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  In fact, Lady Vignoles, who was wearing the historic Lyrpa Diamond — her father’s wedding-present — was so concerned that she had entirely lost track of the general conversation, which, from the great gem, had drifted automatically into criminology.

  Zimmermann was citing the famous case of the Kimberley mail robbery in ‘83.

  “That was a big haul,” he said. “Twelve thousand pounds’ worth of rough diamonds!”

  “Fifteen!” corrected Bernard Megger, director of a world-famed mining syndicate.

  “Oh, was it fifteen?” continued Zimmermann. “No doubt you are correct. Were you in Africa in ‘83?”

  “No,” replied Megger; “I was in ‘Frisco till the autumn of ‘85, but I remember the affair. Three men were captured — one dead. The fourth — Isaac Jacobsen — got away, and with the booty!”

  “Never traced, I believe!” asked the novelist.

  “Never,” confirmed Megger; “neither the man nor the diamonds.”

  “It was a big thing, certainly,” came Vignoles’ voice; “but this Séverac Bablon has beaten all records in that line!”

  The remark afforded his wife an opportunity, for which she had sought, to break off the too confidential tête-à-tête between Zoe and the detective.

  “Zoe,” she said, “surely Mr. Pepys can tell us something about this mysterious Séverac Bablon?”

  “Oh, yes!” replied Zoe. “He has been telling me! He knows quite a lot about him!”

  Now, the dinner-table topic all over London was the mystery of Séverac Bablon, and Lady Vignoles’ party was not exceptional in this respect. It had already been several times referred to, and at Miss Oppner’s words all eyes were directed towards the handsome stranger, who bore this scrutiny with such smiling composure.

  “I cannot go into particulars, Lady Vignoles,” he said; “but, as you are aware, I have a kind of official connection with the matter!”

  This was beautifully mysterious, and everyone became intensely interested.

  “Of such facts as have come to light you all know as much as I, but there is a certain theory which seems to have occurred to no one.” He paused impressively, throwing a glance around the table. “What is the notable point in regard to the victims of Séverac Bablon?”

  “They are Jews — or of Jewish extraction,” said Zoe Oppner promptly. “Pa has noticed that! He’s taken considerable interest since his mills were burned in Ontario!”

  “And what is the conclusion?”

  “That he hates Jews!” snapped Bernard Megger hotly. “That he has a deadly hatred of all the race!”

  “You think so?” said Pepys softly, and turned his eyes upon the gross, empurpled face of the speaker. “It has not occurred to you that he might himself be a Jew?”

  That theory was so new to them that it was received in silent astonishment. Lady Vignoles, though her mother was Irish, had a marked leaning towards her father’s people, and, as was usually the case, that ancient race was fairly represented at her dinner-table. Lord Vignoles, on the contrary, was not fond of his wife’s Semitic friends — in fact, was ashamed of them; and he accordingly felt the present conversation to be drifting in an unpleasant direction.

  “Consider,” resumed Pepys, before the host could think of any suitable remark, “that this man wields an enormous and far-reaching influence. No door is locked to him! From out of nowhere he can summon up numbers of willing servants, who obey him blindly, and return — whence they came!

  “He would seem, then, to be served by high and low, and — a notable point — no one of his servants has yet betrayed him! His wealth clearly is enormous. He invites the rich to give — as he gives — and if they decline he takes! For what purpose? That he may relieve the poor! No friend of the needy yet has suffered at the hands of Séverac Bablon.”

  “I believe that’s a fact!” agreed Zoe Oppner. “He’s my own parent, but Pa’s real mean, I’ll allow!”

  Her words were greeted with laughter; but everyone was anxious to hear more from this man who spoke so confidently upon the topic of the hour.

  “You may say,” he continued, “that he is no more than a glorified Claude Duval, but might he not be one who sought to purge the Jewish name of the taint of greed — who forced those responsible for fostering that taint to disburse — who hated those mean of soul and loved those worthy of their ancient line? It is thus he would war! And the price of defeat would be — a felon’s cell! Whom would he be — this man at enmity with all who have brought shame upon the Jewish race? Whom could he be, save a monarch with eight millions of subjects — a royal Jew? I say that such a man exists, and that Séverac Bablon, if not that man himself, is his chosen emissary!”

  More and more rapidly he had spoken, in tones growing momentarily louder and more masterful. He burned with the enthusiasm of the specialist. Now, as he ceased, a long sigh arose from his listeners, who had hung breathless upon his words, and one lady whispered to her neighbour, “Is he something to do with the Secret Service?”

  “Mr. Bernard Megger is wanted on the telephone!”

  “How annoying!” ejaculated Lady Vignoles at this sudden interruption.

  “Oh, I have said my say,” laughed Pepys. “It is a pet theory of mine, that’s all! I am alone in my belief, however, save for a writer in the Gleaner, who seems to share it.”

  CHAPTER X

  KIMBERLEY

  Dessert was being placed upon the table when Bernard Megger went out to the telephone, and a fairly general conversation upon the all-absorbing topic had sprung up when he returned — pale, flabby — a stricken man!

  “Vignoles!” he said hoarsely. “A word with you.”

  The host, who did not care for the society of Mr. Megger, rose in some surprise and stepped aside with his wife’s guest.

  “I am a ruined man!” said Megger. “My chambers have been entered and my safe rifled!”

  “But — —” began Vignoles, in bewilderment.

  “You do not understand!” snapped the other, “and I cannot explain. It is Séverac Bablon who has robbed me!”

  “Séverac Bablon?”

  “Yes! I must be off at once and learn exactly what has happened. I shall call at Scotland Yard — —”

  “Ssh!” whispered Vignoles. “There is no need for that! The man speaking to Miss Oppner there is Detective-Inspector Pepys!”

  “Detective-Inspector Pepys! But what — —”

  “Never mind now, Megger; he is — that’s the point. I’ll bring him into the billiard-room. No doubt he can arrange to accompany you.”

  Too perturbed in mind to wonder greatly at the presence of a police officer at Lord Vignoles’ dinner-table, Bernard Megger strode hurriedly into the billiard-room, his obese body quivering with his suppressed emotions, and was almost immediately joined by his host, accompanied by Pepys. The latter began at once:

  “I understand that your chambers have been burgled by Séverac Bablon? By a curious instance of what literary critics term the long arm of coincidence I am in charge of the Séverac Bablon case — I and Inspector Sheffield.”

  “Before we go any further,” said Megger rudely, “I don’t share your tomfool ideas about the rogue!”

  “No?” replied Pepys blandly. “Well, never mind. You must not suppose that, because of them, I am any less anxious to apprehend my man. Tell me, when was the burglary committed?”

  “While Simons, my servant, was out on an errand. He returned to find the safe open — and empty. He immediately rang me up here.”

  “I believe you have already communicated with Scotland Yard in regard to Séverac Bablon?”

  “Yes, I have. He has threatened me.”

  “In what form?”

  “He endeavoured to extort money.”

  “By what means?”

  Bernard Megger frowned, angrily. His flabby cheeks were twitching significantly.

  “The point is,” he said sharply, “that he has rifled my safe.”

  “Did it contai
n valuables?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Diamonds?”

  “It contained valuable papers.”

  “Where is the safe situated?”

  “It is concealed, I thought securely, at the back of a bookcase. No one else holds a key. No one — not even my man — knows of its location. Curse Séverac Bablon! How, in Heaven’s name, has he discovered it? I thought it secure from the fiend himself!”

  Detective-Inspector Pepys scratched his chin thoughtfully, and Bernard Megger seemed to experience some difficulty in meeting the disconcerting gaze of his eyes.

  “Possibly,” said the inspector slowly, “an examination of your chambers may afford a clue. With your permission, Lord Vignoles, we will start at once.”

  “Certainly,” said Vignoles. “I fear I have no car in readiness, so someone shall call a cab.”

  He moved to the bell.

  “What’s that, Jerry?” came a musical American voice. “Someone want a lift?”

  The three men looked towards the door and saw there Zoe Oppner, a bewitching picture in her motor-furs.

  “I was coming to say good-night,” she explained. “I’m off to pick up Pa. But I’ve got time to run as far as Brighton and back, say. Nearly half an hour anyway!”

  “You will not be called upon to create that amazing record, Zoe,” responded Lord Vignoles. “Inspector Pepys and Mr. Megger are merely proceeding to Victoria Street.”

  “Is it something exciting?” asked Zoe, her bright eyes glancing from one to another of the three.

  “Very!” replied the inspector. “A robbery at Mr. Megger’s chambers!”

  “Come right along!” said Zoe. “I’m glad I didn’t miss this!” And the odd trio departed forthwith.

  “Can I come in?” she asked, with characteristic disregard of the conventional, as her luxuriously appointed car pulled up in Victoria Street.

  “I should greatly prefer that you did not, Miss Oppner!” said Pepys quietly.

  “That’s unkind! Why mayn’t I?”

  “I have a reason, believe me. If you will carry out your original plan and go on to join Mr. Oppner, it will be better.”

  She met the gaze of his earnest eyes frankly.

  “All right!” she agreed. “But will you come to the hotel to-morrow, Inspector, and tell me all about it?”

  “If you will inform no one of the appointment and arrange to be alone — yes, at eleven o’clock!”

  Zoe’s big eyes opened widely.

  “You are mysterious!” she said; “but I shall expect you at eleven o’clock!”

  “I shall be punctual!”

  With that he turned and passed quickly through the door behind Bernard Megger. Up the stairs he ran and reached the first floor in time to see the other entering his chambers.

  “Simons!” cried Megger, loudly.

  But there was no reply.

  “He must have gone at once to Scotland Yard,” said Pepys. “Where is the safe?”

  Megger switched on the light and unlocked a door on his immediate left. It gave access to a study. In the dim glow of the green shaded lamps the place looked quiet and reposeful. Everything was neatly arranged, as befits the sanctum of a business man. Nothing seemed out of place.

  “There are no signs of burglars here!” said Pepys, in a surprised manner.

  “Simons may have reclosed the safe door,” replied Megger.

  His voice trembled slightly.

  Wheeling a chair across the thick carpet, he placed it by a tall, unglazed bookcase and mounted upon the seat.

  “The safe is not open,” he muttered excitedly.

  And the man watching him saw that his puffy hand shook like a leaf in the breeze.

  Removing a small oil-painting from the wall adjoining, he tore at his collar and produced a key attached to a thin chain about his neck. This he inserted in the cunning lock which the picture served to conceal. The next moment a hoarse cry escaped him.

  “It hasn’t been opened at all!” he shouted.

  Snatching at the cord of a hanging lamp, he wildly hurled books about the floor and directed the light into a cavity that now had revealed itself. The other observed him keenly.

  “Are you certain nothing is gone?” he asked.

  Megger plunged his hand inside and threw out several boxes and some bundles of legal-looking documents. Leaning yet farther forward, he touched a hidden spring that operated with a sharp click.

  “That hasn’t gone, Inspector!” he cried triumphantly, and held out a large envelope, sealed in several places.

  His eyes were feverish. His features worked.

  “You are wrong, Isaac Jacobsen!” rapped Pepys, and snatched the packet in a flash. “It has!”

  The man on the chair lurched. Every speck of colour fled from his naturally florid face, leaving it a dull, neutral grey. He threw out one hand to steady himself, and with the other plunged to his hip.

  “Both up!” ordered Pepys crisply.

  And Mr. Bernard Megger found himself looking down a revolver barrel that pointed accurately between his twitching eyebrows, nor wavered one hair’s breadth!

  Unsteadily he raised his arms — staring, with dilated pupils, at this master of consummate craft.

  “It is by such acts of fatuity as your careful preservation of these proofs of identity,” came in ironic tones, “that all rogues are bowled out, Jacobsen! I will admit that you had them well hidden. It was good of you to find them. I had despaired of doing so myself!” With that the speaker backed towards the open door.

  “Inspector Pepys!” gasped Bernard Megger, swallowing between the words, “I shall remember you!”

  “You will be wasting grey matter!” replied the man addressed, and was gone.

  Megger, dropping heavily into the chair, saw that the departing visitor had thrown a slip of pasteboard upon the carpet.

  As the key turned in the lock, and the dim footsteps sounded upon the stair, he lurched unsteadily to his feet, and, stooping, picked up the card.

  Simons, his man, returned half an hour later, having been detained in his favourite saloon by a chance acquaintance who had conceived a delirious passion for his society. He found his master locked in the study — with the key on the wrong side — and, furthermore, in the grip of apoplexy, with a crumpled visiting-card crushed in his clenched right hand.

  CHAPTER XI

  MR. SANRACK VISITS THE HOTEL ASTORIA

  Mr. J. J. Oppner and his daughter sat at breakfast the next morning at the Astoria. Oppner was deeply interested in the Gleaner.

  “Zoe,” he said suddenly. “This is junk — joss — ponk!”

  His voice had a tone quality which suggested that it had passed through hot sand.

  Zoe looked up. Zoe Oppner was said to be the prettiest girl in the United States. Allowing that discount necessary in the case of John Jacob Oppner’s daughter, Zoe still was undeniably very pretty indeed. She looked charming this morning in a loose wrap from Paris, which had cost rather more than an ordinary, fairly well-to-do young lady, residing, say, at Hampstead, expends upon her entire toilette in twelve months.

  “What’s that, Pa?” she inquired.

  “What but this Séverac Bablon business!”

  Assisted by her father, she had diligently searched that morning through stacks of daily papers for news of the robbery in Victoria Street. But in vain.

  “Guess it’s a false alarm, Zoe!” Mr. Oppner had drawled, in his dusty fashion. “Some humorist got a big hustle on him last night. Like enough Mr. Megger was guyed by the same comic that sent me on a pie-chase!”

  Zoe thought otherwise, preferring to believe that Inspector Pepys had suppressed the news; now she wondered if, after all, they had overlooked it.

  “Is there something about Séverac Bablon in the paper?” she asked interestedly. “I can’t find anything.”

  “Nope?” drawled Oppner. “Nope? H’m! Then what about all this front page, with Julius Rohscheimer sitting in his pie-jams and the M
arquess of Evershed talking at him? Ain’t that Séverac Bablon? Sure! Did you think that Julius found it good for his health to part up a cool hundred thou.? And look at Hague up in the corner — and Elschild in the other corner! There’s only one way to open the cheque-books of either of them guys; with a gun!”

  “Oh!” cried Zoe— “how exciting!”

  “I’m with you,” drawled her father. “It’s as thrilling as having all your front teeth out.”

  “Do you mean, Pa, that this is something to do with the card — —”

  “There’s me and Jesson to shell out yet. That’s what I mean! He’s raised two hundred thousand. I’m richer’n any of ’em and he’ll mulct me on my Canadian investments for the balance of half a million! Or maybe he’ll split it between me and Jesson and Hohsmann!”

  “Oh!” said Zoe, “what a pity! And I was going to ask you to buy me two new hats!”

  Her father looked at her long and earnestly.

  “You haven’t got any proper kind of balance where money is concerned, Zoe,” he drawled. “Your brain pod ain’t burstin’ with financial genius. You don’t seem to care worth a baked bean that I’m bein’ fleeced of thousands! That hog Bablon cleaned me out a level million dollars when he burned the Runek Mills, and now I know, plain as if I saw him, he’s got me booked for another pile! Where d’you suppose money comes from? D’you think I can grab out like a coin manipulator, and my hand comes back full of dollars?”

  Zoe made no reply. She was staring, absently, over her father’s head, into a dream-world. Had Mr. Oppner been endowed with the power to read from another’s eyes, he would have found a startling story written in the beautiful book fringed by Zoe’s dark lashes. She was thinking of Séverac Bablon; thinking of him, not as a felon, but as he had been depicted to her by the strange man whom she had met at Lord Vignoles’ — the man who pursued him, yet condoned his sins.

  Her father’s sandy voice broke in upon her reverie:

  “Where I’m tied up — same with Rohscheimer and the rest — I don’t know this thief Bablon when I see him.”

  “No,” said Zoe. “Of course.”

  Mr. Oppner stared. His daughter’s attitude was oddly unemotional, wholly detached and impersonal.