The Sins of Severac Bablon Part 26

"Has Mr. Gale of New York arrived yet?" was the pressman's inquiry.

Yes. Mr. Gale of New York had arrived.

Upon learning which, Sheard seemed to hesitate, glancing about him as if suspicious of espionage. Mr. Alden, deeply engaged, or so it appeared, in selecting a cigar at the stall, was all ears--and through a mirror before which he had intentionally placed himself, he could watch Sheard's movements whilst standing with his back towards him.

At last Sheard took out his notebook and hastily scribbled something therein. Tearing out the leaf, he asked for an envelope, which the boy procured for him. With the closed book as a writing-pad, he addressed the envelope. Then, enclosing the note, carefully sealed up the message, and handed it to the boy, glancing about him the while with a palpable apprehension.

Finally, lighting a cigarette with an air of nonchalance but ill a.s.sumed, Sheard strolled out of the hotel.

He had not pa.s.sed the door ere Alden was clamouring for an hotel envelope. The boy was just about to enter a lift as the detective darted across the lobby and entered with him. Short as the time at his disposal had been, Mr. Alden had scrawled some illegible initial followed by "Gale, Esq.," upon the envelope, and had stuck down the flap.

The boy quitted the lift on the fourth floor. So did Alden. One or two pa.s.sengers joined at that landing, but the unsuspecting boy went on his way along the corridor, turned to the right and rapped on a door numbered 63.

"Come in," he was instructed.

He entered, tray in hand. A tanned and bearded gentleman who was busily engaged unpacking a large steamer trunk, looked up inquiringly.

"Gentleman couldn't wait, sir," said the boy, and proffered the message.

The bearded man took the envelope, drew his brows together in an endeavour to recognise the scrawly handwriting; failed, and tore the envelope open.

It was empty!

"See here, boy! What's the game?"

He threw the envelope on the floor beside him and stared hard at the page.

"Excuse me, sir"--the boy was frightened--"excuse me, sir; but I saw the gentleman put a note in!"

"Did you!" laughed the American, readily perceiving that whoever the joker might be the boy was innocent of complicity. "You mean, you thought you did! See here, what was he like?"

The boy described Sheard, and described him so aptly that he was recognised.

"That's Sheard," muttered the recipient of the empty envelope. "It's Sheard, sure! Right oh! I'll ring him up at the office in a minute and see what sort of game he's playing. Here boy, stick that in your pocket; you might make a descriptive writer, but you'll never s.h.i.+ne at sleight of hand! You didn't watch that envelope half close enough!"

Thus, the man to whom the note was addressed. Let us glance at Mr. Alden again.

Having effected the subst.i.tution with the ease of a David Devant, he hastened to a quiet corner to inspect his haul. He was not unduly elated. He had been prompt and clever, but in justice to him, it must be admitted that he was a clever man. Therefore he regarded the incident merely as part of the day's work. His success wrought no quickening of the pulse.

In a little palmy balcony which overlooked the lobby he took the envelope from his pocket. It bore the inscription:

RADLEY GALE, ESQ.

Quietly, his cheroot stuck in a corner of his mouth, he opened it--tearing the end off as all Americans do. He pulled out the scribbled note, and read as follows:

"MY DEAR GALE,--Don't forget that we're expecting your wife and yourself along about 7. I will say no more as I rather think an impudent American detective (?) is going to purloin this note.

"SHEARD."

Mr. Alden carefully replaced the torn leaf in the envelope, and the envelope in his case. He rolled his smoke from the left corner of his mouth to the right, and, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, walked slowly downstairs. He was not offended. Mr. Aloys. X. Alden was a Stoic who had known for many years that he was not the only clever man in the world.

CHAPTER XIII

THE LISTENER

Sheard sat with both elbows resting upon his writing-table. A suburban quietude reigned about him, for the hour was long past midnight. Before him was spread out the final edition of the _Gleaner_ and prominent upon the front page appeared:--

SIR LEOPOLD JESSON AND MR. HOHSMANN FALL INTO LINE

With a tact which was inspired by private information from a certain source, the _Gleaner_ had pooh-poohed the story of the mysterious cards received by the guests at Julius Rohscheimer's. The story had leaked out, of course, but Sheard was in no way responsible for the leakage.

Frantically, representatives of the _Gleaner's_ rivals had sought for confirmation from the lips of the victims; but, as had been foreseen by the astute Sheard, no confirmation was forthcoming. There had been an informal council held at the urgent request of Rohscheimer, whereat it had been decided that for the latter to appear, now, in the light of a victim of Severac Bablon, would be for him to throw away such advantages as might accrue--to throw a potential peerage after his lost 100,000!

Baron Hague had been coerced into silence, and had left for Berlin without seeing a single newspaper man. Mr. Elschild had persisted that his donation was entirely a voluntary one. Jesson had been most urgent for placing the true facts before Scotland Yard, but had finally fallen in with Rohscheimer's wishes.

"You see, Jesson," the latter had argued, "I'll never get my money back.

It's gone as completely as if I'd burnt it! All I've got to hope for is a peerage; and I'd lose that if I started crying."

"I agree," Antony Elschild had contributed, "Rohscheimer had suddenly become a popular hero! So that a t.i.tle is all the return he is ever likely to get for his money. It is popularly expected that Hohsmann and yourself will also subscribe. You must remember that owing to the att.i.tude of a section of the Press it is not generally believed that Severac Bablon has anything to do with this burst of generosity!"

Jesson had muttered something about "the _Gleaner_," and a decision had been arrived at to organise a private campaign against Severac Bablon whilst professing, publicly, that he was in no way concerned in the swelling of the _Gleaner_ fund.

Now, Jesson and Hohsmann had both sent huge cheques to the paper, and interviews with the philanthropic and patriotic capitalists appeared upon the front page. Sheard had not done either interview.

Encouraged by their amazing donations, the general public was responding in an unheard-of manner to the _Gleaner's_ appeal. The Marquess of Evershed had contributed a long personal letter, which was reproduced in the centre of the first page of every issue. The Imperialistic spirit ran rampant throughout Great Britain.

Meanwhile, Mr. Oppner's detectives were everywhere. Inspector Sheffield, C.I.D., was not idle. And Sheard found his position at times a dangerous one.

He stood up, walked to the grate, and knocked out his pipe. Having refilled and lighted it, he tiptoed upstairs, and from a convenient window surveyed the empty road. So far as he could judge, its emptiness was real enough. Yet on looking out a quarter of an hour earlier, he had detected, or thought he had detected, a lurking form under the trees some hundred yards beyond his gate.

His visit to the Astoria, the morning before, had been in response to an invitation from Severac Bablon, but divining that he was closely watched, he had sent the message to Gale--an American friend whom he knew to have just arrived--which had fallen into the hands of Mr. Aloys.

X. Alden. Sheard had actually had an appointment with Gale, and had rung him up later in the morning--gaining confirmation of his suspicions, in the form of Gale's story of the empty envelope.

Then, at night, his American friend had been followed to the house and followed back again to the hotel. This had been merely humorous; but to-night there existed more real cause of apprehension. Sheard had received a plain correspondence card, bearing the following, in a small neat hand:

"Do not bolt your front door. Expect me at about one o'clock A.M."

For a time it had been exciting, absorbingly interesting, to know himself behind the scenes of this mystery play which had all the world for an audience. But it was a situation of quite unique danger. Severac Bablon was opposed to tremendous interests. Apart from the activity of the ordinary authorities, there were those in the field against this man of mystery to whom money, in furtherance of their end, was no object.

Sheard realised, at times--and these were uncomfortable times--that his strange acquaintance with Severac Bablon quite conceivably might end in Brixton Prison.

Yet there are some respects wherein the copy-hunter and the scalp-hunter tally. The thrill of the New Journalism has enlisted in the ranks of the Fleet Street army some who, in a former age, must have sought their fortune with the less mighty weapon. A love of adventure was some part of the complement of Sheard; and now, suspecting that a Pinkerton man lurked in the neighbourhood, and uncertain if his wife slept, he awaited his visitor, with nerves tensely strung. But there was an exquisite delight tingling through his veins--an appreciation of his peril wholly pleasurable.

Faintly, he heard a key grate in the lock of the front door. The door was opened, and gently closed.