Читать книгу The Hangman's Knot - Arthur Gask - Страница 4

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ONE Sunday afternoon towards the end of September, about three months after the events recorded in the last chapter, two men were seated in the crowded winter-garden of the Hotel Metropole at Brighton. One of them was a journalist, attached to the London 'Daily Cry,' and the other, a rubber planter, home on holiday from the Federated Malay States. The latter was reading a Sunday newspaper, and presently he threw it down.

"Well, really," he remarked carelessly, "this dear old England of ours does not seem the law-abiding place it used to be, and certainly its police are not nearly as efficient as in days gone by." His voice rose a little. "Why, here have I been home not a couple of months until next week, and yet I can recall at least four unsolved murders, and also a mysterious disappearance that looks darned like foul-play, too." He held out the newspaper to his companion. "And here's another outrage, I see, reported this morning, some one shooting at Lord Cornwall's car yesterday at Barnstead, and a bullet going through the window. What the devil was that done for, I wonder?"

The journalist declined the proferred paper. "I've already seen it, old man," he said. "It's interesting, but was possibly only an accident. Some one rabbiting, perhaps, on the common as the car went by, and maybe he didn't know what he had done."

"And when that clergyman was shot at Surbiton," remarked the planter sarcastically, "I suppose that was an accident, too! And when the old judge was killed at Eastbourne, and Lord Burkington at Harrogate—both accidents again!"

The journalist shook his head. "No, cold-blooded murders there," he said instantly, "and very mysterious, too." He shrugged his shoulders. "Still, among 50 million persons mysterious things are always happening, although, naturally, we don't always hear about them."

"But has it struck you, Travers," went on the planter, "that most of these johnnies who have struck trouble lately were at one time or other prominent in the particular circles in which they moved."

The journalist laughed. "Of course it has," he replied, "and that is why we remember about them. If Bill Bloggs had been killed in Whitechapel or Sam Stuckey at Mile End, matters might have been dismissed in two paragraphs and forgotten in two days, but the more prominent the person, naturally the more interested the public are when anything happens to him,"—he made a grimace—"and we newspaper men have to provide what they want. We cater for those interests."

"Well, your police must be pretty rotten, anyhow," said the planter, "to have made no discoveries at all."

The journalist laughed again. "And how do you know they haven't made any discoveries?" he asked. He nodded. "You be here another month, my friend, and then note how many of those mysteries are in the way of being cleared up."

A SHORT silence followed, and the two friends interested themselves in regarding the company around them. It was the usual Sunday afternoon crowd of well-dressed men and beautifully-gowned women. People well known in society, business and professional men, people known in the art and literary worlds, owners of racehorses and sporting men, and a sprinkling of politicians.

"Well, and what do you think of them?" asked the journalist presently, turning back to his companion. "Notice any difference in the ten years you've been away?"

"No-o," replied the rubber planter hesitatingly, "except that there are more women smoking now, and the sweet creatures are more made-up than ever." He nodded appreciatively. "There are some lovely women here."

"Yes, lovely," agreed the journalist readily. He lowered his voice quickly. "Now, that girl opposite you is a perfect poem isn't she? Did you ever see more glorious eyes or a more beautiful profile? She's Lady Beeming, and that's her husband, not her grandfather sitting next to her. She's 20 and he's 65, and you'd swear from her appearance that the blood of a long line of noble ancestors ran through her veins." He smiled drily. "But you'd be quite mistaken, for her parents were little green-grocers in Hoxton, and three years ago, before she went into the chorus at Sadler's Wells she was assisting in the shop and——" he broke off suddenly and nodded in the direction of a tall, gaunt man, who had just passed their table, "But look! There's a party who is just as hideous as she is lovely!"

"Who is he?" asked the planter. "He looks a near relation of Satan to me."

"Sir Charles Carrion," whispered the journalist, "and once one of the world's greatest surgeons. Crowned heads were among his patients, and in abdominal surgery he was the mightiest wielder of the knife. But his success was a cup of poison to him and some years ago, he had a nervous breakdown, and dropped out of things altogether. He looks a corpse now, but, funnily enough, he's returned into society lately, and I'm always running up against him in my work. Ascot, Goodwood, Cowes—you see him everywhere."

"Go on," said his friend. "Tell me about some of the other people here. I don't mind a few lies as long as they are interesting."

The journalist pretended to look very angry. "Now, I've a darned good mind not to say another word, but as you shall now pay for this show, and I'm going to have another brandy, I'll overlook it this time." He looked round the spacious winter-garden. "Now, let me see. Whom else do I know? Ah! there's somebody interesting, if you like, that rather pretty looking man, sitting at that table alone, and appearing so bored. Now what would you make of him?"

His friend looked in the direction indicated. "An artist," he replied after a moment. "Good-looking himself, and certainly a lover of the beautiful."

"Exactly," nodded the journalist, "and a purloiner of it, too." He spoke impressively. "That man, my friend, hails from Paris, and until recently was supposed to be one of the most active and expert thieves in France—Raphael Croupin. Haven't you heard of him?"

The planter shook his head. "A gaol bird!" he frowned. "Well, he doesn't look like one. What's he doing here?"

"Oh! he's quite respectable and a rich man now," the other laughed. "One of his admirers, a wealthy old countess, died at the beginning of this year and left him a huge fortune, but before that, as I say, it was believed everywhere that he was a burglar—if a burglar of a very uncommon kind. He only took paintings of the old masters, old tapestries, historic jewels, and art treasures of great value. It was believed to be well-known to the authorities what he was doing, but they were never able to bring the robberies home to him. He has been up for trial three times and acquitted upon each occasion, because of water-tight alibies that could not be broken down. It was the joke of all France, and he was really a most popular character, for he only stole from the very rich and disbursed large sums in charity to the hospitals and among the very poor."

The planter looked very amused. "Continue, my dear Travers," he said smilingly. "You are most entertaining. Any more celebrities here?"

His friend looked round. "Yes," he said, "there's a Cabinet Minister over there, Lord Ransome, that rather stout man, threading his way through the tables. He's the Home Secretary, and that's his daughter with him. Oh! oh!"—he exclaimed, becoming all at once quite animated—"now, there's some romance for you. See the people he's sitting down with? Well, they are Gilbert Larose, and his wife, who was once the wealthy widow, Lady Ardane." He gripped his companion by the arm. "Two years ago, Travers, that man was just an ordinary policeman, a detective who used to be sent anywhere and everywhere by Scotland Yard, and now, to-day, he's married to one of the richest women in the kingdom, and lives almost in royal state at Carmel Abbey in Norfolk."

"I've heard of him," said the planter, very interested. "He was the star detective of Australia." He drew in a deep breath. "Gad! his wife's beautiful! I always did admire red hair. What a lovely creature!"

"Yes, and there were scores of people who wanted her," added the journalist, "and would have taken her without a penny piece, because of the beauty of that red head. She might have married into the peerage any day." He sighed. "Larose is a lucky fellow."

"But how did he manage it?" asked his friend.

"Merit, my boy, just merit," was the instant reply, "and he deserves everything he's got, for he won her in the old-fashioned way, by saving her from her enemies. She was kidnapped and he rescued her at the risk of his own life, which, however, was nothing to him, for in his career he's been in more dangers than anyone can conceive." He sighed again. "Yes, it was a real love-match and they worship each other and the red-haired little daughter that's come."

"And good luck to him!" said the planter. "He looks a gentleman and a man of fine character." He screwed up his eyes. "But how did people take it? What did society say?"

"Society!" laughed the journalist. "Well, Society was aghast!" His voice hardened. "But if anyone thought they were going to put one over Gilbert Larose, they were very much mistaken, for he just dropped into his place as if he'd been born to it. A strong character, nice manners, and a charming personality, he won over everybody at once, and to-day, at any public function in Norfolk, he's the biggest 'draw' you can get. Next to Royalty, he's the most popular attraction at any show, and his wife's immensely proud of him."

"A policeman once," commented the planter after a moment's silence, "and now that old aristocrat is smiling at him, almost as if he had a boon to crave."

And had he only known it, the planter from Malay was quite right then, for although Lord Ransome had entered the winter-garden with no idea of meeting Gilbert Larose, the instant he had caught sight of him and his wife, he had immediately stopped, of set purpose, and with a gallant bow to Mrs. Larose, had held out his hand to her.

"And may we join you?" he asked, and at once receiving permission, he went on smilingly. "I see you are just as charming as ever, Mrs. Larose, and you don't look a day older than when I fell in love with your portrait in the academy—let me see, it must be six or seven years ago."

Mrs. Larose shook her head reprovingly. "Now, that's not nice of you, Lord Ransome," she laughed, "to remind me all that time has passed. You don't seem to realise that I am now fighting the years."

"No, I certainly do not," laughed back his lordship, "for there are no signs of warfare about you." He bowed again. "I am sure I can congratulate your distinguished husband upon the care he is taking of you." He turned to Larose. "Ah! that reminds me, sir, I've heard you're a most outstanding success upon the Bench. My friend, the Chief Constable of Norfolk, informs me that offenders are delighted to be brought up before you,"—he made a grimace—"for you either pay their fines yourself or let them off altogether."

"Oh! no," laughed Larose, "it's not quite as bad as that, Lord Ransome. Certainly, I always——"

"But he's not complaining," broke in his lordship quickly. "On the contrary, for he says you are exerting a most splendid influence, and it has become almost a point of honour with the offenders not to be brought up again. For instance, I understand that there is no poaching at all now within many miles of Carmel Abbey."

"But my husband bribes them," smiled Mrs. Larose. "He gives them all a day's shooting every now and then, and makes me send out lunch, too," she shook her head. "He's breaking all traditions and I can't do anything with him."

They chatted animatedly together for a few minutes, Mrs. Larose telling of the delightful holiday she and her husband had been having for nearly three months in Switzerland, and how they had arrived only the previous day at Newhaven and were proceeding home on the morrow to Carmel Abbey. Then Lord Ransome turned to Larose and remarked carelessly, "Well, it's rather fortunate I met you here this afternoon, for I've been wanting for some time to have a little talk with you about your greyhounds. I have thought of entering one of mine for the Waterloo Cup, and should be most grateful to you for some advice." He made an almost imperceptible movement with his eyebrows. "Now, what about coming up to my room for a few minutes? I am sure the ladies will excuse us."

Larose regarded the great man curiously. He had only met him once before, and was sure, upon such a slight acquaintanceship, the Home Secretary would not now be inviting him to a private talk unless for some particular purpose quite unconnected with dogs. He had noted the expressive movement of the eyebrows, however, and so at once, falling in with the suggestion, rose from his chair and proceeded to accompany his lordship from the winter garden.

THEY ascended a few floors in the lift, and then, in a cosy little private sitting room, Lord Ransome motioned him to an armchair. His lordship had become all at once a very different man to the genial and bowing courtier of the winter garden. His bearing now was one of authority, and his features set in stern and uncompromising lines he looked the outstanding personality in politics that he was. He opened the conversation at once.

"Mr. Larose," he said solemnly, "it was Fate or Providence that took me into the winter garden just now, for you have been a lot in my mind during the last twenty-four hours, and, indeed, I was intending, in any case, to get in touch with you tomorrow." He eyed him intently. "Now, did your ears burn last night? No! Well, they ought to have done, for quite a number of people were talking about you,"—he spoke impressively—"and in not unexalted circles either." He waited a moment to let the information soak in, and then rapped out—

"You're wanted back in Scotland Yard, my friend. That's the trouble. You've got to get back into harness again."

Larose looked very astonished and sat bolt upright in his chair. He had certainly been expecting some confidence, but not a request of that nature and, for the moment, it quite took his breath away.

Lord Ransome glanced quickly at his watch and went on. "Now, we can only stay here about twenty minutes, for it'll be unwise to absent ourselves longer. Heaven only knows who's in that winter garden, and I don't want to see any tittle-tattle in the newspapers to-morrow, that the Secretary of State for Home Affairs and Mr. Gilbert Larose were closetted together for two hours. No, there must be none of that, for happenings are occurring that must be dealt with in the utmost secrecy." He hooded his eyes under his shaggy brows. "Then you don't guess why you are wanted back?"

Larose shook his head. "I am out of touch altogether with things over here," he replied. "We have been tucked away for nearly three months in the heart of the Bernese Oberland and have heard very little news."

"But haven't you read in the Swiss newspapers," asked Lord Ransome incredulously, "what's been happening over here?"

"What do you mean?" asked Larose quickly. "You see, sir, we didn't often get newspapers where we were, and when they did come they gave very little English news. What is it, you say, has happened?"

"Then you didn't hear," asked his lordship, "that Sir John Lorraine had been murdered?"

"The judge!" exclaimed Larose. "Oh! yes, I heard of that and also that Lord Burkington had been shot."

Lord Ransome looked scornful. "Those are only two of our problems," he said sharply. "We heard many others." He rose abruptly from his chair and going over to a suitcase, unlocked it, and after a few moments' search abstracted a sheet of paper from among others in a bulky packet. "See, here, Mr. Larose," he said, shaking his head angrily. "To put it bluntly—six persons have been murdered in the last ten weeks, and in not one single instance have the local police or Scotland Yard been able to lay hands upon the murderers, also——"

"Six!" broke in Larose. "All in the same neighbourhood!"

"No," was the testy reply, "all over the country, also, as I was about to add when you interrupted, it is by chance, only, that wholesale destruction has not followed upon further outrages of a most terrible nature." He lowered his voice very solemnly. "But the sinister aspect of the whole thing is—we know now we are facing what is undoubtedly the unfinished series of these dreadful crimes, for within the last few days it has come to our knowledge in a most strange and startling manner that these widely-scattered outrages may not be considered as isolated happenings, but are the work of a gang of individuals who for some mad reason are declaring war upon the community."

The heart of Larose gave a great bound. He was like an old war-horse who hears the rumbling of the guns.

Lord Ransome nodded angrily. "Yes, and it is childish for some very superior persons to insist that the idea is far-fetched that such a gang can exist." His eyes glared. "Why, in every country of the world there are people who think they have been badly treated and who would inflict any injury they could upon their fellow men if they got the chance. So it has only to happen that a number of such wretches become acquainted and learn the bent of one another's minds for them to pool their common hatreds to obtain revenge."

He laid the paper upon the table and, beckoning to Larose to come nearer, pointed with one long and white forefinger.

"Here is the complete list," he said, "up to Thursday last, as tabulated for me by the Chief Commissioner of Police. Look, number one—the Honourable Sir John Lorraine, of Merton Court, Eastbourne. Age 74. Murdered on July 25th last. Bludgeoned in broad daylight in a lane, close near his home. Number two—Archdeacon Lendon, of Canterbury. Age 63. Shot, when sitting on the lawn of Mrs. Fox-Drummond's house at Surbiton. Number three—Lord Burkington, of The Hall, Harrogate. Age 65. Shot through the broken window of his own dining-room on August 25th. Number four—Dr. Bellew of Great Leighs, Essex. Age 65. Stabbed to death in his garden with a knife wound through his heart!"

He went on. "Number five—Anthony Clutterbuck, of York Terrace, Regents Park and Chancery Lane. The well-known solicitor. Age 62. Last seen upon the seawall of Canvey Island on the afternoon of September 12th, but his broken and bloodied spectacles and a bloodied glove, picked up later in one of the adjoining fields, point most unmistakably to foul play and that his body was thrown into the sea. Number six—Mr. Samuel Wiggins, of Leigh-on-Sea. Age 62. A retired tea-broker. Stabbed to death on the Esplanade there on the night of September 13th."

He tapped the paper with his finger. "Those are their successes, Mr. Larose," he said grimly, "and their failures—an attack upon Lord Cornwall yesterday, when two bullets, not one, as reported, struck his car—a large bomb that did not go off in St. Paul's Cathedral, and an abortive attempt to throw some twenty-odd pounds of arsenic into the Kingston Reservoir." He nodded. "But I am giving you inside information now, and neither of these two last happenings has been reported in the Press."

"Good Heavens!" exclaimed Larose, his eyes glued to the paper, "what a dreadful list!" He looked up quickly and asked, "but what happened to the bomb?"

"The clockwork arrangement stopped," replied Lord Ransome. "The bomb was brought into the cathedral on the Saturday afternoon, three weeks ago, and left under one of the seats. It was flat in shape, with its covering of canvas painted to exactly harmonise with the stone floor. The hand of the clock was set to go off at half-past eleven on the Sunday morning." He drew in a deep breath. "Oh! it was damnable! It would have exploded in the middle of Divine Service."

"And that attempt to poison the reservoir?" asked Larose.

"Was foiled by the merest chance," was the reply, "and it came about like this. An old clergyman living close near the reservoir had lost his parrot, and as he had offered a reward for its recovery all the boys in the neighbourhood were on the look out for it, and two of them about nine o'clock at night on the Saturday of the week before last climbed over the high fence surrounding the reservoir on the chance of finding the bird inside. Imagine then their surprise when, upon flashing a torch, they saw a man there at the edge of the water, just in the act of untying a small sack. The man dropped the sack and bolted instantly upon seeing their light, and if he had not done so the boys would undoubtedly have bolted themselves, for they took him to be the watchman of the reservoir. Hearing him, however, scrambling over the fence, they realised that he was only a trespasser like themselves, and, of course, ran up to see what the sack contained."

Larose listened to the story of the attempt to poison the reservoir and how the man had fled. "But," he asked, "didn't the man see that his interrupters were only boys?"

"No," replied Lord Ransome. "It was pitch dark and all the man knew was that a light was being flashed upon him." He went on. "Well, the boys could make nothing of the white powder in the sack, and leaving it where it was they climbed back"—he smiled here—"to jump almost into the arms of a policeman who happened to be passing at the moment. Then, frightened as to what might be the consequences of their trespassing, they told the policeman exactly what they had seen. The latter was an alert and intelligent officer, and, taking the boys with him he aroused the watchman, and their story being investigated, it was speedily realised what an awful calamity had been so narrowly averted."

"Nothing more heard of the man, of course?" asked Larose.

"Nothing," replied his lordship, "he had just disappeared, and, as in all the other cases, not the faintest clue as to his identity had been left behind." He raised his hand solemnly. "Now comes a most extraordinary disclosure, and my story harks back to a certain Sunday morning, June 29th to be exact at the Gibbett Inn, a little hostelry on the Ashbourne Forest Road, midway between Hartfield and Maresfield, in Sussex."

He leant back in his chair and now from the expression upon his face it seemed that for the moment the anxieties of the statesman were forgotten in the pleasure of the raconteur who had a good story to tell.

He went on. "Well, it appears that this Gibbett Inn caters for quite a number of lunching parties on Sundays, and on that particular morning, just prior to the time when the customers were due to arrive, the eldest child of the inn-keeper, a young girl, was impertinent to her mother, and in consequence her father was summoned to administer chastisement. The girl, however, to escape the promised punishment, hid herself away, and chose for her hiding place an old fashioned ottoman in the large dining-room, where all the meals of the visitors are served."

He paused for a moment to enjoy the frowning and puzzled expression upon the face of Larose. For the life of him the latter could not surmise what he was going to be told next. Lord Ransome continued—

"The girl says she must have at once then fallen asleep. Next her story runs that she woke up and overheard parts of the conversation of four men, and this conversation, she avers, was all about certain people who were going to be punished. They were to be shot, or violence of some other kind was to be done to them." He nodded. "Mind you, she explains she couldn't hear everything that was said, and only scraps of the conversation reached her. Also, she couldn't see who was speaking, either, and——"

"How then does she know there were four men?" asked Larose sharply.

"Because of the voices," replied Lord Ransome, "and also, because through a crack in the side of the ottoman, she had a view of the greater part of the room and could only see four pairs of legs. The men, too, were close near her, but the sound of their voices was muffled, because, of course, the lid of the ottoman was shut down."

"How did she breathe?" asked Larose, as if determined to verify the story as it went along.

"There was no side to the ottoman, where it touched the wall," replied Lord Ransome. He nodded. "You can rest assured the girl's tale has been tested in every way. Well, as she heard the men talking, she distinctly caught the names of two persons they were speaking about, Lord Burkington's and Anthony Clutterbuck's, also she heard them mention various public buildings, including St. Paul's' Cathedral and the British Museum, and she says one of the men had a low laugh, like that of a madman on the talkies."

"And when did you learn all this?" asked Larose.

"Only last week," replied Lord Ransome, "in a communication from the police constable at Maresfield, which communication, indeed, he could have given us nearly two months ago." He shrugged his shoulders. "Of course, it is easy to blame the man now, but I really don't see that there was any neglect of duty, for he heard the girl's story weeks after the event had happened, and then only in such a casual sort of way that he attached no importance to it. You see, she ran away from her home that Sunday afternoon without saying anything, and it was ten days before her parents discovered she was staying with an old school friend at Eastbourne. Then, when she was brought back, she sulked for several days, and in consequence, it was quite three weeks after she had heard the conversation before she told her father about it, and later, he came to mention it casually across the bar-counter to the village policeman.

"And what did the policeman do then?" asked Larose.

"Nothing," replied Lord Ransome. "The girl was out upon her bicycle at the time he came into the bar, and he didn't think it worth while to wait until she came in and question her. In fact, he says frankly, he didn't believe the story, and thought it all an invention upon her part, but"—his lordship nodded impressively—"he happened to remember the two names and when first Lord Burkington was murdered, and later this man, Clutterbuck, the story came back to him in a flash, and he went post-haste up to the inn to interview the girl and make inquiries."

"And of course," commented Larose quickly, "after all that lapse of time, no description was forthcoming of any of the four men?"

"None whatever," replied Lord Ransome, "for the officers who were of course, immediately sent down to The Gibbett Inn, reported that the waitresses were women of no memory or intelligence, although the little girl was as sharp as a needle." He shrugged his shoulders. "But she could add nothing to what she had already told her father and the police constable. She had heard the voices and seen the four pairs of legs—and that was all."

"Hum!" remarked Larose thoughtfully. "A funny place to choose for hatching a conspiracy, the public dining-room of a way-side inn!" He nodded. "Still, if the girl's story can be depended upon——"

"And it can be depended upon," broke in Lord Ransome emphatically. He threw out his hands. "How else could she have picked up the two names—weeks before anything happened to their owners."

A long silence followed, and then Larose nodded grimly, "All right sir," he said. "I'll take it on." His eyes gleamed. "But I want a free hand, and to be allowed to go about it in my own way!"

Lord Ransome looked very pleased, and nodded emphatically. "Certainly," he replied, "and whatsoever eventuates we shall be very much beholden to you." He shook his head. "Of course, I realise that the question of remuneration will not enter into the matter at all, and your sole reward will be that of the hunter in the chase." He rose up from his chair. "But, really, it's a pleasure to do business with a gentleman who makes up his mind so quickly. Well, you'll report to Scotland Yard——"

"On Thursday," said Larose. "You must give me until then."

"Good!" said Lord Ransome, "and now we'll go back to that winter garden." He moved to the door, and then paused, with his hand upon the handle. "But, think," he went on impressively, "of the service you will be rendering to the country if you uncover this gang of madmen, for started now upon their course of revenge we never know from hour to hour what new outrage is not going to be reported." He shook his head. "But I'm afraid the Yard won't have much information to give you, for there were no clues that they could find to pick up, and no trails that they could see to follow. The murders were all committed with dreadful suddenness, and there were no eye-witnesses about to relate what happened. Just the whine of the bullet, the stab with the knife, or the crash with the bludgeon, and the miscreants disappeared as mysteriously and silently as they had come." He bowed smilingly, "Surely an ideal task for the incomparable Gilbert Larose!"

Some three minutes later Lord Ransome returned to where his daughter and Mrs. Larose were sitting in the winter garden. "But where is my husband?" asked the latter at once. "What have you done with him?"

"Oh! he's just stopped to speak to a gentleman in the lounge," replied Lord Ransome, "and from the warmth of their greeting they must be old friends."

And certainly the greeting between Larose and Raphael Croupin had been a warm one, for notwithstanding the very differing natures of their former activities there was a mutual liking between them. If Croupin were a rogue, he was always a humorous one, and, apart from his rogueries, a very likeable fellow.

"And what are you doing over here, Monsieur Croupin?" asked Larose, his face becoming serious, and with just a trace of suspicion in his tones.

"Nothing," replied Croupin with a tremendous sigh, "and I am very bored." He shot a quick glance at Larose, and added slyly, "I'm quite rich now, Monsieur. I have come into money."

"Whose?" asked Larose drily.

Croupin opened his eyes widely as if he were very surprised. "Oh! it is my own," he replied instantly. "All my very own." He looked rather hurt. "No, no, Meester Larose, there is none of that now, for I am of a character quite reformed." He spoke with great earnestness. "Why! I have even given compensation when people have proved that they are poor, because—" he coughed diffidently, "of the loss of possessions I am credited with as having illegally acquired." He drew himself up proudly. "Yes, I am rich now, for I have a large estate, the gift of a dear friend who died."

"And what are you going to do, then?" asked Larose.

"I don't know," was the sad reply. He shook his head. "Life has no spice in it now, there is no adventure, no danger, and——" he shrugged his shoulders, "but it is the same with you, is it not? You are certain each to-day that nothing is going to happen each to-morrow."

"Oh! I don't know whether I am," replied Larose quickly. "I'm not so sure then." A thought seemed suddenly to strike him and he asked sharply, "Where are you staying, here in Brighton?"

"No," replied Croupin, "in London, at the Savoy. I have a suite of rooms there."

"A suite of rooms at the Savoy!" exclaimed Larose.

"Yes, Monsieur," replied Croupin modestly. "I told you I was very rich."

"Good!" said Larose. "Then I'll take lunch with you there at 1 o'clock on Thursday,"—he lowered his voice to a whisper—"and you may be able to be of service to me. Adventure, perhaps, Monsieur, for I am back in harness again." He nodded solemnly. "A bullet in your head, or a dagger in your heart—if only we can pick up a certain trail."

Croupin beamed with delight. "Bien!" he exclaimed, "but it will be a pleasure whatever happens, Meester Larose, if I am working with you." He snapped his fingers together. "I am weary of no one thirsting for my blood."