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  Crofter looked surprised, and clearly thought his friend’s remark in rather bad taste. Sir Leopold faced round abruptly, and a hard look crept into his small bright eyes.

  “Mr. Sheard,” he said harshly. “I began life as a pauper. What I have, I have worked for.”

  “You have enjoyed excellent health.”

  “I admit it.”

  “Had you, in those days of early poverty, been smitten down with sickness, of what use to you would your admittedly fine commercial capacity have been? You would then, only too gladly, have availed yourself of such an institution as the Sladen Hospital, for instance.”

  Sir Leopold started.

  “What have you to do with the Sladen Hospital?”

  “Nothing. It has accomplished great work in the past.”

  “Do you know anything of this?”

  Jesson’s manner became truculent. He pulled some papers from his pocket, and selecting a plain correspondence card, handed it to Sheard.

  The card bore no address, being headed simply: “Final appeal.” It read:

  “Your cheque toward the re-opening of the Out-Patient’s Wing of Sladen Hospital has not been forwarded.”

  Sheard failed to recognise the writing, and handed the card back, shaking his head.

  “Oh!” said Jesson suspiciously; “because I’ve had three of these anonymous applications — and they don’t come from the hospital authorities.”

  “Why not comply?” asked Sheard. “Let me announce in the Gleaner that you have generously subscribed ten thousand pounds.”

  “What!” rapped Sir Leopold. “Do you take me for a fool?” He glared angrily. “Before we go any farther, sir — is this touting business the real object of your visit?”

  The pressman flushed. His conduct, he knew well, was irreconcilable with good form; but Jesson’s tone had become grossly offensive. Something about the man repelled Sheard’s naturally generous instincts, and no shade of compunction remained. A score of times, during the past quarter of an hour, he had all but determined to throw up this unsavoury affair and to let Séverac Bablon do with him as he would. Now, he stifled all scruples and was glad that the task had been required of him. He would shirk no more, but would go through with the part allotted him in this strange comedy, lead him where it might.

  “Yes, and no!” he answered evasively. “Really I have come to ask you for something — the mahogany case which is in your smaller Etruscan urn!”

  Jesson stared; first at Sheard, and then, significantly, at Crofter.

  “I begin to suspect that you have lunched unwisely!” he sneered.

  Sheard repressed a hot retort, and Crofter, to cover the embarrassment which he felt at this seeming contretemps, hummed softly and instituted a painstaking search for the vessel referred to. He experienced little difficulty in finding it, for it was one of two huge urns standing upon ebony pedestals.

  “The smaller, you say?” he called with affected cheeriness.

  Sheard nodded. It was a crucial moment. Did the pot contain anything? If not, he had made a fool of himself. And if it did, in what way could its contents assist him in his campaign of extortion?

  The artist, standing on tiptoe, reached into the urn — and produced a mahogany case, such as is used for packing silver ware.

  “What’s that?” rapped Jesson excitedly. “I know nothing of it!”

  “You might open it, Crofter!” directed Sheard with enforced calm.

  Crofter did so — and revealed, in a nest of black velvet, a small piece of exquisite pottery.

  A passage hitherto obscure in Séverac Bablon’s letter instantly explained itself in Sheard’s mind. “I did not further weary you with a discourse upon Egyptology; moreover, I had a matter of urgency to attend to!”

  Sir Leopold Jesson took one step forward, and then, with staring eyes, and face unusually pale, turned on the journalist.

  “The Hamilton Vase! You villain!”

  “Sir Leopold!” cried Sheard with sudden asperity, “be good enough to moderate your language! If you can offer any explanation of how this vase, stolen only last night from the national collection, comes to be concealed in your house, I shall be interested to hear it!”

  Jesson looked at Crofter, who still held the case in his hands; the artist’s face expressed nothing but blank amazement. He looked at Sheard, who met his eyes calmly.

  “There is roguery here!” he said. “I don’t know if there are two of you — —”

  “Sir Leopold Jesson!” cried Crofter angrily, “you have said more than enough! Your hobby has become a mania, sir! How you obtained possession of the vase I do not know, nor do I know how my friend has traced the theft to you; least of all how this scandal is to be hushed up. But have the decency to admit facts! There is no defence, absolutely!”

  “What do you want?” said Jesson tersely. “This is a cunning trap — and I’ve fallen right into it!”

  “You have!” said Crofter grimly. “I must congratulate my friend on a very smart piece of detective work!”

  “What do you want?” repeated Jesson, moistening his dry lips.

  His quick mind had been at work since the stolen vase was discovered in his possession, and although he knew himself the victim of an amazing plot, he also recognised that rebellion was out of the question. As Crofter had said, there was no defence.

  “Suppose,” suggested Sheard, “you authorise the announcement in the Gleaner to which I have already referred? I, for my part, will undertake to return the vase to the proper authorities and to keep your name out of the matter entirely. Would you agree to keep silent, Crofter?”

  “Can you manage what you propose?”

  “I can!” answered Sheard, confidently.

  “All right!” said Crofter slowly. “It’s connivance, but in a good cause!”

  “I shall make the cheque payable to the hospital!” said Jesson, significantly.

  Sheard stared for a moment, then, as the insinuation came home to his mind: “How dare you!” he cried hotly. “Do you take us for thieves?”

  “I hardly know what to take you for,” replied the other. “Your proceedings are unique.”

  CHAPTER V

  A MYSTIC HAND

  “It amounts,” said J. J. Oppner, the lord of Wall Street, “to a panic. No man of money is safe. I ain’t boilin’ over with confidence in Scotland Yard, and I’ve got some Agency boys here in London with me.”

  “A panic, eh?” grunted Baron Hague, Teutonically. “So you vear this Bablon, eh?”

  “A bit we do,” drawled Oppner, “and then some. After that a whole lot, and we’re well scared. He held me up at my Canadian mills for a pile; but I’ve got wise to him, and if he crowds me again he’s a full-blown genius.”

  Mrs. Rohscheimer’s dinner party murmured sympathetically.

  “Of course you have heard, Baron,” said the hostess, “that in his outrage here — here, in Park Lane! — he was assisted by no fewer than thirty accomplices?”

  “Dirty aggomblices, eh? Dirty?”

  “Dirty’s the word!” growled Mr. Oppner.

  “The wonder is,” said Sir Richard Haredale, “that a rogue with so many assistants has not been betrayed.”

  To those present at the Rohscheimer board this subject, indeed, was one of quite extraordinary interest, in view of the fact that it was only a few days since the affair of the dramatic ball. Sixteen diners there were, and in order to appreciate the electric atmosphere which prevailed in the airy salon, let us survey the board. Reading from left to right, as in the case of society wedding groups, the diners were:

  Mrs. Julius Rohscheimer. Baron Hague. Miss Zoe Oppner. Sir Richard Haredale. Mrs. Maurice Hohsmann. Mr. J. J. Oppner. Mrs. Wellington Lacey. Mr. Sheard (Press). Miss Salome Hohsmann. Sir Leopold Jesson. Lady Vignoles. Mr. Julius Rohscheimer. Lady Mary Evershed. Lord Vignoles. Miss Charlotte Hohsmann. Mr. Antony Elschild.

  Representatives of capital.

  “I understand that the man holds privat
e keys to the British Museum!” cried Mrs. Hohsmann.

  “Nobody would be surprised to hear,” came the thick voice of Julius Rohscheimer, “that he’d got a private subway between his bedroom and the Bank of England!”

  Extravagant though this may appear, it would not indeed, at this time, have surprised the world at large to learn anything — however amazing in an ordinary man — respecting Séverac Bablon. The real facts of his most recent exploit were known only to a select few; but it was universal property how, at about half-past eleven one morning shortly after the theft from the British Museum, and whilst all London, together with a great part of the Empire, was discussing the incredibly mysterious robbery, a cab drove up to the main entrance of that institution, containing a District Messenger and a large box.

  The box was consigned to the trustees of the Museum, and the boy, being questioned, described the consigner as “a very old gentleman, with long, white hair.”

  It contained, carefully and scientifically packed, the Hamilton Vase and the Head of Cæsar!

  Furthermore, it contained the following note:

  “Gentlemen, —

  “I beg to return, per messenger, the Head of Cæsar and the Hamilton Vase. My reason for taking the liberty of borrowing them was that I desired to convince a wealthy friend that a rare curio is a powerful instrument for good, and that to allow of great wealth lying idle when thousands sicken and die in poverty is a misuse of a power conferred by Heaven.

  “I trust that you will forgive my having unavoidably occasioned you so much anxiety.

  “Séverac Bablon.”

  The contents of the note were made public with the appearance of the 3.30 editions; nor was there a news-sheet of them all that failed to reprint, from the Gleaner, a paragraph announcing that Sir Leopold Jesson had made the magnificent donation of £10,000 to the Sladen Hospital. But the link that bound these items together was invisible to the eyes of the world. Two persons at Rohscheimer’s table, however, were aware of all the facts; and although Sheard often glanced at Jesson, he studiously avoided meeting his eyes.

  Séverac Bablon’s activities had not failed to react upon the temperature of the Stock Exchange. Loudly it was whispered that influential and highly-placed persons were concerned with him. No capitalist felt safe. No man trusted his staff, his solicitor, his broker. It was felt that minions of Séverac Bablon were everywhere; that Séverac Bablon was omnipresent.

  “You’ve gone pretty deep into the case, Sheard,” said Rohscheimer. “What do you know about these cards he sends to people he’s goin’ to rob?”

  Sheard cleared his throat somewhat nervously. All eyes sought him.

  “The authorities have established the fact,” he replied, “that all those whom Séverac Bablon has victimised have received — due warning.”

  Sir Leopold Jesson was watching him covertly.

  “What do you mean by ‘due warning’?” he snapped.

  “They have been requested, anonymously,” Sheard explained, “to subscribe to some worthy object. When they have failed voluntarily to comply they have been compelled, forcibly, to do so!”

  Julius Rohscheimer began to turn purple. He spluttered furiously, ere gaining command of speech.

  “Is this a free country?” came in a hoarse roar. “If a man ain’t out buildin’ hospitals for beggars does he have to be held up — —”

  He caught Mrs. Rohscheimer’s glance, laden with entreaty.

  “Good Lord!” he concluded, weakly. “Isn’t it funny!”

  Baron Hague was understood to growl that he should no longer feel safe until back to Berlin he had gone.

  “I am told,” said Mr. Antony Elschild, “that a new Séverac Bablon outrage is anticipated by the authorities.”

  That loosed the flood-gates. A dozen voices were asking at once: “Have you received a card?”

  It seemed that this was a matter which had lain at the back of each mind; that each had feared to broach; that each, now, was glad to discuss. An extraordinary and ominous circumstance, then, was now brought to light.

  A note had been received by each of the capitalists present, stating that £1,000,000 was urgently needed by the British Government for the establishment of an aerial fleet. That was all. But the notes all bore a certain seal.

  “How many of us” — Julius Rohscheimer’s coarse voice rose above them all— “have got these notes?”

  A moment’s silence, wherein it became evident that five of the gentlemen present had received such communications. Mrs. Hohsmann stated that her husband had been the recipient of a note also.

  “With Hohsmann,” resumed Rohscheimer, “six of us.”

  “It appears to me,” the soft voice was Antony Elschild’s, “that no time should be lost in ascertaining how many of these notes have been sent — —”

  “Why?” asked Rohscheimer.

  “Because, from what we know of Séverac Bablon, it is evident that he intends to raise this sum, or a great part of it, for this highly patriotic purpose, amongst our particular set. One is naturally anxious to learn the amount of one’s share in the responsibility!”

  Baron Hague inquired, in stentorian but complicated English, whether he was to be expected to contribute towards the establishment of a British aerial fleet.

  “You have British interests, Baron!” said Sheard, smiling.

  “What about me?” said Mr. Oppner.

  Replied his beautiful daughter, laughing:

  “You’ve got Canadian interests, Pa!”

  So the impending outrage — for all present felt that these notes presaged an outrage — was treated lightly enough, and the question, serious though it was felt to be, might well have given place to topics less exciting, when a buzz of conversation arose at the lower end of the table.

  “Exactly the same,” came Miss Salome Hohsmann’s voice, “as the one father received!”

  She was observed to be passing something to her neighbour — Mr. Sheard. He examined it curiously, and passed it on to Mrs. Lacey. Thus, from hand to hand it performed a circuit of the table and came to Julius Rohscheimer.

  “That’s one of ’em!” He threw it down upon the cloth — a small, square correspondence card. It bore the words:

  “£1,000,000 is required by His Majesty’s Government, immediately, in order to found an aerial service commensurate with Great Britain’s urgent requirements. A fund for the purpose (under the patronage of the Marquess of Evershed and the Lord Mayor) has been opened by the Gleaner.”

  At the foot was a seal, designed in the form of two triangles crossed.

  “Whose is this?” continued Rohscheimer, and turned the card over.

  He read what was neatly type-written upon the other side, and his gross, empurpled face was seen to change, to assume a patchy greyness.

  The superscription was:

  “To Baron Hague, Sir Leopold Jesson, Messrs. Julius Rohscheimer, John Jacob Oppner, and Antony Elschild.

  “Second Notice”

  He clutched the arms of his chair, and stood up. A dead silence had fallen.

  “Where” — Rohscheimer moistened his lips— “did this come from?”

  A moment more of silence, then:

  “Sir Leopold passed it to me,” came Salome Hohsmann’s frightened voice.

  Rohscheimer stared at Jesson. Jesson turned and stared at Miss Hohsmann.

  “You are mistaken,” he replied slowly. “I have not had the card in my hand!”

  Miss Hohsmann’s fine, dark eyes grew round in wonder.

  “But, Sir Leopold!” she cried. “I took it from your hand!”

  Jesson’s face was a study in perplexity.

  “I can only say,” contributed Sheard, who sat upon the other side of the girl, “that I saw Miss Hohsmann looking at the card and I asked to be allowed to examine it. I then passed it on to Mrs. Lacey. I may add” — smiling— “that it does not emanate from the Gleaner office, and is in no way official!”

  “Mrs. Lacey passed it along
to me,” came Oppner’s parched voice.

  “But,” Sir Leopold’s incisive tones cut in upon the bewildering conversation, “Miss Hohsmann is in error in supposing that she received the card from me. I have not handled it — neither, I believe, has Lady Vignoles?” He turned to the latter.

  She shook her head.

  “No, sir,” she said transatlantically, “I saw Mr. Rohscheimer take it from Mary” (Lady Mary Evershed).

  “I mean to say, Sheila” — Lord Vignoles leant forward in his chair and looked along to his wife— “I mean to say, I had it from Miss Charlotte Hohsmann, on my left.”

  Rohscheimer’s protruding eyes looked from face to face. Wonder was written upon every one.

  “Where the — —” Mrs. Rohscheimer coughed.

  The great financier sat down. Let us conclude his sentence for him:

  Where had the ominous “second notice” come from?

  Amid a thrilling silence, the guests sought, each in his or her own fashion, for the solution to this truly amazing conundrum. The order may be seen from a glance at the foregoing list of guests. It has only to be remembered that they were seated around a large oval table and their relative positions become apparent.

  “It appears to me,” said Sir Leopold Jesson, “that the mystery has its root here. Miss Hohsmann is under the impression that I handed the card to her. I did not do so. Miss Hohsmann, as well as myself, has been victimised by this common enemy, so that” — he smiled dryly— “we cannot suspect her, and you cannot suspect me, of complicity. Was there any servant in the room at the time?”

  A brief inquiry served to show that there had been no servant on that side of the room at the time.

  “Did you pick it up from the table, dear,” cried Mrs. Hohsmann, “or actually take it from — someone’s hand?”

  Amid a tense silence the girl replied:

  “From — someone’s hand!”

  CHAPTER VI

  THE SHADOW OF SÉVERAC BABLON