaimed Melky, gathering courage. "Don't you see I'm in
all my best clothes? Ain't it nothing but weddings, just now? There's Mr.
Lauriston a-going to marry Zillah, and Mr. Purdie's a-fixing it up with
Levendale's governess, and--oh, Mrs. Goldmark, ain't I worshipped you
every time I come to eat my dinner in your eating house? Ain't you the
loveliest woman in all Paddington. Say the word, Mrs. Goldmark--don't you
see I'm like as if I was that hungry I could eat you?"

Then Mrs. Goldmark said the word--and presently escaped from Melky's
embrace to look at herself and her necklace in the mirror.

THE END





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