Front matter (continued 4)

The man who had brought the letter had prudently gone to wait outside, where, if needful, he could make a quick "getaway." This detail seemed of small importance at the time, but its influence on the fate of two others besides myself was great. If Lady Allendale had seen me starting with the messenger, she would have known that I was not going out in answer to the letter written on grey paper—the letter she believed to be from Maida Odell. Pauline's window overlooked the noisy front entrance of the otherwise quiet hotel. From behind the curtains Irene could see anyone coming or going. If the messenger had waited outside my door, she would have seen us together: but as he stood close against the wall, she could see only that I stopped to speak with someone. She could not hear the man explaining that he had been directed to travel back to New York in the taxi which had brought him to Long Island, and that instead of accompanying, I was to trail him. "Somebody's afraid I might get something out of you—what?" said I. Since argument with such a person was useless, Irene must have heard me order a taxi, and have telephoned down for one herself. If I'd suspected the interest she still felt in my movements, I might have been more on the alert, and have noticed a taxi always pursuing mine: but my eyes were for the one ahead.

When my leader's taxi drew up at last, it was the signal agreed upon for me to do the same. The neighbourhood was unfamiliar, but as I followed the man on foot I soon saw that we were in the heart of Chinatown. It was agreed that I should not try to speak with him again, but simply to go where I saw him go. He entered a Chinese restaurant which made no pretence at picturesqueness for the attraction of sightseers. I, close upon his heels, entered also, and had scarcely an instant to take in the scene, so promptly did the man make for a row of doors at the back of a large, smoke-dimmed room. Determined not to be left behind, I too made for the little low-browed door he chose in the row, and saw a private dining-room just comfortably big enough for two.

"This is where you're to wait," my man announced, "and where my part of the business is done. Good night. I expect you won't be kept long."

I offered him money, which he refused. "I've been paid, thank you," he said; and touching his shabby cap with an attempt at a military salute, returned to the main restaurant. He shut the door behind him, but not quickly enough to prevent my recognising a face in the room outside: the face of Donald Allendale's valet.

"By Jove!" I heard myself say half aloud. I remembered now that the man—Hanson or some name like that—had left his master in England, not wishing, he explained, to go to America. Yet here he was; and I sprang to the rash conclusion that it was he who had sent for me with this mysterious ceremony.

The door was shut in my face before I could even jump up from the chair into which I had subsided; and when I threw the door open again to look out, the face had vanished. A number of Europeans of middle-class and a few Chinese, apparently respectable merchants, were dining at little tables. Some were already going: others were coming in: and I saw at the street door a tall woman in a long dark cloak and a kind of motor bonnet covered with a thick blue veil. She had the air of peering about through the veil, to find someone she expected to meet: and if I had ever happened to see Lady Allendale's maid Pauline in automobile get-up, when motoring with her mistress, my thoughts might possibly have flashed to Irene. They did not, however, and I should have passed the woman without remark if she had not darted at a man just making his exit. I didn't recall Don's valet well enough from Indian days to be as sure of his back as of his face, but I wondered if it were Hanson whom the veiled woman sought. I was half inclined to step out and accost him: but I knew by experience what errors arise from a change in the programme when an appointment has been planned. Possibly Hanson was not the person who should meet me here, and in following the valet I might miss my aim. After a few seconds' hesitation I went back into the tiny room and reluctantly closed the door.

It was a dull little hole, though clean. The walls or partitions which divided the place from others of its kind seemed to be of thin wood, papered with red and hung with cheap Chinese banners. Even the back wall was of wood, and boasted as decoration a large, ugly picture of a Chinese hunter, in a bamboo frame. The only furniture consisted of two chairs, and a small table laid for two persons. In one of these chairs I sat, staring at the door, hoping that it might soon open for Hanson or another.

Hanson, I learned afterwards, had never intended to meet me or be seen by me. His business in the restaurant concerned me, to be sure, but only indirectly: and catching sight of my face in the door of the private room, he had made a dash for the door of the street, to be stopped by the veiled woman on the threshold. The veil was impenetrable, but recognising the voice that spoke his name, he tried to shove her aside and escape. She seized his arms, however, obliging him to stop inside the restaurant or risk a street scene. She inquired why he had come to America, and if he had been with Sir Donald.

"No, your ladyship," the man stolidly answered to both questions, doubtless longing to ask some of his own in return. He mumbled that he had come to New York after his master died, for no object connected with Sir Donald—merely wishing to "find a good job with some rich American," a wish not yet realised. When asked if he had seen and recognised in the restaurant his master's old friend Lord John Hasle, at first he said, "No, he hadn't noticed anyone like him." But the next words, following swiftly and excitedly, for some reason quickened his memory as if by magic.

"Well, he is there. I saw him go in!" the veiled Lady Allendale insisted. "I believe you know he is there. I'm sure there's a woman in the case!"

On this, Hanson admitted that he had seen "a man who looked a bit like his lordship," and there was a woman with him, not the kind of woman her ladyship would want to know.

"I've got to get somewhere in a hurry," he added, "but if I might advise, the best thing for your ladyship is to do the same—go somewhere else, most anywhere else, in a hurry too."

With this, he took advantage of a relaxed hold on his arm, and was off like a frightened rabbit, old custom forcing him to touch his hat as he fled.

He doubtless hoped that Lady Allendale would be terrified into abandoning her project, whatever it might be: and intended to disclaim responsibility if she lingered. As it happened she did linger, summoning courage to enter the restaurant and take a table close to the door where, for an instant, she had seen me appear.

"He was looking for her!" Irene said to herself; and as no woman had passed in while she talked to Hanson in the street, she determined to wait close to the door. It was almost incredible that Maida Odell should come from the house of the Grey Sisterhood to such a place as this, but Lady Allendale was in a mood when anything seemed possible. Anyhow, if it were not Maida, it was some other—some other about whose existence she might let Maida know—since Maida continued to write letters to the guilty one! Irene ordered food as an excuse to keep the table; but when it came she did little more than pretend to eat. Alternately she consulted her wrist-watch and frowned at the closed door.

All this time she supposed me to be sitting alone, fuming with impatience for the arrival of an unexpected woman: but as a matter of fact while she questioned Hanson the door had quickly opened and shut. It had admitted a man: and that man was with me when Lady Allendale sat down at her table near by to watch.

In appearance he was a Chinaman, a very tall, respectably dressed Chinaman with a flat-brimmed hat shading his eyes, and a generous pigtail whipping his back. But his long dark eyes were not Chinese eyes, though Eastern they might be. He was magnificently made up, so well that my impression of his falseness came by instinct rather than by reason. I would have given much if my brain had carried away a clearer picture of the "man with the scar" from the theatre, on the first night of the play. If I could have got nearer to him then, the difficulty of identifying him with Doctor Rameses might have disappeared altogether, despite the Egyptian's genius for establishing an alibi whenever I clamoured to the police. Now, in trying to pierce the surface calm of the dark eyes I should have had certainty to go upon, one way or the other. As it was I could only ask myself, "Is this the everlasting enemy? Or—am I a monomaniac on that subject?"

If it were Rameses, I could hardly help admiring his impudence in sending for and meeting face to face—even in disguise—the man whose business in life it had become to ruin him.

"Good evening, sir," he began politely, with the accent of an educated man and a suggestion of Chinese lisp—or a good imitation. "I am part owner of this place. I have come to know through my partner a sad case of a client of his, a poor man who was a friend of yours in another country. My partner is a good man but he is hard. He would have put this fellow out and not cared; but I said, keep him and I will send word to that friend he talks about, that Lord John Hasle. Maybe something can be done to help. My partner did not wish me to do this thing, because there might be danger for him, from the police. If you go further, you will soon understand why. But I have been years in England. I know Englishmen. I said to my partner, if this lord is asked to come alone, in a hurry, for the sake of his friend, he will not be a traitor. That is why I had to do things in a prudent way. I was right. You are here. But this is not all you have to do. You give me your word you will make no noise if I show you the secret of our place?"

"As to that, I give you my word," I said, curious, but far from trustful. "The message I received hints that Sir Donald Allendale didn't die. Is he here?"

"He is downstairs," replied the alleged Asiatic.

As he spoke, he touched one of the big, brass-headed tacks which appeared crudely to keep in place the bamboo frame of the Chinese Hunter. Instantly the picture moved out of the frame, like a sliding panel, and showed an opening or door in the wooden wall at the back of the room.

I felt that the long eyes watched to see if I "funked," but I think my features remained as noncommittal as those of Buddha himself. As a matter of fact I was scarcely surprised to find myself in one of those secret rabbit warrens of which I had read. I guessed that each of the private dining-rooms in the row I had seen, possessed a concealed door leading down to a hidden "opium den" underneath. I guessed, too, that only certain trusted habitués of the restaurant were allowed to learn the secret. Whether my being let into it were a compliment, or a sign that I shouldn't get a chance to betray it, I was not sure. But I wished that I had looked to the loading of my revolver which, so far as I remembered, held no more than one cartridge. I fancied that my Chinese friend was Rameses himself, and that he might indeed be a financial "power behind the throne" in the business of this house. Deliberately I went to the table and selected a steel knife which lay beside one of the plates. The tall Chinaman watched me pocket it, with a benevolent smile, such as he might have bestowed upon a child arming itself with a tin sword to fight a shadow. As he stood statue-like beside the aperture in the wall, two men in Chinese costume, dressed like the waiters of the restaurant, came through the panel-door from the mysterious dusk on the other side. Each had a small tray in his hand, as if to serve at a meal. With a bow for my companion and an extra one for me they moved along the wall, one on either side of the room, passing behind us both, and ranging themselves to right and left of the exit to the restaurant.

It was obvious that they were ready to prevent my making a dash if I were inclined to do so. They were big fellows, regular "chuckers out" in size; and my host himself was more than my equal in height. All the same, if I'd wanted to escape, I thought I could have downed the three, unless they were experts in ju jitsu, where I was an amateur. No such intention, however, was in my mind. I determined to see the adventure to the end, in the hope of finding Allendale. He might have fallen into such hands as these, and be held for some reason which I hoped to learn.

"After you!" I said politely to my guide who would have let me go ahead. We bowed like Chinese mandarins, and then, as if to prove that he meant no harm, he passed before me through the panel-door. Whether the two men closed it again in case of a police raid (which must always be dreaded in such a place) I don't know; but I guessed that they were under orders to follow at a distance.

There was just enough light in a narrow passage behind the panel to prevent those who entered it from stumbling over each other. I saw that it was a long, straight corridor running between the wooden back wall of the row of private dining-rooms and the house wall. Such light as there was came from the end of the passage, and from below, where it could be turned off in case of danger. I followed my companion, our feet making no noise on the matting-covered floor: and voices of those in the private rooms were audible through the thin partition. I smiled rather grimly for my own benefit as my fancy pictured a raid: how an alarm would be sent to those below stairs: an electric bell, perhaps: and how those in a condition to move would swarm up from secret, forbidden regions underground, running like rats through this corridor to take their places in the row of dining-rooms. There they would be found, calmly eating and drinking: and unless the "sleuths" had certain information concerning the concealed doors, there would be no excuse to look further!

At the far end of the passage, as I expected, there was a steep stairway. My guide still went in advance, as a proof of good faith. Having opened a baize door which muffled sound, he held it open for me to pass into a large room lit by green-shaded electric lamps that hung from the low ceiling. There was gas also, which could be used if the electricity failed. Here, men were gambling, silent as gambling ghosts. They played fan tan and other games: Chinese and Europeans, both men and women. Nobody glanced up when we arrived. We might have been flies for all the interest we excited. I looked over my shoulder as we came to the head of a second staircase leading down another storey, to see if the supposed "waiters" were behind us. They were not to be seen: nevertheless I "felt in my bones" that they were not far off.

The floor below the gambling-room was devoted to the smoking of opium. There were several doors no doubt leading into private rooms for those who could pay high prices: and ranged along the two side walls were rows of berths protected by curtains. Two "cooks" were at work making the pills to fill the pipes, handed to customers by attendants. There was practically no furniture in the large, low room, which was filled with the peculiar, heady fragrance of cooking opium.

Yet even then we had not reached our destination. A third staircase led down to a deeper cellar; and I could but think as I continued the game of "follow my leader," what a neat trap the fly was allowing the spider to land him in! However, I went quietly on, consoling myself with the thought that it's a wise fly who is up to the spider's tricks and watching for the lid of the trap to fall.

This last cellar was evidently for the cheapest class of customers. There were berths here too, but the curtains were poor, or non-existent, and many Chinamen lay about the floor on strips of matting. The atmosphere was foetid, and thick with opium smoke. As we moved towards a rough partition at the further end, our figures tore the grey cloud as if it had been made of gauze.

"Your friend lies very sick in a room there," said my guide, speaking for the first time since he had stepped through the panel. "We have paid for his keep a long time now."

I made no answer, only following with my eyes the gesture he made, pointing at the unpainted wooden partition. In this partition were three doors, also of rough, unpainted wood. Two stood ajar, showing small rooms which I fancied were used by the attendants and opium "cooks." One door was closed. My companion opened it, indicating, with a smile, that it possessed no lock, only an old-fashioned latch. "You need not fear to go in and talk with your friend alone," he said, in his low, monotonous voice. "You see, he is not a prisoner! And we cannot make you one."

I shrugged my shoulders, and passed him without a word, shutting the door behind me as I entered the wretched den on the other side. It was lit by one paraffin lamp, supported by a bracket attached to the wall, and such light as existed brought out from the shadows the vague lumpish shape of a mattress on the floor. Two or three odds and ends of furniture lurked in corners, but I scarcely saw their squalor. My one thought was for a dark form stretched on the grey heap of bedding.

I bent over it, and a hand seemed to grip my heart. "My God, poor old Don! What have they done to you?" I broke out.

A skeleton in rags lay on the filthy mattress. The yellow light from the bracket lamp lit his great eyes as they suddenly opened, in deep hollows. Even his face looked fleshless. There were streaks of grey in the dark hair at his temples, and an unkempt beard mingled with the shadows under his cheekbones. This was what remained of Donald Allendale, one of the smartest and handsomest men in the army.

He stared at me dully for an instant, his eyes like windows of glass With no intelligence behind them. Then abruptly they seemed to come alive. "Jack!" he gasped. "Am I—dreaming you?"

"No, dear old chap, no," I assured him, down on one knee by the mattress, slipping an arm under his head. "It's Jack right enough, come to take you out of this and make you the man you were again."

As I spoke, slowly and distinctly, so that the comforting words might reach his sick soul, I heard a faint, stealthy noise outside. There was a slight squeak as of iron scraping against wood, and in a flash I guessed what had happened. My guide had made a point of showing that the door could not be locked; and I, like a fool—in my haste to see Don—hadn't sought other means of fastening it, more efficient than any lock. I guessed that a bar of wood or iron had now been placed across the door, the two ends in rungs or brackets which I had passed unnoticed.

"Well!" I said to myself, "the mischief's done. No use kicking against the pricks till I'm ready to kick. And I shan't be ready till I've seen what can be done for Allendale."

The worst of it was that as I'd allowed myself to be trapped, it was difficult to see how anything could be done. My theory that I'd been let into a secret, because I should never be in a position to betray it, seemed to be the true one. But my fury at Donald's state gave me a sense of superabundant strength. I felt like Samson, able to pull down the pillars of the Temple.

"You're—too late!" the man on the mattress sighed, his voice strange and weak, sounding almost like a voice speaking through a telephone at "long distance." "But I'm glad to see you, Jack! I've thought of you. I've longed for you. Tell me—about Irene. Does she—believe I'm dead?"

"She's in New York, dear old boy," I said, evading his question.

His eyes lighted. It seemed that a faint colour stained his ash-white cheeks. "She came—to look for me! Oh, Jack, she did love me, then!"

"Of course," I answered truly enough: for she had loved him before everything went wrong. Even if I hadn't been as sure of Don's loyalty as of my own, I should have known by the radiance of his face. If he had stolen her jewels, he would not be coming back from death to life in the illusion that love had brought her across the sea.

"Thank God!" he breathed. "I can die in peace—but no, not yet. There's a thing I must tell you first, It's the thing they've kept me here to get out of me. They've tried every way they knew—torture, starvation, bribes of freedom; everything. They'd have killed me long ago, only if they had they could never have got the secret. But—how is it you're here? Is it another trick of theirs?"

As soon as I heard the word "secret" the mystery was clear. I was the catspaw with which the chestnuts were to be pulled out of the fire. If Doctor Rameses was the man who held us both, his intention was evidently to kill two birds, two rare and valuable birds, with one stone. How he had got Donald Allendale into his clutches I didn't know yet, though I soon should: but having him, and learning that he and I had been friends, he saw how to trap me securely and through me learn Don's secret.

Almost without telling I knew that the secret must concern Irene's jewels, which were worth at least twenty thousand pounds; a haul not to be despised. Bending over Don, I lifted my head and looked around. I was sure that a knothole in the wooden wall had come into being within the last five minutes. If there'd been an aperture there, it had been stuffed with rags, now noiselessly withdrawn. It was distant not a yard from Donald's face as he lay on the mattress, and a person crouching on the floor outside could catch every word, unless we whispered. Somebody had deduced that the prisoner would open his heart to me. The "secret" would thus become the property of those who coveted it; and once it was in their possession Donald and I could be suppressed. Thus the two birds would be felled with that one cleverly directed stone—so cleverly directed that I was sure of the hand which had placed it in the sling.

It was a case of kill or cure, to startle poor Don; but there was no other way, and I took the one I saw. "Yes," I said, "they got me here by a trick, but I don't regret coming. On the contrary. They—whoever they are—want to hear what you tell me. But we can prevent that. Let me help you to the other side of the mattress farther from that knothole, and you'll whisper what you have to say. If that annoys anyone—I know there are people made nervous by whispering!—why, they can come in, and get a warm welcome. Put the story into few words; and then we'll be prepared for the next thing."

It was a tonic I had given him. He threw a look of disgust and rage at the knothole, which was dark because, no doubt, the lights had been turned down outside to make our cubicle seem lighter. Sitting up without my help, Don flung himself to the other side of the mattress; and as I knelt beside him, whispered. Unless they had a concealed dictaphone the secret was safe.

As I advised, this man raised from the dead, told his story in few words. On shipboard, coming to America, he had been taken over the ship one day, by the first officer. To his astonishment, he recognised Hanson, his valet, in a rather clumsy disguise, travelling second class. Controlling himself, he appeared not to notice: but as Hanson had refused to make the voyage in his service, there must be some curious motive for this ruse. Don could not guess it, but he had once overheard a conversation between Hanson and Pauline which told him that they were more than friends. Don didn't like Pauline, and believed that she had set her mistress against him. After a little thought, he determined to spring a surprise on Hanson. He learned the name under which the valet was travelling, found out that the man had a state-room to himself; and the night after his discovery opened the door and abruptly walked in. He expected to catch Hanson unawares and surprise a confession; but the room was empty. Don was amazed to see under the berth a dressing-bag which had belonged to Irene. He could not believe she had given it to Pauline or to Hanson, as it had been a present to her from a friend. It flashed into his head that the thing had been stolen, and that it might have valuable contents. Acting on impulse, he took the bag and returned to his own cabin. There he opened it with one of his own keys, and found most of his wife's jewellery.

This happened on the night when the ship docked. Don meant to telegraph Irene next day; and was debating whether to have Hanson arrested on board ship, or catechise him first. He determined upon the latter course, as he wished to learn if Pauline were involved in the theft. He wrote a note and sent it to Hanson, saying that his one chance lay in confession and that he—Sir Donald—would talk with him on the dock. The man kept the appointment, begged his ex-master's forgiveness, told a long story of temptation, exonerated Pauline, and promised to reform. Don, who had been fond of Hanson and valued him as a servant, decided that, as he now had the jewels in his own possession, he could afford to be generous. He bade the fellow "go and sin no more": and as far as Hanson was concerned, considered the episode closed. The dressing-bag he gave with other luggage to an express man to take to his hotel, but the jewels (a rope of pearls, a flexible tiara of diamonds, and a number of brooches, pendants and rings) he had put (congratulating himself on his own prudence) into a tobacco pouch in a pocket of his coat. He engaged a taxi, giving the name of a hotel; and had no suspicion that anything was wrong until he realised that, instead of leaving poor streets behind, he was being driven through a maze of slums. Not knowing New York, he still hoped that his chauffeur had chosen an unattractive short cut: but instinct cried loudly that he was the victim of a trick. Fancying that the taxi slowed down, he took the tobacco-pouch from his pocket and searched for a place to hide it, in case of trouble. He happened to find a curious repository. Lifting the leather cushion which formed the seat, he discovered an inconspicuous rip in the leather binding of the lower edge. He clawed out a piece of horsehair stuffing, threw it from the window, and tucked the tobacco-pouch into the hole that was left. Knowing the number of the taxi (Don was always great at remembering numbers) he could inform the police if necessary! Whereas, if all were well, and he found himself arriving safely at his destination he would take out the bag and laugh at his own suspicions.

No sooner had he hidden the valuables, however, than the taxi stopped. The chauffeur civilly informed him that a tyre was down, and apologised for having to stop in such a poor neighbourhood. The fellow seemed so frank, that Donald was ashamed of his own timidity. He stuck his head out of the window to speak with the man at work, and—remembered no more, till he came to himself in his present surroundings.

How long ago that was, he could not tell. He had waked to find severe wounds on his head, and fancied that he had been delirious. He had thought constantly of Irene, and bitterly regretted their quarrels. It occurred to him (as to me in hearing the story) that Hanson had crossed on Sir Donald Allendale's ship with the jewels, intending by the help of Pauline at home, to throw suspicion on his master.

My evasive answers and the news of Irene's presence in New York, gave Don new life and courage to fight for it, believing that through all she had kept her love and faith. I, alas, knew that this was not the case; but I hoped that Irene's heart would turn to him again if his innocence were proved. "You must get out of this for her sake," I urged. "Besides, I shan't try to escape without you. We stand or fall together."

"If I can find strength enough not to hinder instead of help!" he groaned. "But there's little chance for either of us. For heaven knows how long they've kept me chained to the wall. To-night, the Chinaman who takes care of me after a fashion unlocked the iron ring that was on my ankle. You can see the mark it's made! I wondered what was up, but thought as I was so weak, it was no longer worth while to waste the chain on me. Now I see they took it off because they didn't want you to see at first glance that I was a prisoner, not a pensionaire. The fact that they've left me free shows they've taken their precautions, though!"

"Perhaps they haven't taken enough," said I, still whispering as he did, that ears outside might strain in vain.

I rose from my knees, and began to look for the iron staple which I knew must exist. I soon found it in the solid wall at the back of the room; with the chain and the iron ankle-band attached. A heap of straw and rags had been used to cover these from sight. No effort of Don's wasted muscles could suffice to pull out the staple, as his gaolers knew: and as for my strength, it had not occurred to them that I might use it in that direction. Probably no one dreamed that blind Samson would pull down the pillars!

I made Don move to a position where his body blocked the knothole, and unless there was another, which I failed to see, I could work without being overlooked. Grasping the iron ring, with all my might I pulled and jerked at the staple till I loosened it in the wall. The rest was easy: and sooner than I'd dared hope I had in my hand a formidable weapon. If there were a chance of smashing the partition and breaking out on the other side, it lay in that. Also, it might be useful afterwards, for if we got into the main cellar, our troubles would be but just begun. Practically my one hope was that the men told off to deal with us might be cowards.

As for smashing the door, there was "nothing doing" there for us, because of the bar certainly securing it. On examination, however, the rough plank supporting the bracket lamp looked rotten. It had cracked when the bracket was nailed up, and had never been mended. This was good; and I had a plan too, in which the lamp itself was to play a part. I took it from the bracket, and set it carefully on a rickety stool which I propped against the back wall. Then I whispered to Don: "Now for it! If I break through, I'll try and get hold of that bar across the door. If I do, it will be another weapon: and besides, we can make a quick dash. Here's my revolver for you. There's only one cartridge in it; but nobody else knows that. And here's a knife I stole upstairs. I'll have the iron staple and chain which will make a good killing, and the bar too, if we're in luck."

"They may shoot through the partition when they find what we're up to," said Don.

"They haven't got their precious secret yet!" I reminded him. "They'll try and take us alive, and we'll give them a hot time doing it!"

To weaken the cracked plank, I wrenched off the bracket, and had the joy of hearing the wood tear as if a saw had bitten through. Then I dealt blow after blow on the wounded spot, and when the wood began to give I flung my weight against it. The noise drowned lesser sounds, but I was conscious of a babble of voices like the chatter of angry monkeys. Down went the upper half of the broken plank, and the one next it gave way. It was close to the door, and reaching out an arm I found the bar. Luckily it was held by a pair of wooden horns, for had it been slipped into rings I could not have succeeded. As it was a Chinaman jabbed at my hand with a knife: but I surprised him with a smashing blow over the eyes, and seized the bar before he came at me again. Instantly I had it out of the sockets, the door (which Don had unlatched) fell open, and I burst through like a whirlwind, with him behind me, carrying the lamp I'd yelled to him to bring.

Half a dozen Chinamen stood lined up to beat us back. Two with pistols, two armed with axes, and the one I had tackled brandishing his carving-knife. I went for the pair with the pistols. My iron bar cracked a shaved head like an egg-shell, and broke the hand of his mate. One dropped his weapon without a groan, the other let his fall with a yelp: and Don, unexpectedly darting forward, snatched up both the pistols. Thrusting one into my free hand he kept the other. We were thus doubly armed, and together made a rush for the stairs, I keeping my eyes open for a surprise attack from my late guide.

At the foot of the steps, I let Don lead with my revolver and the big pistol, while I backed up stair by stair, keeping off the four Chinamen who were still intact. It seemed too good to be true that we were to get away so easily. Perhaps, I thought, the tug-of-war would come on the floor above: but it was the enemy's game to finish us before we gained a higher level. Here, the sound of shots could not reach the street; and the witnesses of the fight were so besotted with their drug, so lost to decency, that even if they woke to see strange doings, all would be woven with their dreams. Above, there was more to fear; some of the clients were still alive to human feeling: they might take our part. An alarm might reach the police. Why then, if Rameses were the hidden enemy, did he let his best chance go by? Almost subconsciously I asked myself these questions, and half way up the stairs, my answer came. Men shielded with mattresses flung themselves upon us from above. They in turn were pushed forward by others and Don and I fell back. I tried to use the iron bar like a battering ram, but the weight I struggled against was too great. I stumbled, with Don on top of me; there was a sound of shouting, and suddenly the lights went out. I struggled in darkness with unseen enemies, as in a nightmare.

*****

Two storeys above, in the restaurant, Irene Allendale sat pretending to eat, and glancing at her watch until she lost patience. It occurred to her that she had been a fool—that the woman she waited for might have arrived before her, might already be in the little private room, dining with John Hasle. She sprang up and on a furious impulse flung open the door which she had so long watched in vain. To her astonishment the room was empty.

This seemed a miracle; for she knew that John Hasle had gone in and hadn't come out. As she stood staring at the empty room which seemed to have no second exit, the Chinese proprietor came to her with a threatening air. "You do what we no 'low this place," he said bullyingly. "That plivate loom. You no pay plivate loom. You no light look in. You give me five dolahs you' dinnah, and you go 'way. We no like spies. You go, if you no want I call p'lice."

Already hysterical, Irene lost her head. "How dare you talk of police!" she cried. "I will call the police! You've very likely murdered a friend of mine here and hidden his body."

The man had threatened her in a low voice. She threatened him at the top of her lungs. The diners at little tables jumped to their feet. The Chinaman tried to catch her by the veil as she darted to the door, but only pulled off her motor bonnet and loosened her hair, which tumbled over her shoulders. In an instant the place was in an uproar. An American in defence of a beautiful woman knocked the Chinaman down. A policeman passing the restaurant window blew his whistle, and had hardly dashed in before he had a couple of comrades at his heels.

Nobody knew quite what had happened, but Lady Allendale gasped the word "Murder!" and pointed to the open door of the private room. In jumped two of the policemen, while the third tried to restore order in the restaurant. A glance under the table in the little dining-room showed that no corpse lay hidden there, but the lovely lady's persistence put the idea of a secret entrance into their heads. One of them thumped with his fist on the picture of the Chinese hunter. The hollow sound suggested a space behind. An experienced hand passed over the bamboo frame found a spring, and the panel slid back. Somehow the cry of "Murder!" started by Irene flew from mouth to mouth. More policemen appeared, and Europeans who had been peacefully dining in the restaurant reinforced the courageous pair who had sprung through the opening behind the picture. So the rescue-party reached us in the nick of time, policemen's lanterns lighting up the darkness, revealing stealthy flitting forms that would escape at any price, and a mass of men struggling under and above a pile of mattresses.

My first thought (after I had seen that Don was safe) rushed to Rameses. But the tall Chinaman with the long dark eyes was not among the prisoners. That night (the police gleefully informed me later) Doctor Rameses was engaged in giving a lecture at his own house, and could not possibly have been in Chinatown. As usual, he had known how to save himself; and it was only long after that I learned the remarkable way in which he invariably established an alibi.

My hope for the reconciliation of Don and Irene was fulfilled even before the overwhelming proof of his truth was obtained by finding the tobacco-pouch intact, still hidden inside the seat of the ancient taxi whose number Don had never forgotten. The man who had driven it the night of the attack had been discharged, and could not be found. Hanson, too, contrived to elude the vigilance of the police, and Pauline passionately denied all knowledge of him. She was watched when Lady Allendale sent her away, but returned quietly to Europe, while Irene remained in New York to help nurse Donald back to health. With Hanson and his accomplice of the taxi missing, and the Master Mind past pursuit, it was impossible to clear up the mystery of the corpse found floating in the East River. But after all, that mattered only to the police, now that Captain Sir Donald Allendale was alive and safe, and happier than he had been for years.

The day that Irene and he made up their differences, she sent for me. "You won't tell Don that I said I hated him and threw his picture on the floor, will you?" she asked me piteously.

"Of course not!" I assured her.

"Ah, if I could atone!" she sighed.

"You have atoned. You saved our lives, and——"

"Oh, but you don't know all. If you did, you'd loathe me."

"I can think of nothing which would make me loath you, Lady Allendale."

"I—made Miss Odell believe—that—that—I can't tell you what! But—never mind. I've written to her now. I've confessed that it was a lie. If you wouldn't press me with questions, but just wait to hear from her, you'd be an angel, Lord John."

How long I could have remained an angel at that price I'm not sure. But a letter came to me from Maida next day to say that she had decided not to become a life member of the Grey Sisterhood.

EPISODE VI

THE CLUE IN THE AIR

If I had been fighting my own battle, not Maida's, against Doctor Rameses, I might have sometimes admired his cleverness. There seemed to be no way of catching him.

The police theory was that some person, not Rameses, took advantage of the "philanthropist's" conspicuous appearance to commit crimes in a disguise resembling his peculiarities. This, they thought, might be done not only as a means of escaping detection, but with the object of blackmail. My theory was different. I believed that Rameses had a confederate enough like him in looks to deceive an audience assembled for one of his lectures, or patients undergoing his treatment.

I did not hesitate to assert this opinion, hoping to provoke the man to open attack.

After the affair of the opium den, he lay low. Nothing happened in which, by any stretching of probabilities, he could have had a hand. Perhaps, thought I, he had learned that I was a hard nut to crack! Two-thirds of the time for which Maida had promised herself to the Grey Sisterhood passed. Her doubts of me had been swept away, and I hoped to find at the end of the year that I hadn't waited in vain. Now and then I saw, or believed that I saw, light on the mystery of Maida's antecedents. Altogether I was happier than I had been and I was serving my country's interests while I served my own.

I had been ordered to buy desirable new types of aeroplanes, and luckily got hold of some good ones. The "story" of my mission suddenly appeared in the newspapers, and interest in my old exploits as a flying man were revived embarrassingly. I was "paragraphed" for a few days when war tidings happened to be dull; and to my surprise received an invitation to demonstrate my "stunt" of looping a double loop at a new aviation park, opened on Long Island. The exhibition resulted in another compliment. I was asked to instruct a class of young aviators, and was officially advised by the British Ambassador to accept. I did accept: and was given a "plane" and a hangar of my own; but I kept on my suite in the hotel near Sisterhood House, starting at an early hour most mornings to motor to the aviation ground.

After a few weeks of this, a big aviation meeting took place, and when my part in it was over I found myself holding quite a reception in my hangar. Friends and strangers had kind things to say: and while I explained new features of my 'plane to some pretty women, I saw a prettier woman gazing wistfully at me between hats.

Her face was familiar. I remembered that tremulous, wistful smile of eyes and lips, which (the thought flashed through my head) would be fine stock-in-trade for an actress. Still, for the life of me, I couldn't recall the girl's name or whether we had ever really met, until her chance came to dash into the breach made by disappearing plumes and feathers. She seized the opportunity with a promptness that argued well for her bump of decision: but she was helped to success by the tallest, thinnest, brightest-eyed young man I had ever seen.

"You've forgotten me, Lord John!" the girl reproached me. "I'm Helen Hartland. Does that name bring back anything?"

"Of course!" I answered, remembering where and how I had met Helen Hartland. She had made her debut on the stage several years ago in a curtain-raiser of mine, my first and last attempt at playwriting "on my own." Her part had been a small one, but she had played it well and looked lovely in it. I had congratulated her. When the run ended, she had asked for introductions to people I knew in the theatrical world, and I had given them. She had written me a few letters, telling of engagements she had got (nothing good unfortunately) and wanting me to see her act. I had never been able to do so; but I had sent her flowers once on a first night.

Not trusting to my recollection, she reminded me of these things, and introduced the tall, thin, bright-eyed young man.

"You must have heard of Charlie Bridges, the California Birdman, as everybody calls him!" she said. And then went on to explain, as if she didn't want their relations misunderstood: "We met on the ship coming over, and Mr. Bridges was so kind! Our steamer chairs were together, and he lent me a copy of Sketch with a picture of him in it! Wasn't it funny, there was a picture of you, too, and I mentioned knowing you? Next, it came out that he was bringing a letter of introduction to you from a friend of yours at home. We landed only two days ago. I was so happy, for I've had hard luck for months, and I thought I was falling into a ripping engagement. But it was a fraud—the queerest fraud! I can't understand it a bit. I want to tell you all about it and get your advice. Mr. Bridges brought me to the meeting here. It was nice of him. But now I've paid him back, haven't I, putting him in touch with you?"

Charlie Bridges listened to the monologue with varying emotions, as I could see in his face which was ingeniously expression-ful. Evidently he had fallen in love with Helen Hartland, and was not pleased to stand still listening to protestations of gratitude for small past favours from me. She realised his state of feeling as well as I did, perhaps better, being a woman: and what her motive in exciting him to jealousy was, I couldn't be sure. Maybe she wished to bring him to the point (though he looked eager to impale himself upon it!), maybe she simply didn't care how he felt, and wanted him to understand this once for all: or possibly it amused her to play us off against each other.

In any case, I put myself out to be pleasant to Bridges, who seemed a nice fellow, and was, I knew, a smart aviator. He had been in France at the time of my accident, and had not returned to America since then. He had news from London and Paris to give me, and even if Helen Hartland had not insisted, we should have struck up a friendship.

I invited them to have food with me at the brand new Aviation Park Hotel (as it called itself), saying that we'd "feed" in the roof-garden restaurant, of which the proprietors were proud. Bridges hesitated, possibly disliking to accept hospitality from the hated rival: but as Helen said "yes," rather than leave her to my tender mercies, the poor chap followed suit.

The hotel had been run up in next to no time, to catch aviation "fans," and the roof-garden was a smart idea, as patrons could sit there eating and drinking, and see the flying at the same time. It was small, but nicely arranged, partly glassed in, partly open, with a "lift" to rush dishes up from the kitchen (this was practically concealed with trellis-work covered with creepers trying to grow in pots), and a low wall or parapet with flowers planted in a shallow strip of earth. The weather was fine, so we chose a table in the open, for our late luncheon. My place—with Helen at my right, and Bridges opposite us both—was close to the parapet, so close that I could peer over a row of pink geraniums, to the newly-sodded lawn and gravelled paths below. As it happened I did peer while we waited for our oysters, sub-consciously attracted perhaps by the interest an elderly waiter was taking in someone or somebody down there. I was just in time to see a face look up, not to me but to the waiter. Instantly the head ducked, presenting to my eyes only the top of a wide-brimmed soft hat of black felt—an old-fashioned hat.

"By Jove!" I said to myself, and had to beg Helen's pardon for losing a remark of hers: for that quick, snap-shot glance had shown me features like those of the priceless Rameses.

"Now, what can he be doing here—if it is he?" I wondered. It was absurd to fancy that he might bribe a waiter to poison my food, and so rid himself of me once for all. No: poisoning—anyhow at second hand—wasn't in Rameses' line. Besides, his waiter wasn't my waiter, which would complicate the plot for a neat murder. As the man walked away (I still watching) his back was not like that of Rameses, if I had ever seen the real Rameses. The police thought I had not. I thought I had: but the picture in my mind was of a person erect and distinguished: this figure was slouching and common.

I was not, however, to be caught napping. I called to the waiter who now, instead of looking down to the lawn, was picking dead leaves off the pink geraniums. "That was Doctor Rameses of New York, wasn't it?" I fired at him, staring into his anemic Austrian face. It did not change, unless to drop such little expression as it had worn. Utter blankness must mean complete innocence or extreme subtlety. I could hardly credit the fellow with the latter. "Doctor Ra—mps?" he echoed. "Who—where, sir?"

"Down below: the man you were looking at," I explained, still fixing him with a basilisk eye.

He shook his head. "I wasn't lookin' at no man, sir," he protested. "I was lookin' at nothin' at all."

Meanwhile the slouch hat and slouching figure had disappeared into the crowd which still ringed the aviation ground. I abandoned the inquest, and turned my attention to Helen and Bridges.

As we lunched, I learned the history of Helen's trip to America, and the "fraud" she had spoken of as "queer." It seemed that, a few days after the suburban theatre she was acting in had closed, she received a long cable message from New York. A man signing himself "William Morgan, Manager Excelsis Motion Picture Corporation" offered her the "lead" in a forthcoming production. He explained expensively that he had seen her act and thought her ideal for the part. She was to have six months' certain engagement with a salary of a hundred dollars a week, and her dresses and travelling expenses were to be paid by the management. She was to reply by wire, and if she accepted, five hundred dollars would be advanced to her by cable.

The address given, "29, Vandusen Street, New York," did not sound "swell" to an English actress who vaguely thought of Broadway and Fifth Avenue as being the only streets "over there." Still, the promise of an advance gave an air of bona-fides, and Helen had answered "Yes. Start on receipt of money."

By return, the money came, and the girl took the first ship available, telegraphing again to Mr. Morgan. She expected him to meet her at the docks, but he "never materialised," and "if it hadn't been for Mr. Bridges she didn't know what she would have done!" Bridges it was who took her in a taxi to 29, Vandusen Street, which address proved to be that of a tobacconist in a small way of business. There she was told that a man named William Morgan had paid for the privilege of receiving "mail," but only a couple of telegrams had come. He had called for them, but had not been seen since. The proprietor of the shop vowed that he knew nothing of Morgan. The man had walked in one day, bought a box of expensive cigars, and made the arrangement mentioned. Bridges inquired "what he was like," but the tobacconist shook his head dully. Morgan looked like everybody else, neither old nor young, fair nor dark, fat nor lean. If you met him once, you couldn't be sure you would know him again.

"I've three hundred and fifty dollars left," Helen said at last, "all I have in the world, for I was stoney-broke when the cable came. Of course I can't live on that money long. But as I'm here, I shall stop and try to get something to do. I'm puzzled to death, though, why 'Morgan'—whoever he is—picked me out, or why it was worth his while to send a hundred pounds and then never turn up at the ship."

"It does seem odd," I agreed. "He may have been scared off from meeting you—or arrested. However, you'd better be careful what acquaintances you make."

"I want to be careful," the girl said. "But I must find work. And I can't do that without making some acquaintances, can I?—whether they're dangerous or not! Unless—oh, Lord John, if you could only put me in the way of an engagement, no matter how small. I've heard your play was a great success. You must know a lot of managers over here and—

"I don't," I answered her. "My activities lately haven't been in theatres! I'm afraid——" I was going on, but stopped suddenly. She had said "an engagement no matter how small." I would take her at her word!

"You've thought of something for me!" she exclaimed, while Bridges sulked because he numbered no theatrical potentates among his friends.

"I'm almost ashamed to suggest it," I said, "but I could get you a 'job' of a sort here. The proprietor of this hotel and his wife (good creatures and ambitious to cut a dash in the fashionable world) want a pretty girl—a 'real actress'—to sing and recite in the roof-garden these fine summer evenings. I don't suppose you——"

"Oh, yes I would! I'd love to be here. It would be fun!" Helen broke in. "I adore flying; and I should see you often—and Mr. Bridges too, perhaps. Anyhow, it would do to go on with till I got something else, if they'd pay me a 'living wage.'"

"I'll be your agent, sing your praises and screw up your price," I imprudently volunteered. Imprudently, because having arranged matters between the hotel people and Miss Hartland, I found her gratitude oppressive. She said it was gratitude; yet she seemed to think that I had got her placed at the Aviation Park Hotel in order to enjoy her society. This was not the case. Helen Hartland was pretty, with charming ways for those who liked them: but I was in the state of mind which sees superlative beauty and charm in one woman only. Because I was separated from Maida Odell by force of circumstances while she remained with the Grey Sisterhood, it was irritating to see other girls flitting about free to do as they pleased. It bored me when I had to lunch or dine at the hotel to find Helen always on hand with "something to tell," or my "advice to ask."

Whether the girl had taken a fancy to me, or whether she was amusing herself by exciting Bridges' jealousy, I didn't know: I knew only that I was bothered, and that Bridges was miserable.

Helen lived in the hotel from the first, partly through kindness on the part of her employers, partly perhaps because they thought her presence an attraction. They gave her a decent salary—more than she had ever earned in the small parts she'd played at home: she dressed well, and made a "hit" with her sweet soprano voice, her really glorious yellow-brown hair, and that wistful smile of hers. Next door to the best and biggest bedroom in the house was a small room which connected with the larger one, and could be used as a dressing-room. Nobody ever engaged it for that purpose, however, and Mrs. Edson, the landlady, suggested that Miss Hartland should occupy the little room until it was wanted. The girl described it to me as delightful. There were double doors between it and the large room adjoining, so that one wasn't disturbed by voices on the other side. There was also a door opening close to the service stairway which went up to the roof-garden. This was convenient for Helen, before and after her songs and recitations. She bought little knick-knacks to make her quarters pretty and, with a patent folding-bed and a screen or two was able to ask her friends in, as if she were the proud possessor of a private sitting-room.

I made excuses instead of calls; but one day I was lured in to see Charlie Bridges (who by then had a hangar on the grounds) do his wonderful "stunt," considered by the Edsons a fine advertisement for their hotel. It was not, however, for purposes of advertisement that the California Birdman performed the "stunt" in question, but rather for love of Helen Hartland. In the small, smart "one seater" which he was using, he would dive from a height, swoop past Helen's open window and throw in a bunch of roses. It was said that his aim was invariably true, a more difficult feat than might be supposed: anyhow the day that I was there to witness the exhibition it was a brilliant success. Whether by accident or design the flowers hit me on the head, and if Charlie were really jealous he accomplished a neat revenge.

"I could see you as plain as a pikestaff sitting there," he said afterwards. "Oh, I don't mean the 'plain' or the 'pikestaff' in a nasty way, Lord John. I only mean I recognised you as I flew by."

"And Mrs. Edson too, who was with us, I suppose," I hurried to say: for I didn't wish the boy to think that he had anything to fear from me. I saw from his manner, however, when we happened to meet, that he was worried, and to give him the chance which I didn't want for myself, I began to avoid Helen.

This course wasn't easy to steer, I found, while duty kept me often at the aviation grounds. She sent me notes. I had to answer them. She asked me to lend her books. I couldn't refuse. At last she wrote a letter, confessing that she had got into trouble about money. Her salary "wasn't bad, considering"; but she hadn't understood American prices. She'd been stupid enough to run into debt. Would I, as her countryman, help her out of just one scrape, and she wouldn't get into another? Of course, Mr. Bridges would be glad to do it, but she didn't want to take a favour from him. I was "different."

I sent her a hundred dollars, the sum she specified, but in writing her thanks, she "chaffed" me for not making out a cheque. "I believe you think me capable of trying to get a hold on you," she wrote. Naturally I didn't bother to reply to that taunt, but kept out of Helen's way more persistently than before, until one afternoon Mrs. Edson buttonholed me. I happened to have seen Helen on her way to New York, so I was venturing to lunch at the hotel.

"I'm worried about Miss Hartland, Lord John," she began. "A sweet girl, but I'm afraid she's being silly! Do you know what she goes to New York for so often?"

"I didn't know she did go often," I said.

"Well, she does. She's taking lessons in hypnotism or something and I believe she's paying a lot of money. A circular came to her about a course of lectures, claiming that the will could be strengthened, and any object in life accomplished. That caught poor Helen. She simply ate up the lectures, and became a pupil of the man who gave them. That's why her salary's gone as soon as she gets it—and sooner! Poor child, I'm sorry. The thing she ought to want, she won't take. The thing she does want she can't have, if she spends every cent trying to gain 'hypnotic power.'"

"What does she so violently want, if it's permitted to ask?" I inquired.

Mrs. Edson looked at me in a queer, sidewise way. "You'd only be cross if I told you," she said. So instead of repeating the question, I asked another. "Who is the professor of hypnotism who gives Miss Hartland lessons?"

"I can't remember," the landlady replied. "I saw the circular, but that was some time ago, and I've forgotten. Now, the child won't talk about him."

The thought of Rameses sprang into my mind. I recalled the mystery of Helen's summons to America. Could it be possible that Doctor Rameses had wanted a "cat's-paw" for some new chestnuts to be pulled out of the fire? What would Helen Hartland's poor little paw avail him for that work? I went on wondering. But the ways of the Egyptian were past finding out—or had been, up to date. It was within the bounds of possibility that thinking to compromise me, he had sought in England a girl—preferably an actress—whom I had known; within the same bounds that he might have induced her to cross the sea, in the hope that, once on this side, we might play his game. So far-fetched an idea would never have come into my head, had not Mrs. Edson mentioned the circular, and the professor of hypnotism. But once in, I couldn't get it out. I determined to take the next chance to catechise Helen.

It arrived by accident, or I thought so, believing myself a free agent; instead of which I was a fly blundering into a spider's web.

From Maida Odell and from the elderly waiter who had looked over the parapet at a man in a broad-brimmed hat, I have since obtained threads which show how the web was woven: but some disastrous days were to pass first.

During this time I heard nothing from Maida, but I had memories to comfort me, and it was good to feel how few miles were between us. Strange that, few as they were, no telepathic thrill was able to warn me of what was happening behind the high garden walls of the Sisterhood House!

Maida has told me since, how the Head Sister called her one day for a talk. "I want to make a little journey and try to do a little good," the grey-veiled lady said in the deep voice which Maida had once thought sweet as the tones of a 'cello. "I should like you to go with me, but—there is a reason why perhaps you would rather I took someone else. Still, I feel bound to give you the choice, as you are my dearly-loved and trusted friend through everything."

"Why should I want you to take someone else, Sister?" Maida asked.

"Because—a man who would steal you away from us if he could, is often at the place where we must go. He visits the young English girl I am asked to help; and I fear that his interest in her is not for her good. Now, dear child, don't be angry with me for saying this! I don't ask you to believe. I tell you only what I hear from my philanthropic friend in New York who enables us to do some of our best work. I wish he would let his name be mentioned, but even his right hand is never allowed to know what the left hand doeth! In any case the girl is in difficulties, as this doer of noble works hears from one of his assistants. She is an actress who sings in a gay, rowdy sort of hotel frequented by sportsmen and their friends. I am requested to offer her a home here, if she chooses to come, and eventually to send her back to England at the expense of the Sisterhood funds. Now you see why I spoke. You shall go or stay, as you wish."

Once Maida had thought all the Head Sister's precepts and acts beyond criticism. But things had passed in Sisterhood House which had slightly—almost imperceptibly—broken the crystal surface of perfect trust. She found herself wondering: "Why does Sister advise me not to think of Lord John? Why does she hint horrid things of him, yet take me where we may meet?"

There was no answer to this question in Maida's mind, but she said that she would go with the Head Sister on the "mission": and in her heart she hoped that we might meet. She had been tried and tested before, and again she was loyal in thought.

The conversation between those two at Sisterhood House took place the day after my talk with Mrs. Edson. And while Maida and the Head Sister discussed the short journey they planned to make, I was probably dashing off a hasty letter to Helen Hartland. "I want to see you," I wrote, "about something rather important. Please send a line in answer, and tell me at what time I may call to-morrow afternoon."

In answer to this, Helen replied that she would see me at five o'clock. "I'm very unhappy," she added. "I know you want me to go back to England, and I believe you're afraid of me. I think you are cruel, but I'm thankful you're coming to see me of your own free will."

I should have been dumbfounded at this morbid nonsense, if the thought of Rameses hadn't been haunting my mind. If he were the power behind the throne in this business, he might have stuffed the girl with false ideas about me, or else actually have hypnotised her to write in this unbalanced fashion.

I had been in my hangar, or flying, most of the day, and came to the hotel half an hour before the appointment, to make myself tidy for a call. Looking out from the window I saw a grey automobile flash by and slow down as if to stop at the door. Whether it did stop or no, I couldn't be sure, as I could not see so far; nor should I have been interested had the thought not flashed through my head that it looked like the car which belonged to Sisterhood House.

Nothing seemed less likely than that it should come to the Aviation Park Hotel: and there were many autos of that make and colour on Long Island. I thought no more about it, little dreaming of the surprise Doctor Rameses' genius had prepared for Maida and for me. Now I ask myself where was my prophetic soul wandering at that moment? Perhaps it was searching for Maida: but it would only have to look close at hand to see her walking in to the hotel in the adorably becoming costume of the Grey Sisterhood. The inevitable Head Sister was with her, of course: but not in command, according to custom. Even before starting, she had complained of a headache, and Maida had suggested putting off the expedition: but the sufferer refused such self-indulgence. During the drive to the hotel, she was speechless with pain, and Maida, who had never seen the strong, vital directress in such a condition, was anxious. "I'm afraid we must take a room in the hotel for a while, where I may lie down until I'm able to see Miss Hartland," the Head Sister said as the grey car drew up at the door. Maida was thankful for this concession, but surprised that she should be told, in a faint voice, to engage the best room in the house. The Head Sister was usually spartan in her ways, setting an example of self-sacrifice to all those under her care.

Maida obeyed without comment, however, and the big room adjoining Helen Hartland's, with the double doors between, was given to the two ladies of the Grey Sisterhood.

These happenings—and certain developments which followed quickly—I learned long afterwards from Maida's own lips, when we were putting "two and two together." From the elderly Austrian who acted as a waiter in the roof-garden I forced another part of the same story, hearing from him that he had been one of Rameses' many servants. This I succeeded in doing too late to pull myself out of the pit which was waiting (at this very moment) for me to tumble into it. Nevertheless there was satisfaction later in knowing that my researches had never strayed from the right track.

It had been raining that day, I remember—an unlucky thing for the aviation "fans," come from far and near to see a new way of looping the loop demonstrated by two American pupils of mine, and myself: a lucky thing for the most daring experiment ever attempted by Doctor Rameses. People were walking about between nights, with umbrellas held low over their heads to protect them the better from a straight, steady downpour. Thus, roofed with wet silk domes they could see little except their own feet and each other. It was only when something happened aloft that it was worth while to unroof themselves: and at such moments all attention was concentrated on the sky. The air-show was a good one. Soaked enthusiasts rushed to the hotel for a "quick lunch" and drinks and rushed away again, or congregated on the roof with sandwiches in their hands. Waiters in the roof-restaurant walked with chins up: and there was a moment when one of their number—old Anton, the Austrian—was able to lure even the kitchen staff, cooks and all, out of doors for a few minutes. By a weird decree of fate, it was a flight of mine that they were invited to desert duty in order to witness!

While the kitchen was empty and the door open, with men's backs turned to it, Anton had given a signal. A mackintoshed figure slipped in, and finding the coast clear, made for the food elevator, which was ready to mount. Inside there was room for a man to crouch. Anton, darting into the kitchen, sent the lift up: then darted out again to tell the cook and cook's assistant a spicy anecdote about me!

There was no stop for the elevator between kitchen and roof. It was a slow traveller, and as the open front rose above the restaurant floor, the crouching man within could see at a glance what hope he had of running the gauntlet. The moment could not have been better chosen. I was in the act of doubling my loop, and everyone on the roof—guests and waiters—had crowded to the flower-fringed parapet. The lift was artistically concealed by an arbour of white painted trellis-work, as I have explained; but sharp eyes could peer between the squares overhung with climbing plants, and see all that went on upon the other side. The crouching figure crept out, rose, and precipitated itself down the service stairway whose railed-in wall was also masked by the trellis arbour.

It could not have been long after this that I finished my work for the day, and came to the hotel, as I have said, to keep my appointment with Helen Hartland; but meanwhile there had been time for the man in the high-collared mackintosh coat to finish his work also. He had not, of course, ventured to try returning by the way he came, but had run down the service stairs and walked out of the house by a side entrance. Thanks to the rain and the umbrellas, and the call of the sky, he escaped, as he entered, without being seen. If Anton had not been compelled to betray him later, the mystery of the Aviation Park Hotel would never have been solved.

Before I went (as requested in Helen's last letter) to knock at her door, a new cause of excitement had arisen. Charlie Bridges had crashed to earth in his machine, close to the hotel, and crowds had collected round the fallen aeroplane. Those who saw the fall, were able to explain why the 'plane was scarcely injured. Bridges had been swooping at the time, so close to earth that the drop amounted to nothing: but for some curious reason he had lost control of the machine. He was far more seriously hurt than he ought to have been, for not having been strapped in, he had slid from his seat somehow, and been caught under the machine. Unconscious and suffering from concussion the "California Birdman" was carried into a ground floor room of the hotel, while a "hurry call" was sent over the telephone for the nearest doctor.

All this happened unknown to me, for the room in which I was dressing was on the opposite side of the house. Any shouts I heard, or running men I saw through the window, were only part of the ordinary show for me. At precisely five o'clock I went my way through various corridors and knocked at Helen's door, in ignorance of Charlie Bridges' misfortune.

The door stood slightly ajar, as if Helen had left it so purposely for me: but no answer followed my knock. I tapped again more loudly, and the door fell open at my touch. No one was in the room; but close to the window, on the floor, I saw a bunch of crimson roses, wet with rain.

"Bridges!" I said to myself, with a smile.

For a moment I hesitated outside the door: yet rather than go away and miss the girl when she arrived (I imagined that she had run up to the roof), or lurk in the corridor to be stared at by passing servants, I decided to walk into the room and wait. Probably, I thought, this was what Helen had meant, in leaving the door ajar.

If the door of the next room had opened at that instant, and Maida had looked out, the history of the wretched weeks which followed might have been different for us both. But the door remained closed, and no instinct told me who was behind it. No one saw me walk into Helen Hartland's room; and therefore no one could tell at what hour I had entered.

I did not look out of the window, or I should have seen the fallen aeroplane which must still have been on the ground. I left the flowers—red as their giver's blood—lying on the floor for Helen to find when she came: but minutes passed and Helen did not come.

I sat down in a chair drawn up by the table and glanced at a couple of books. Both had been lent by me at Helen's request, and had my name on the flyleaf. I laid them down again impatiently on the gaudy cotton tablecloth; and took out my watch. Ten minutes after five! ... Soon it was the quarter past. I was resolving impatiently to scrawl a line on a visiting-card, and go, when I heard a slight noise, as if someone in the adjoining room were unlocking a door. I knew from Helen's description that there were two doors, with a distance of at least twelve inches between.

"Can she be using that other room, too?" I wondered: when suddenly there rang out a scream of horror, in a woman's voice. It seemed to me that it was like Maida's, though that must be a mere obsession! but I sprang to my feet, dragging off the tablecloth and bringing down on the floor books, papers, and a vase of flowers. My chair fell over also: and all this confusion in the room was afterwards used against me.

I rushed to the door leading out to the corridor—which I had closed on entering—and found a swarm of people, guests and waiters, already pouring down the service stairs from the roof-garden just above. Everyone saw me come out of Helen Hartland's room: but even if they had not seen, there was my hat with my initials in it, on the floor with the rest of the fallen things, to testify to my late presence.

As we crowded the narrow corridor, the door of the "best room" whence the scream had come, was flung wide open, and to my amazement, Maida Odell—in her grey costume of the Sisterhood—rushed out pale as a dead girl.

"Murder! A woman murdered!" she whispered rather than cried, as one strives voicelessly to shriek in a dream. Just then she saw me, and held out both hands as if for help. I pushed past everyone else and got to her: but others surged forward and she and I gave way before the crowd. A dozen men at least must have jostled into the room after us; but at the instant I hardly knew that they were there. I saw a big woman in grey drawing a veil closely round her face as she rose from a cushioned lounge: and I saw lying on the floor the body of Helen Hartland with a thin stiletto sticking in her breast—a stiletto I had lent her to use as a paper knife. I recognised it instantly in redoubled horror, though not thinking then of consequences for myself.

By this time a policeman—one of those always present on the aviation grounds—forced his way through the crowd massed in the corridor. He got rid in summary fashion of everyone, except the two ladies, occupants of the room, myself (because I seemed to know and have some business with them) and the landlord. Another policeman who followed close on his heels, guarded the doors of the adjoining rooms, and doubtless a third busied himself in sending off frantic telephone calls.

Helen Hartland lay on her back on the pale grey carpet stained with her blood; and Maida told tremulously how the tragedy had been discovered. The Head Sister, feeling ill, had lain down on a sofa not far from the door of communication between this room and the next. She had fancied a noise on the other side, and asked Maida to try if the door were fastened. Strangely, it was not (though Edson cut in to protest that it, and all other communicating doors were invariably locked). The door had opened as the handle turned, and to the girl's horror the figure of a dead woman—standing squeezed in between the two doors—had fallen into the room.

Hardly had the faltering explanation reached this point when a doctor arrived—the man who had been in the hotel, attending Charlie Bridges. He examined the body, pronounced that life had not been extinct for half an hour, and thought from the position of the weapon, that death had been caused by another hand than Helen's own.

There was, of course, no difficulty in identifying the girl, for the landlord and I were both on the spot retained to give evidence. It soon came out that Helen Hartland had told Mrs. Edson she expected a visit from Lord John Hasle, and I without hesitation admitted making it. The Head Sister chimed in, saying that she and her friend had come for the express purpose of seeing Miss Hartland and persuading her to leave "her unsuitable position." The adjoining room was entered, for it was found that the second of the double doors was unlocked. The confusion was remarked, and silence was maintained when I told how in jumping up at the sound of the scream I had thrown down a chair and pulled off a tablecloth.

The books with my name written in them were handled by the policeman who had taken charge, and by his superior who soon arrived on the scene. Letters of mine—albeit innocent ones—were unearthed. A few drops of blood were discovered on the strawberry-coloured carpet between the table and the door, as well as between the double doors, in the narrow space into which the body had been thrust. Worse than all, my monogram was seen to adorn the stiletto paper-knife; and later (when I had been rather reluctantly arrested on suspicion) the last letter Helen had written turned up in my pocket. I had slipped it in and forgotten about it; but with so many damaging pieces of evidence that capped the climax. The girl accused me in so many words of wishing to get her out of the way, to send her back to England.

It seemed like a nightmare, and a stupid nightmare: one of those nightmares when you know you are awake yet cannot rouse yourself: I, John Hasle, brother and heir to the Marquis of Haslemere, lay under strong suspicion of having murdered a pretty little third-rate actress who had become troublesome to my "lordship"—Helen Hartland.

Everything was against me, nothing apparently for me: yet I was almost insolently sure that my innocence would prove itself, until the lawyer my friends engaged in my defence showed me how seriously he took the matter.

"You're in a bad fix," he said, "unless we can find someone to prove that you weren't in that room long enough to have killed the girl and hidden her between the doors. You see, that would have been a smart dodge on the murderer's part, putting her there. If the next room hadn't happened to be occupied (it seldom is, the landlady says) the man who did the trick would have had plenty of time to get away before the crime was found out. It was an accident that there were ladies on the other side to open the door of their room and see what was behind it. Your letters, your books, your stiletto——"

"It seems to me the stiletto is a proof of my innocence, not of my guilt," I ventured. "If I'd wanted to kill the girl, I wouldn't have done it in a way to incriminate myself, would I?"

"Hobson's choice," said the famous James Jeckelman, shrugging his shoulders. "You might have been in a rage and a hurry and had to take what there was at hand. You couldn't have shot her, because of the noise. It was a stab or nothing. No. If we're to save you, we must get hold of someone who saw."

That was easy to say, but not to do. Not a soul came forward to state that I had opened Helen Hartland's door at precisely five o'clock, to find the room empty; and that at a quarter past five the girl's body had fallen into the room next door. Even if there had been such evidence in my favour, it could not have freed me from suspicion. There might have been time to murder the girl, and hide her between the doors in less than fifteen minutes. But it was strange that she had not screamed.

Circumstantial evidence piled up: and the most hateful part for me was that Maida, as well as the directress of the Grey Sisterhood, should be called as a witness. I writhed at the thought that Maida was involved in the case, a case concerning the murder of a woman supposed to have loved me "not wisely but too well."

At first I thought only of this distressing phase of the business: but it wasn't long before I began to realise that Jeckelman had not exaggerated. My "position" was not to be allowed to tell in my favour, and socialists were hot in anger against the British "lord" who thought he could break any commandment he chose in America.

If only I had been sure how Maida felt, there might have been a rift in the dark sky. Could it be that her loyalty had stood this greatest test, or had the evidence and the Head Sister's hatred done their work? I could not tell, and day after day I saw more clearly that I might go to my death without knowing.

The coroner's inquest had found against me: and the trial was coming on when one day Charlie Bridges suddenly woke to consciousness. For weeks he had lain between life and death. The concussion from which he suffered was so severe that for a time he had been a mere log. His soul seemed to have gone out of him. Delirium followed this state. Then he fell into a long, sound sleep, and waking, his first words were: "What's happened since I fell? Have they got the man who made Helen Hartland kill herself?"

The nurse who heard these questions thought that delirium had seized her patient again: but the doctor, coming in at that moment, understood that Bridges was in a normal state of mind. He realised that every word the sick man said might mean life or death for me. Cautiously he answered the question by another, speaking quietly, not to startle his patient. "Did Helen Hartland kill herself? Weeks have passed since you've been laid up, and the case was supposed to be murder."

"It was the same as murder," Bridges answered wearily. "Nearly everyone who knew us, knew I used to fly past her window and fling in a bunch of flowers. It was one of my stunts. I could always see what Helen was doing if she was in: and there was generally time for a smile. A smile's a thing quickly done. And that was the reward I got. This last time I saw a man standing over her in a strange way with his hand on her forehead, for all the world as if he was hypnotising her: a big tall man I'd never seen before. I was so surprised that I turned and flew back. The fellow must have seen my flowers fall into the room with my first go; but the second time I swooped past, Helen was stabbing herself with a kind of stiletto. That was all I saw. I went queer and sick, and felt that I'd lost control. My one thought was to get out and save her. I believe I must have tried to jump. That's the last thing I remember."

When he had finished, he fell back exhausted, and had to be revived. But there wasn't much time to waste. Knowing the immense importance of the statement, Doctor Graves got Bridges to repeat it as soon as he was able. As the words left his lips they were taken down, and then signed by him. Later he swore that the man he had seen with Helen was not Lord John Hasle.

"If it had been, I'd have let him go to the chair, even if he didn't kill her with his own hands. I'd not have opened my mouth to help him," Bridges said. "I hated the fellow because Helen liked him better than me. But I must say he didn't seem to encourage her much. Anyhow I can't keep still and let an innocent man die."

When asked if he could identify the hypnotist. Bridges was not sure. All he could say "for certain," he persisted, was that "John Hasle was younger and slighter and altogether a different type: there was no chance of a mistake."

I was saved—saved by my rival, poor Charlie Bridges, the last man on earth to whom I should have looked for help. But then, his help didn't precisely come from the earth: it came from the air.

I had been a fool, and I felt unworthy of the traditions I had made for myself, not to have suspected in what manner the crime had been committed. Of course I had thought of Doctor Rameses. I thought always of Doctor Rameses! But I had not seen any way of connecting him with the murder of Helen Hartland, even if he were the man to whom she had gone for lessons in "will power." Now, I saw the way, and I believed that at last the police would see also. Indeed, they were ready to see. When Rameses' name as one of the leading "crank doctors" of New York was earnestly brought forward by me, it was arranged that Bridges was to be given a sight of him. Unfortunately, however, on the day when the California Birdman first woke from his long trance, and it was prematurely announced in the papers that his delirium might be followed by a return of normal consciousness, Doctor Rameses left town for a holiday. His servants said that he had been suffering from nervous strain through hard work, and had been preparing for some time to take a rest. His favourite summer country resort was, it appeared, the White Mountains. He was sought there, but not found. And I believed that he never would be found—unless by me.

My only happy souvenir of these miserable weeks was a letter from Maida, which I shall keep as long as I live.

"I knew from the first that you were innocent," she wrote, "and if I had been called I intended to say so in the witness-box."

EPISODE VII

THE WATCHING EYE

"What shall I do?" I asked myself as I read a letter from Maida.

She begged a small and simple service, yet—I hesitated.

Roger Odell had begged me to look after her as well as I could in the circumstances, during his long absence. Those circumstances were difficult ones: for I was not allowed to visit her at the Sisterhood House, and she never went out unchaperoned by her "friend" the directress. Her wish was that I should give her the key of her "sanctum" at Roger Odell's shut-up house in New York. A caretaker named Winter, one of the old servants, was in charge of the place; but I had been appointed special guardian of the "shrine," as Maida called this sacred room.

"Shrine" was indeed rather an appropriate name; since it contained treasures which formed the sole link between the girl and her lost past. She had been brought, a child of four, by her dying mother to the father of Roger Odell, and her sole possessions had been a couple of miniatures, a curious Egyptian fetish, and an Egyptian mummy in a fine, painted mummy-case. The miniatures had been enlarged into life-size portraits of Maida's mother and a man in the uniform of a British officer, whom she believed to be her father. Both portraits hung on the wall of the "shrine," together with one of Roger Odell, Senior. These, with the mummy-case, were the sole contents of the room.

Roger and I had cause to think that enemies of Maida's unknown father had followed the child and her mother to America: and that the vendetta would not end until Maida—the last of the family—had paid with her happiness or even with her life for the sin of some ancestor. We had cause to think also, that the mummy in its painted case was of importance to them, and that they had tried in various ways to get hold of it. For its protection, Roger had had a clever electrical contrivance fitted up, by means of which anyone not in the secret and trying to touch the mummy-case would receive a violent shock. Before going away he had given me the plan of this mechanism, with directions for applying the current and turning it off. At the same time he had handed me the key of the shrine which Maida had left with him on departing for Long Island.

Now, she wanted this key.

"I went yesterday to my dear old home," she wrote, "to visit my treasures. But the shrine was locked; and Winter told me that Roger had given you the key. He said also that there was some kind of patent burglar alarm which had frightened a couple of thieves away, since I came to stay at Sisterhood House. Is that true? And is there danger in opening the door? I know I can depend upon you, when you send the key, to make it safe for me to go in. I'll post the key to you afterwards, if you like—and if Roger wants you still to be troubled with it. Please arrange for me to pay my visit to-morrow."

It seemed that there was only one way to answer this letter: by saying that I would arrange for the safety of the visit; and enclosing the key in my note. Nevertheless I hesitated. I was afraid to send Maida the key.

It was useless to explain to her the reasons for my seeming boorishness. She trusted the Head Sister. Nothing that had happened since she entered the Grey Sisterhood had opened the girl's eyes to the cruel falseness of the woman, as I saw it. Nothing, not even the affair of Helen Hartland, had made her believe that the friend she respected was one of the agents working for her destruction and my elimination. So I knew that if I refused the key I would seem a stupid blunderer to Maida.