The Sins of Severac Bablon Part 14

"And--the diamonds?"

"I shall consider my course in regard to the diamonds."

"This--is robbery!"

"And your mode of obtaining the diamonds, Baron--what should you term that?"

"You mean to ruin me!"

"Be good enough either to draw the cheque, payable to the editor of the _Gleaner_--who will act in this matter, since I cannot appear--or to decline definitely to do so."

"It will ruin me."

"To decline? I admit that!"

Very shakily, having taken his cheque book from his pocket, Baron Hague drew and signed a cheque for the fabulous, the atrocious sum of 50,000.

A heavy smell--overpowering--crept to his nostrils as he bent forward over the table. He mentally ascribed it to the yellow cigarettes.

He laid down the pen with trembling fingers. That same sense of increasing distances which had heralded the stupor in the cab was coming upon him again. The cell-like room seemed to be receding. Severac Bablon's voice reached him from a remote distance:

"In future, Israel Hagar, seek to make--better use of your--opportunities."

"Wake up, sir! Hadn't you better be getting home?"

Baron Hague strove to stand. What had happened? Where was he?

"Hold up, sir! Here's a cab waiting! What address, sir?"

The Baron rubbed his eyes and looked dazedly about him. He was half supported by a police constable.

"Officer! Where am I, eh?"

"_I_ found you sitting on the step of the Burlington Arcade, sir! Where you'd been before that isn't for me to say! Come on, jump in!"

Hague found himself bundled into the cab.

"Hotel--Astoria!" he mumbled, and his head fell forward on his breast again.

CHAPTER VIII

IN THE DRESSING-ROOM

The house was very quiet.

Julius Rohscheimer stood quite motionless in his dressing-room listening for a sound which he expected to hear, but which he also feared to hear.

The household in Park Lane slept now. Park Lane is never quite still at any hour of the night, and now as Rohscheimer listened, all but holding his breath, a hundred sounds conflicted in the highway below. But none of these interested him.

He had been in his room for more than half an hour; had long since dismissed his man; and had sat down, arrayed in brilliant pyjamas (quite a new line from Paris, recommended by Haredale, a sartorial expert with a keen sense of humour), for a cigarette and a mental review of the situation.

Having shown himself active in other directions, Severac Bablon had evidently turned his eyes once more toward Park Lane. Julius Rohscheimer mentally likened himself and his set to those early martyrs who, defenceless, were subjected to the attacks of armed gladiators. No precautions, it seemed, prevailed against this enemy of Capital. Police protection was utterly useless. Thus far, not a solitary arrest had been made. So, now, in his own palatial house, but with a strip of cardboard lying before him bearing his name, underlined in red, Rohscheimer antic.i.p.ated mysterious outrage at any moment--and knew, instinctively, that he would be unable to defend himself against it.

Again came that vague stirring; and it seemed to come, not from beyond the walls, but from somewhere close at hand--from----

Rohscheimer turned, stealthily, in his chair. The cigarette dropped from between his nerveless fingers, and lay smouldering upon the Persian carpet.

His bulging eyes grew more and more prominent, and his adipose jaw dropped. And he sat, quivering fatly, his gaze upon the doors of the big wardrobe which occupied the s.p.a.ce between the windows. Distinctly he remembered that these doors had been closed. But now they were open.

Palsied with fear of what might be within, he sat, watched, and grew pale.

The doors were opening slowly!

No move he made toward defence. He was a man inert from panic.

Something gleamed out of the dark gap--a revolver barrel. Two fingers pushed a card into view. Upon it, in red letters, were the words:

_"Do not move!"_

The warning was, at once, needless and disregarded. Rohscheimer shook the chair with his tremblings.

A smaller card was tossed across on to the table.

The fat hand which the financier extended toward the card shook grotesquely; the diamonds which adorned it sparkled and twinkled starrily. Before his eyes a red mist seemed to dance; but, through it, Rohscheimer made out the following:

"There is a cheque-book in your coat pocket, and your coat hangs beside me in the wardrobe. I will throw the book across to you. You will make out a cheque for 100,000, payable to the editor of the _Gleaner_, and also write a note explaining that this is your contribution towards the fund for the founding, by patriotic Britons, of a suitable air fleet."

Rohscheimer, out of the corner of his eye, was watching the gleaming barrel, which pointed straightly at his head. From the dark gap between the wardrobe doors sped a second projectile, and fell before him on the table.

It was his cheque-book. Mechanically he opened it. Within was stuck another card. Upon it, in the same evidently disguised handwriting, appeared:

"A fountain pen lies on the table before you. Do not hesitate to follow instructions--or I shall shoot you. All arrangements are made for my escape. Throw the cheque and the note behind you and do not dare to look around again until you have my permission. If you do so once, I may only warn you; if you do so twice, I shall kill you."

Perfect silence ruled. Even the traffic in Park Lane outside seemed momentarily to have ceased. From the wardrobe behind Julius Rohscheimer came no sound. He took up the pen; made out and signed the preposterous cheque.

To the ruling but silent intelligence concealed behind those double doors he had no thought of appeal. He dared not even address himself to that invisible being. Such idea was as far from his mind as it must have been of old from the mind of him who listened to a Sybilline oracle delivered from the mystic tripod.

Sufficiently he controlled his twitching fingers to write a note, as follows--(what awful irony!):

"To the Editor of the _Gleaner_,

"SIR,--I enclose a cheque for 100,000" (as he wrote these dreadful words, Rohscheimer almost contemplated rebellion; but the silence--the fearful silence--and the thought of the one who watched him proved too potent for his elusive courage. He wrote on). "I desire you to place it at the disposal of the Government for purposes of ariel" (Rohscheimer was no scholar) "defence. I hope others will follow suit." (He _did_. It was horrible to be immolated thus, a solitary but giant sacrifice, upon the altar of this priest of iconoclasm)--"I am, sir, yours, etc.