Aaron Rodd, Diviner

E. Phillips Oppenheim

Author Of "The Other Romilly" "The Black Watcher," Etc.

Hodder And Stoughton Limited London 1920

Contents

Chapter I

The Cunning of Harvey Grimm

Chapter II

Poetry by Compulsion

Chapter III

An Alliance of Thieves

Chapter IV

Ulysses of Wapping

Chapter V

The Mysterious Assistant

Chapter VI

Paul Brodie Strikes

Chapter VII

The Infidelity of Jack Lovejoy

Chapter VIII

The Yellow Eye

Chapter IX

The Vengeance of Rosa Letchowiski

Chapter X

The End of Jeremiah Sands

_Chapter I_ _The Cunning of Harvey Grimm_

A queer, unexpected streak of sunshine, which by some miracle had found its way through a pall of clouds and a low-hanging mist, suddenly fell as though exhausted across the asphalt path of the Embankment Gardens. A tall, gaunt young man, who had been seated with folded arms in the corner of one of the seats, stared at it as though bewildered. His eyes suddenly met those of a young lady in deep black, who was gazing about her in similar stupefaction. Almost at once, and with perfect spontaneity, she smiled upon him.

"But it is astonishing, this!" she exclaimed. "Sunshine in London--in January!"

The young man was a little confused. He was very diffident, and such lack of conventionality on the part of a perfect stranger surprised him.

"It is unusual," he admitted.

"It is a thing which I have never seen," she went on, dropping voice a little and glancing towards a bath-chair close at hand, in which an elderly and very delicate-looking old gentleman was muffled up in furs and apparently asleep. "It is something, even, for which I had not dared to hope. We seem so far here from everything that is bright and beautiful and cheerful."

Aaron Rodd, who was a shy and awkward being, felt unexpectedly at his ease. He was even anxious for further conversation. He had a rather long, pale face, with deep-set eyes and rugged features. He was soberly, even sombrely dressed in dismal black. He had the air of a recluse. Perhaps that was why the young lady smiled upon him with such confidence.

"You are not English?" he ventured.

She shook her head.

"What we are now, alas!" she sighed, glancing towards the bath-chair, "I scarcely know, for we have no country. Like every one else in such a plight, we come to England."

"It is your father who sleeps there?" he enquired.

"It is my grandfather," she told him. "Together--he and I and my brother--we have passed through terrible times. He has lost all power to sleep at night. In the daytime, when it does not rain, he is wheeled out here, and, if it is only not too cold, then he sleeps as he does now, and I watch."

"You are very young to have charge of him."

She smiled a little pitifully.

"One grows old so quickly in these terrible days! I am already twenty-one. But you," she went on--"see how inquisitive I am!--I saw you yesterday from the distance, seated here. There are nursemaids and queer fragments of humanity who seem to pass through these gardens and loiter, and sometimes there are those with affairs who go on their way. But you--what do you think of as you sit there? You are a writer, perhaps?"

He laughed a little harshly. His voice was not altogether pleasant.

"I am a lawyer," he declared, "without a practice. Sometimes the ghosts who call at my empty office stifle me and I come out here to escape from them."

"A lawyer? An _avocat_?" she repeated softly to herself.

Evidently she found something to interest her in the statement. She glanced towards the sleeping man. Then she came a little nearer. He was conscious of a very delightful and altogether un-English perfume, aware suddenly that her eyes were the colour of violets, framed underneath with deep but not unbecoming lines, that her mouth was curved in a fashion strange to him.

"Englishmen, they say, are so much to be trusted," she murmured, "and a lawyer, too..."

"I am an American by birth," he interposed, "although I have lived over here nearly all my life."

"It is the same thing. We need advice so badly. Let me ask you one question. Is it not the first principle of a lawyer to hold sacred whatever confidence his client may confide in him?"

"Absolutely," he assured her.

"Even if that confidence," she persisted, "should bring the person who offered it within the hold of the law?"

"A lawyer may refuse a client," he said, "but he may never betray his confidence."

"Will you tell me your name and address?" she asked eagerly.

"My name is Aaron Rodd," he told her. "My address is number seventeen, Manchester Street, Adelphi, and my office is on the third floor."

"Mr. Aaron Rodd," she repeated, with a queer little foreign intonation. "That is a strange name and I shall remember it. When might one visit you, monsieur? At three o'clock this afternoon?"

"I shall be in all day."

"Then au revoir!" she exclaimed, with an abrupt gesture of farewell.

The old gentleman had opened his eyes and was gazing fretfully about. She crossed the asphalt walk swiftly towards him. An attendant, who seemed to have gone to sleep standing on one leg; gripped the handle of the bath-chair. The girl passed her arm around the old man's shoulders and whispered something to the attendant. They passed away together. The little streak of sunshine had gone. Aaron Rodd thrust his ungloved hands into his coat pockets and made his way in the opposite direction....

About an hour later, a small, rubicund man, a man whose dark hair was turning grey, but whose eyes were bright and whose complexion was remarkably healthy, paused before the door-plate of an office building in one of the back streets leading from the Adelphi. He was dressed with extreme neatness, from the tips of his patent boots to his grey felt hat, and he was obviously of a cheerful disposition. He glanced down the list of names, twirling his cane in light-hearted fashion and whistling softly to himself. Suddenly he paused. His cane ceased its aimless configurations and rested for a moment upon a name about half-way down the list, the name of Mr. Aaron Rodd, Solicitor and Commissioner for Oaths. There was also an indication that Mr. Rodd's offices were to be found upon the third floor. His prospective visitor glanced around, and, discovering that there was no lift, started out for the stone stairs. On the first landing he encountered a small boy, descending with a roll of papers under his arm. Him the new-comer, whose name was Mr. Harvey Grimm, promptly addressed.

"My young sir," he said pleasantly, "from the red tape around that bundle of papers which you are carrying, I gather that you have legal connections. You are probably the confidential clerk of the gentleman whom I am proposing to visit. Can you tell me, before I attempt another flight of these very dusty and unsympathetic steps, whether Mr. Aaron Rodd is within?"

The boy glanced at his questioner suspiciously.

"I am not in Mr. Rodd's office," he replied. "I'm Steel and Agnett, second floor."

"That," Mr. Harvey Grimm sighed regretfully, "is unfortunate. A very excellent firm yours, my boy. Do not let me any longer interfere with your efforts on their behalf."

Aaron Rodd's prospective visitor, with a sigh, recommenced the ascent. The boy looked after him for a moment dubiously and then disappeared. Arrived at the third floor, at the extreme end of the corridor the former discovered a door, on which was painted the name of _Mr. Aaron Rodd_. He knocked, was bidden to enter, and stepped at once into a single, bald and unpromising-looking apartment.

"Good morning, Aaron!" he said cheerfully, closing the door behind him and advancing across the dusty floor.

Aaron Rodd, who had been seated before a desk, apparently immersed in a legal document, first raised his head and then rose slowly to his feet. His first look of expectancy, as he had turned towards his visitor, faded by degrees into a very curious expression, an expression which seemed made up of a great deal of amazement and a certain amount of dread. With his left hand he gripped the side of the desk.

"My God!" he exclaimed. "It's Ned----"

His visitor held out his hand.

"No, no, my dear Aaron," he interrupted firmly, "you are deceived by a slight resemblance. You are thinking, probably, of that poor fellow Ned Stiles. You will never see Ned again, Aaron."

The intelligence appeared to cause the listener no grief. Neither did it carry with it any conviction.

"Harvey Grimm is my name," the new-comer went on, "Mr. Harvey Grimm, if you please, of Chicago. You remember me now, without a doubt?"

He extended his hand confidently. His smile was ingratiating, his air that of an ingenuous child anxious for a favourable reception. Aaron Rodd slowly thrust out his ink-stained fingers.

"I remember you all right," he admitted.

The visitor, having established his identity, seemed disposed to abandon the subject. He glanced around the room, and, discovering a cane-bottomed chair on which were piled some dust-covered documents, he calmly swept them away, annexed the chair, which he carefully flicked around with a silk handkerchief, and brought it to the side of the desk.

"Sit down, my dear fellow, I beg you," he invited, laying his hat on the floor by his side, hitching up his blue serge trousers and smiling in momentary satisfaction at his well-polished shoes. "I have appropriated, I fancy, the client's chair. Am I right, I wonder, in presuming that there has not been much use for it lately?"

"Perfectly right," was the grim reply.

"Hard times these have been for all of us," Harvey Grimm declared, with an air of placid satisfaction. "You are not expecting a client this morning, I presume?"

"Nor a miracle."

"In that case I will smoke," the new-comer continued, producing a small, gold case, selecting a cigarette and lighting it. "Try one."

Aaron Rodd hesitated and finally accepted the offer. He smoked with the air of one unused to the indulgence.

"Mr. Harvey Grimm of Chicago," he muttered, studying his visitor's very immaculate appearance. "Haven't I heard the name somewhere, or seen it in the papers lately?"

"Possibly," was the suave reply. "My arrival in London has, I think, created some slight interest. Even your press, I find, is not above recording the movements of a capitalist."

"A what?"

"A capitalist," Harvey Grimm repeated calmly. "With a name like mine, and an abode like Chicago, I am amazed that you did not divine it."

"Seven years ago," Aaron Rodd observed, "we divided seventeen pounds, four shillings and eightpence. It was, I believe, our united capital."

"And to judge by your surroundings," his companion sighed, "I fear, my friend, that you have been emulating the man who tied up his talent in a stocking. I, on the other hand----"

"Have changed your name and become a capitalist," Aaron Rodd interrupted drily.

"Precisely!"

There was a moment's silence. Mr. Harvey Grimm, with the beatific smile of opulence, was whistling softly to himself. His companion's thoughts had apparently travelled back into the past.

"Well," the latter said at last, "I will imitate your candour. The document I was examining with so much interest when you came in, is a seven-year-old lease, long since cancelled. The few black boxes you see around the room are, with one exception, bogus. I sit here from morning till night and nothing happens. I sit here and brood."

"Dear me! Dear me!" his visitor murmured sympathetically.

"By turning my chair around," Aaron Rodd continued, "I can just catch a glimpse of the river across the Gardens there. I sit and watch, wonder whether a tug will go past next or a lighter, watch the people in the gardens, wonder where they are going, why they are loitering, why hurrying. I speculate about the few passers-by down in the street there. Sometimes I close my eyes and I fancy myself in Lincoln's Inn, seated in a padded morocco chair, with a Turkey-carpet on the floor, and rows of boxes, black tin boxes, with wonderful names inscribed upon them in white lettering, reaching to the ceiling, and my secretary poring over my engagement book, wondering when it would be possible for me to squeeze in half an hour for an important client."

"Too much of the dreamer about you," Harvey Grimm pronounced. "Perhaps, after all, it is the fault of your work. It's a sedative profession, you know, Aaron. It wouldn't suit me to have to sit and wait for clients."

"It's the black bogey of my life," the other assented, with a thin note of passion in his tone. "If only one could get out and work, even if one didn't get a penny for it!"

"And financially?" Harvey Grimm enquired, with an apologetic cough.

"On the rocks," was the bitter reply. "You can understand," he went on, with a heedless sarcasm, "what a wonderful thing it is for me to welcome a capitalist in my shabby office."

"And an old friend," was the cheerful reminder. "Come, come, Aaron, we must look into this. I must place some of my affairs in your charge."

Aaron Rodd's lip curled with bitter incredulity.

"Some of your affairs! I had a taste of those in the old days, Ned--I mean Harvey. You brought me to the brink of Sing-Sing, you drove me over here to make a fresh start."

Harvey Grimm waved his hand. These reminiscences were indelicate.

"My dear fellow!" he protested. "Now come, answer me a few questions. Such affairs of business as have fallen to your lot have been conducted with--er--discretion?"

"If you mean have I preserved my reputation," the lawyer replied grimly, "I have. I have no temptation to do otherwise."

"That is capital," his friend declared. "That helps us at once. And now, I think," he went on, glancing at his neat little wristwatch, "lunch."

Aaron Rodd's first movement was almost eager. He checked himself, however. Then a glance at his visitor's immaculate toilet and distinctly opulent appearance reassured him.

"There will be no trouble, I presume," he said a little diffidently, "as to the settlement of our bill? I warn you before we start that a shilling and a few coppers----"

Harvey Grimm laid his hand almost affectionately upon the other's shoulder.

"My dear Aaron," he expostulated, "you are a little confused. You have not yet taken in the position. A capitalist is, of course, a relative term. I will not press that point. But let me assure you that I have a suite of rooms at the Milan, ample credit for any meals I choose to take there, even money to pay for them, if necessary."

"I am not fit to go to the Milan," Aaron Rodd muttered, brushing himself vigorously.

"That is entirely your mistake," his friend replied, rising to his feet and lighting another cigarette. "A judicious shabbiness is to-day an approved form of eccentricity. With your ascetic face, my dear Aaron, that little wisp of black tie, your clean but frayed collar, your sombre, well-worn clothes, you would be mistaken by the casual observer for either a Chancery lawyer with an indifferent housekeeper, or a writer of dramatic blank verse, which every one admires but no one buys. Reassure yourself, Aaron. I predict that as a companion you will do me every credit."

For the first time a grim, hard smile parted the lips of the man who was making out with rather weary fingers the accustomed card to affix to his door.

"The needy adventurer is what I feel like in these days," he observed.

"And why not adventurer?" Harvey Grimm protested, as they descended the stone steps. "We are all needy, that is to say we all need something or other, and we all--those of us who understand life, at any rate--seek adventures. Even with the success I have myself attained--I will be quite frank with you, my dear Aaron--I am entirely unchanged. I can assure you that I am not above finding interest and pleasure, as well as profit, in any adventure which may come to hand."

His companion chuckled drily.

"I can well believe it," he murmured.

They strolled up the street, a somewhat curiously assorted couple. Mr. Harvey Grimm's grey felt hat, his neat and somewhat jaunty figure, rather suggested the successful trainer of careful habits, or elderly jockey enjoying the opulence of middle age. Aaron Rodd, on the other hand, looked exactly what he was--the lean and hungry professional man with whom the times have gone ill.

"Queer neighbourhood, this, you've chosen for your office, Aaron," his friend remarked, pausing as they neared the corner. "What sort of people come into these parts, anyway?"

"It's just a backwater. There's the broad stream of London flowing on to success and prosperity a few yards up the hill. If you listen for a moment you can hear it. These little streets are just parasitical branches, still alive and still struggling, but fit for nothing but to be snapped off. All the furtive businesses in the world might be conducted behind these silent, unwashed windows and blank doorways--shabby theatrical agencies, doubtful publications, betting offices of poor reputation. People come here to hide or to escape notice. There was a murder committed down by the railings at the end of the street, only a year or so ago."

"Obviously," Harvey Grimm remarked cheerfully, "the region of melancholia and tragedies. We must see how things go, Aaron. Perhaps, later on, it would be as well for you to move to a better-known part. Just at present, however, it is well enough."

The tall young man looked down at his companion half derisively, half eagerly. He knew him too well to ask many questions, knew him too well to hope unduly, knew, too, the danger into which this simple luncheon might lead him. Yet only a few nights ago he had thought of the river! It was better to take luncheon with Harvey Grimm at the Milan than to feel the black waters sucking his breath away!

* * * * *

"Feeling better, Aaron?" Harvey Grimm enquired of his friend, about an hour and a half later.

Aaron Rodd was both feeling and looking better and acknowledged the fact. His manner towards his host, too, showed signs of a subtle change. The latter was obviously _persona grata_ in the restaurant. Their table, although a little retired, was in a coveted corner, and attentions of every sort had been respectfully offered them. Nevertheless, his guest felt some sense of relief when he saw the bill signed with a little flourish and accepted with a low bow by their waiter. Harvey Grimm leaned back in his chair and removed the cigar for a moment from his lips.

"You've no faith in me, Aaron," he declared, with an encouraging smile. "That's what you always lacked, even in the old days--faith. You're losing touch with the world, you know, cooped up in that musty office of yours. You don't expect anything to happen to you so long as you grub away there, do you?"

"Nothing has happened, at any rate," Aaron Rodd admitted.

"I will not say that it is your fault," his companion continued tolerantly. "You are by nature of a meditative and retiring temperament. It is a piece of extraordinarily good fortune for you that I never forget old friends."

"Have you anything to propose to me?" Aaron Rodd asked bluntly.

His host leaned across the table.

"Always so downright, my dear Aaron," he murmured, "so material! However, you have asked the question and here is my answer. I am proposing to remain in London for some little time. There are various schemes which have suggested themselves to me, which might readily lead to an enlargement of my income. For their prosecution, my dear Aaron, I need one, only one companion whom I can trust, one man who is out for the big things. That is why I come to you. I offer you a partnership in the concern--Harvey Grimm and Rodd, Traffickers in Fate, Dealers in Adventures. How your hand shakes, man! There, you've dropped the ash from your cigar!"

Aaron Rodd's thin lips were quivering. His eyes seemed full of unutterable things.

"I have made such a fight of it," he muttered. "You've got me, though, Harvey. I've eaten my last crust. I should have had to sell my office stool for a meal to-morrow."

His friend shook his head genially.

"My dear Aaron," he protested, "such a confession from a man of brains, when one considers how the world is overrun with fools, is a terrible one."

"One has a conscience," Rodd sighed, "and a profession like mine doesn't lend itself to crooked dealing."

Harvey Grimm smiled tolerantly. He had the air of one listening to a child.

"The wolves of the world," he said, "keep their conscience, and as regards wrong-doing, it's just success that makes the difference.... My dear fellow!" he broke off, looking up into the face of a man who had paused at their table and whose hand was now reposing heavily upon his shoulder. "My dear Brodie, this is most opportune. Let me present you to my friend, Mr. Aaron Rodd. Aaron, this is Mr. Brodie--in the language of the cinemas," he added, dropping his voice a little and leaning forward, "the sleuthhound of Europe, the greatest living detective."

Aaron Rodd sat for a moment motionless, the cigar slipped from his fingers on to the plate. All his new hopes seemed crumbling away. His eyes were fixed upon the hand which gripped his companion's shoulder. Harvey Grimm began to laugh softly.

"Cheer up, my pessimistic friend!" he exclaimed. "This isn't the grip of the law which is upon my shoulder. Mr. Brodie and I are friends--I might even say allies."

Aaron Rodd recovered himself and murmured a few words of mechanical greeting. The new-comer meanwhile took the chair which the waiter had offered him. He was a tall, burly man, clean-shaven, with steely grey eyes, and grey hair brushed back from his forehead. His manner was consequential, his tone patronising.

"So this is our third hand, eh?"

"Guessed it in one with your usual astuteness," Harvey Grimm acknowledged cheerfully. "A lawyer of unblemished character, not momentarily affluent, with the principles of a latitudinarian."

"Has he got the nerve?" Mr. Brodie demanded. "If we are on the right track, there's no room for weaklings in the job."

"Aaron Rodd's all right," his friend declared confidently. "You leave that to me. I'll answer for him."

The younger man leaned across the table.

"Do I understand," he enquired, "that our enterprise is on the side of the law?"

Harvey Grimm smiled.

"The present one, my dear Aaron. I should explain to you, perhaps, that Mr. Brodie is not officially attached either to Scotland Yard or to Police Headquarters in New York. He spent some years at Scotland Yard and, having the good luck to inherit a small fortune, and feeling himself handicapped by the antiquated methods and jealousies of his competitors, he decided to strike out for himself as an independent investigator. Some day he will tell us a few of his adventures."

Mr. Brodie had folded his arms and was looking very imposing.

"I have hunted criminals," he asserted, "in every quarter of the world. I have methods of my own. I have a genius for making use of people."

"So you see, my dear Aaron," Harvey Grimm pointed out, "at present Mr. Brodie and I are the greatest of friends. He recognises the fact that I am what is baldly spoken of as an adventurer, and that the time may come when we shall find ourselves in opposite camps, but just at present it is our privilege to be of service to Mr. Brodie."

Then a thing, ordinary enough in its way, happened in a curious manner. Mr. Brodie was a large man but he seemed suddenly to fade away. There was his empty chair and a dim vision of a retreating figure behind one of the central sideboards. Aaron Rodd seemed dimly conscious of a look of warning flashed between the two men, but nothing equal to the swift secrecy of Mr. Brodie's movements had ever confused his senses. Harvey Grimm leaned across the table, holding his liqueur glass in his hand.

"Slick fellow, Brodie," he murmured. "No good his being seen talking to us when the quarry's about, eh? Nice brandy, this. On the dry side, perhaps, but with a flavour to it."

Aaron Rodd understood that he was to ask no questions and he discussed the subject of brandy in a sufficiently ignorant manner. He, too, however, within the course of the next few seconds, found need for the exercise of all his powers of self-control. Only a few yards away from him was a young man in some foreign uniform, with his arm in a sling, discussing with a _maître d'hôtel_ as to the locality of his table. By his side was the girl with whom he had talked that morning in the Embankment Gardens, and behind the two, a somewhat pathetic picture, was the old man, his face as withered as parchment, his narrow white beard carefully trimmed, leaning heavily upon a stick. Almost as he realised their presence they moved on, escorted by the _maître d'hôtel_ to a table in a distant corner. Aaron Rodd drew a long breath as they disappeared. His companion looked at him curiously.

"Are those the people," the lawyer asked eagerly, "on whose account Brodie moved away?"

Harvey Grimm watched them settle in their places.

"They are," he admitted. "A pathetic-looking trio! ... And, now, my dear Aaron," he went on, "we will discuss your little adventure in the Embankment Gardens this morning. You perceive that the moment is appropriate."

"My little adventure?" Aaron Rodd repeated blankly. "Why--you mean to say you were there, then? You saw her speak to me?"

"Certainly! I was seated a little further down, talking with my friend Mr. Brodie. We had our eyes upon the young lady."

Aaron Rodd felt a sudden disinclination to speak of that little gleam of sunshine.

"She spoke to me quite casually," he declared. "Afterwards she asked me my profession. I told her that I was a lawyer. Perhaps she had already guessed it. I suppose I do rather look the part."

"You do indeed, my friend! And then?"

The younger man hesitated. His partner's benevolent face suddenly assumed a sterner aspect.

"Aaron," he reminded him, "we are on business. The truth, please--no reservations."

"She asked me," the other went on, "whether the confidence of a client is always respected by one in my profession."

"And your reply?"

"I assured her, of course, that under any circumstances it was."

Harvey Grimm leaned back in his chair. He rolled the remaining drop of brandy around in his glass, his expression was beatific.

"My dear Aaron," he said, "fate smiles upon our new partnership. The young lady is going to pay you a visit?"

"At three o'clock this afternoon, if she keeps her word."

"Finish your brandy and come with me to my apartment," Harvey Grimm directed. "We have matters to discuss and arrange before you receive that visit."

* * * * *

An hour or so later, Aaron Rodd was seated once more before his dilapidated, ink-stained desk. The gloom of the winter afternoon was only partly dissipated by the single gas-jet burning above his head. The same old lease was spread out underneath his hands. In his face, however, there was a distinct change. The listlessness had gone. He had the air of one awaiting events. So he had sat for the last half-hour, with his eyes fixed alternately upon the outside door, purposely left ajar, and the inner one which led to his humble bed-sitting-room.

There came at last the sound for which he had been waiting. Up that last flight of stone stairs he could hear distinctly the slow movement of weary footsteps, the continual tapping of a stick, the occasional cough and querulous complaint of a tired old man, and by the side of those shuffling footsteps, others, marvellously light, the swish of a silken skirt, the music of a clear, very sweet young voice.

"You see, we are arrived," she was saying. "There is the name upon the door. You will be able to sit down directly. Courage, dear grandfather. Remember it is for Leopold's sake."

Then there followed a gentle knock, the somewhat hesitating entrance of the two, the half-doubtful look of the girl towards the tall, gaunt young man whose face seemed almost saturnine underneath that unshaded light. As he moved forward, however, she recognised him, and a smile of relief parted her lips.

"Ah! it is Mr. Rodd, is it not--the gentleman with whom I spoke in the Gardens this morning--the lawyer?"

He bowed. Anxiety made his voice sound even harsher. Many things had happened since the morning.

"You have kept your promise, then," he remarked. "You have come to consult me. I am at your service. One moment."

He brought two of the chairs which stood stiffly against the wall, and placed them by the side of his desk. The old man sat down with an air of relief. The passage up the stairs had apparently exhausted him.

"We are very haphazard clients, I fear, Mr. Rodd," he said wearily. "This is unfortunately one of my bad days. I must leave my granddaughter to explain the reason of our visit, and in what manner we hope to be able to make use of your services."

"If I do so, grandfather," she said, turning a little towards him, "I am going to tell the whole truth."

"If it must be," he murmured uneasily.

The girl took up at once the burden of explanation.

"My grandfather, my brother and myself," she began, "are staying at the Milan Hotel. We make use of a name, the name of Brinnen, to which we have some right, even though it may be a shadowy one. We happen to be Belgians by birth, a fact which at the present moment makes our position easier. To be honest with you, however, my brother has just returned from America. He has been engaged for some time in more hazardous enterprises, even, than defending his country against the Germans."

The old man interrupted her impatiently.

"These explanations are waste of time," he insisted. "Tell this gentleman quickly what we desire of him."

She patted his hand and glanced half apologetically across at Aaron Rodd. He had resumed his seat before his desk, his face half hidden by his hand. Listening to the girl's voice, he had become conscious of a long-forgotten sentiment. Encumbered though she was with a difficult mission, there was a certain fineness of speech and manner, an appeal for sympathy in even this last gesture, which he found strangely disturbing.

"You need explain to me no more than you wish," he told her, a little stiffly. "I shall be glad to be of any service to you. There is no need for you to enter into any painful details."

She shrugged her shoulders protestingly.

"You and my grandfather are of one mind," she remarked. "Then I will make a confession which may sound abrupt but which is nevertheless true. We three--my brother, my grandfather and myself--are not entitled to the sympathy we receive. We are, to a certain extent, impostors. Is your standard of morals a very high one, Mr. Rodd?"

"I--I scarcely really know," he stammered. "As a lawyer I am brought into contact with all conditions of people. I have before now done my best for the criminal as I have for the honest man."

"It is reassuring," she admitted. "Behold, then, my full confession. You have to do now with criminals--or may I say adventurers? We have, we three, to dispose of secretly a very large amount of precious stones. I have come to you for advice. The ordinary avenues of sale are closed to us. How can we get into touch with some one who will buy them and ask no questions?"

Aaron Rodd was conscious of a little shock. Up to this last moment he had been doubtful. Notwithstanding the story which had been unfolded to him by Harvey Grimm, he had clung to his first impressions, impressions from which he was parting now with dire reluctance.

"It is not an easy matter," he admitted, "but if anyone can help you, I can."

The girl nodded.

"There must be secrecy," she declared. "You see, my brother is, in a way, notorious. He has been very daring and very successful. For the sake of those who buy them, as well as for our own sake, the jewels must not be recognised afterwards.

"I have a friend who might arrange it," Aaron Rodd announced. "I must warn you, however, that selling your stones in this way you cannot possibly receive their full value."

"We do not expect that," the old man mumbled. "What we want, though, is the money--quickly."

"My friend could doubtless manage that," the lawyer declared.

"When can we see him?" the girl asked eagerly.

"At once," was the prompt reply. "He was with me when you came and I sent him into my private apartments. If it is your wish, I will fetch him."

"By all means," the old man insisted eagerly.

"Yes, yes!" the girl echoed.

Aaron Rodd rose to his feet and crossed the room to the door which led into his private apartment. He opened it and beckoned to its unseen occupant.

"I have some clients here who would like a word with you, Grimm," he announced. "There may, perhaps, be some business."

Harvey Grimm made his appearance at once. His air of curiosity, as he looked into the room, was very well done.

"Business?" he repeated.

"This gentleman and young lady," Aaron Rodd explained, "are clients of mine. Their names are unnecessary. They have consulted me as to the disposal of valuable jewels, their claim to which--might be open to question."

Harvey Grimm threw the cigar which he had been smoking into the fire-place.

"I see," he murmured. "Better tell me the circumstances."

The girl repeated her story, with a few more details. The old man listened in a sort of placid stupor. He interrupted only once.

"It is a foolish way, this. There is a man in Amsterdam----"

"You will tell me what you advise, monsieur," the girl begged. "We must have money, and the jewels must be made unrecognisable."

Harvey Grimm took a small magnifying glass from his pocket and screwed it together.

"You have probably brought some of the stones with you," he observed briskly.

The girl hesitated. She turned to her companion as though for guidance. He was still mumbling to himself, however, something about Amsterdam.

"It is absolutely essential," Harvey Grimm continued, "that I should know something definite about the character of the stones you have to offer--that is if you wish me to deal with them."

There was a brief silence. Then the girl rose to her feet and deliberately turned away from the three men for several moments. When she swung around again, she held in her hand a small chamois leather bag. Very carefully she opened and shook out its contents into the palm of Harvey Grimm's outstretched hand.

"The large one," she said simply, "belonged to an American millionaire. My brother says that it is worth twenty thousand pounds. He, too, is a wonderful judge of precious stones."

The old man seemed to wake up for a moment.

"It is worth," he faltered, "a king's ransom."

They all three bent over the little collection of jewels. Aaron Rodd's expression was one of simple curiosity. His knowledge of diamonds was _nil_. His partner's manner, on the other hand, underwent a curious change. There was a hard glitter in his eyes and unsuspected lines about his mouth. The atmosphere of the little room had become charged with new forces. The girl's face was tense with excitement, the old man seemed suddenly and subtly different.

"Do not waste time," the former begged, a little feverishly. "It is not safe to bring these jewels into the daylight, even here. If you will buy, state your price. Give us an idea. We can meet again, perhaps."

Harvey Grimm turned towards them.

"The small stones are negligible," he pronounced. "The large stone is worth quite as much as you say. To cut it up, however, and then sell it in a secret market, is another thing. The most you could hope for would be five thousand pounds."

The girl's face was a little vague.

"Tell me," she enquired, "in English money how much is that a year?"

"Two hundred and fifty pounds."

"So that if there were ten stones like that," she went on, a little wistfully, "that would be an income of two thousand, two hundred and fifty pounds. One could live comfortably on that? One could hide somewhere in a quiet country place and live like gentlefolk?"

"Certainly," Harvey Grimm assured her.

She turned a little doubtfully towards her companion.

"I am afraid," she sighed, "that grandfather is almost past realising what money means. In any case, we must consult my brother."

Then there came without warning an interruption which seemed equally startling to all of them. Without any preliminary summons, the door of the office was thrown open. The detective, Brodie, followed by a man in plain clothes out with an unmistakably professional appearance, entered the room. The latter closed the door behind him. Brodie approached the little group. The girl's eyes were lit with terror. Harvey Grimm dropped his handkerchief over the jewels, whilst his partner stepped forward. Aaron Rodd's tone was harsh with anxiety, his face seemed more drawn than ever.

"What do you want here?" he demanded.

Mr. Brodie smiled tolerantly. His eyes were fixed upon the table. He pushed the questioner on one side and lifted the handkerchief which Harvey Grimm had thrown over the diamonds. Then he turned towards his companion with a little cry of triumph.

"That," he declared, pointing to the jewel upon the table, "is one of the Van Hutten diamonds."

"I do not understand," the girl said quietly enough, although she was shaking from head to foot. "It belongs to us. It is the property of----"

"Cut it out," Brodie interrupted brusquely. "We'll talk to you, young lady, at police head-quarters."

The girl turned to Aaron Rodd.

"Who is this man, and what does he want?" she cried. "Is this a trap into which you have drawn us? Is it a crime, here in England, then, to offer jewels for sale?"

"We'll talk this all out at the police station," Brodie intervened curtly. "Inspector?"

The man in plain clothes stepped forward and took command of the situation.

"My instructions are," he announced politely, "to ask you both to come with me to the police-station."

The old gentleman simply looked dazed. He rose to his feet obediently and turned towards the girl. She patted his arm reassuringly, but there was a look in her face which brought a sob into Aaron Rodd's throat. He was filled all the time with a silent fury. He cursed the moment which had taken him into the Embankment Gardens, which had brought Harvey Grimm once more into his life. The single look which the girl had flashed upon him was like a dagger in his heart.

Brodie had replaced the diamonds, one by one, in the little bag. He handed them over to his companion and motioned them all towards the door. The old gentleman moved wearily along, leaning upon his granddaughter's arm. Aaron Rodd hurried forward and opened the door. He tried to say something, but the girl turned from him contemptuously. He stood on the threshold, listening to their slow footsteps as they descended into the street. Then he swung back into the room, slammed the door and sank into the chair in front of his desk. It was as though he had passed through some terrible nightmare. He sat gazing out through the shadows. Had it all really happened? Then he caught a faint, unfamiliar breath of perfume which suddenly set his heart beating with unaccustomed vigour. A little morsel of white lace lay underneath the chair upon which she had been seated. He stooped and picked it up, smoothed it out, and let it slip from his fingers almost in despair. It was all true, then! She had sat in that chair, had come to his office, trusting him, had walked into the Harvey-Grimm-cum-Brodie trap!

* * * * *

It was an hour or more before Harvey Grimm returned. He closed the door after him and came briskly across the floor.

"Well, young fellow," he exclaimed, "you can't say that I haven't fished you out of the backwaters."

"I wish to God you'd left me there!" was the bitter reply. "Tell me what's happened to her?"

"To her?--oh, the young lady!" Harvey Grimm murmured, with an illuminating smile. "She's all right. She's back at the Milan by this time."

"They couldn't identify the diamond, then?" Aaron Rodd asked eagerly.

"Not by a long chalk," was the smiling reply. "To tell you the truth, Brodie's about the sickest man in London just now. The stone he rolled out in front of the expert they had waiting down at Scotland Yard was----"

"Was what?"

"A lump of paste," Harvey Grimm declared, lighting a cigarette. "Queer business, eh?"

"There's no charge against the old gentleman and his granddaughter, then?" Aaron Rodd demanded breathlessly.

"None whatever. Why not try a cigarette, Aaron? You're all nerves."

The lawyer pushed the box away from him.

"You may think this sort of thing's worth while," he declared gloomily. "I can't say that I do. There'll be no reward to share, and it seems to me that we've made an enemy----"

"There's no reward," Harvey Grimm agreed, "but there's this."

He drew his handkerchief from his pocket. A diamond almost as large as a cobnut rolled over and lay upon the desk. Aaron Rodd stared at it in amazement.

"What's that?" he demanded.

"One of the Van Hutten diamonds," was the triumphant reply. "Look at it well. You won't see it again. By this time to-morrow it will have been cut."

Aaron Rodd was stupefied. He looked from the stone up to his companion's face. Even his demand for some elucidation was mute.

"I had the duplicate ready," Harvey Grimm explained. "That was my game. I changed them underneath my handkerchief. It was perfectly easy. They've got the imitation one at police head-quarters and they aren't feeling particularly pleased with themselves. That fellow Brodie is about the bummest detective who ever crossed the Atlantic."

Aaron Rodd was sitting transfixed. His fingers were shaking as they beat upon the desk.

"My God," he exclaimed as light streamed in upon him, "we're thieves!"

"Don't talk like a fool," the other admonished. "It's a fair enough game between crooks. We've stolen a stolen jewel, and by doing it we've saved the girl and her grandfather and her brother, too, from gaol. That's fair do's, isn't it? When I've finished with that, there'll be a matter of three or four thousand pounds for us to divide. What about it, eh?"

He swept the jewel back into his pocket. Aaron Rodd's fingers were still idly beating upon the desk. The walls of his dusty, bare apartment had fallen away, the thrall of his sordid poverty lay no longer like a dead weight upon his spirits. Three or four thousand pounds to divide!

"What you need," Harvey Grimm declared briskly, handing him his hat, "is a drink. Come right along."

_Chapter II_ _Poetry by Compulsion_

Mr. Paul Brodie walked, unannounced, into Aaron Rodd's office, a matter of ten days after the episode of the changed diamond. He had lost a little of his bombast, and he carried himself with less than his usual confidence. His eyes, however, had lost none of their old inquisitive fire. He was perfectly aware, even as he greeted the two men who rose to welcome him, that Aaron Rodd was wearing a new suit of clothes, that the office had been spring-cleaned, that the box of cigarettes upon the desk were of an expensive brand, and that the violets in the buttonhole of Harvey Grimm's immaculate coat had come from a Bond Street florist.

"Good morning, gentlemen," he said airily, subsiding into the chair which the latter had vacated for him. "Nice little trio of conspirators we are, eh?"

Harvey Grimm shrugged his shoulders.

"It's rough on you," he admitted--"gives you kind of a twist, of course, with the police--but I can't see any sense in the thing yet. They weren't meaning to trade off that bit of paste on a diamond expert surely!"

The detective scratched his chin.

"That bit of paste," he declared, "was all they had on them, anyway. Seems as though they hadn't quite sized you up--you and Mr. Rodd here--and were paying you a test visit. Gee, they're clever!"

"You had them searched, I suppose," the other enquired, "to be sure they hadn't the real goods with them?"

"You bet!" the detective assented gloomily. "Made it all the worse for us afterwards. I tell you I daren't show my face at Scotland Yard these days."

Harvey Grimm nodded sympathetically.

"Still, they must know that these people aren't what they profess to be," he observed.

"That's all very well," Brodie agreed, "but every one goes about with kid gloves on in this country. That's why I threw up my job and went over to the States. Even a criminal, a known criminal, has got to be treated as though he were a little God Almighty until the charge is right there and the proof lying handy. I spent last night with Inspector Ditchwater. He's as sure as I am that the young man is no other than Jeremiah Sands, but he'd sooner let him slip through his fingers than take a risk."

"How does it come about, then," Aaron Rodd asked quietly, "that a famous diamond thief is wearing the uniform of a Belgian officer, that he is decorated and wounded?"

"Simple as possible," Brodie explained. "We knew perfectly well that Jeremiah Sands was a Belgian. That little fact had been in every description of him that's ever been issued. He chucked his little enterprises in New York, the moment war was declared, and sailed for Europe, bringing the loot with him. He was as clever as paint, though. He played the old game of sending a double to Chicago, and he was in Belgium before we knew the truth. There, from what we gather, he handed over the stuff to the old man and his sister, and took up his soldiering job. The worst of it is he's covered up his traces so well that we haven't a chance unless we can catch him, or one of the three, with the goods. Meanwhile, there he is, less than a quarter of a mile away, with half a million of loot under his nose; there's a reward of twenty-five thousand dollars for his apprehension; and here we three men sit, needing the money, and pretty well powerless."

"I wouldn't go so far as that," Harvey Grimm said quietly. "I don't fancy you've come to the end of your tether yet, Brodie."

The detective knocked the ash from his cigar and rose to his feet.

"Well," he admitted, "I ain't giving up, sure. All the same, this little failure has made things difficult for me. If I put my head in at head-quarters and whisper 'Jeremiah Sands,' they're down my throat. I just looked in to see how you boys were," he added. "They'll have tumbled to you both now, so I'm afraid the game's off so far as you are concerned. So long! See you round at the Milan about cocktail time, Harvey, eh?"

Mr. Brodie took his leave, with more expressions of cordiality. Aaron Rodd closed the door carefully after him and came back into the room. For several moments neither of the two men spoke. Harvey Grimm carefully selected a cigarette and lit it. Then he walked to the door, opened it and peered down the stairs.

"Too damned amiable!" he muttered as he returned to his place. "Did you see the way he peered around? You have brightened things up a bit, Aaron."

"I haven't done more than was absolutely necessary," the young lawyer protested. "The place was simply filthy."

Harvey Grimm suddenly burst into a hearty laugh and slapped his knee.

"That's all right, old fellow," he declared. "It don't matter a snap of the fingers. That chap Brodie does get me, though. A baby could see through him. He's got just sense enough to believe that we pinched the diamond--that's why he's been round here. It just don't matter a damn, Aaron, what he suspects. That diamond doesn't exist any longer. Neither our friends whom we--er--relieved of its incriminating possession, nor Paul Brodie, will ever see that stone again. Let's lunch."

Aaron Rodd reached for his hat and followed his friend out into the street. At the end of the little dingy thoroughfare, as they made their way up towards the Strand, Harvey Grimm paused abruptly in front of what seemed to be a small book-shop. There were only one or two volumes in the window, of what seemed to be editions de luxe of some unknown work. There was a single modern engraving and a water-colour of Futurist propensities for background. Harvey Grimm eyed these treasures appreciatively.

"This place pleases me," he announced. "It has an air of its own. We will spend a few minutes here."

The two men entered and looked about them, a little bewildered by their surroundings. They seemed to have stepped into a small and feminine sitting-room, the walls of which were hung with water-colours of unusual subjects and colouring. There was a little pile of paper-covered volumes upon the table. A young lady of sombre and uncertain appearance came forward, and Harvey Grimm promptly removed his hat.

"We have perhaps made a mistake?" he observed tentatively. "From the exterior appearance of your establishment, I gathered that we might possibly be able to procure here something unusual in the way of literature. In a small way I am a collector of old books."

"We are entirely modern here," the young woman replied. "I can show you hand-made pottery, or the water-colours of a young Futurist artist, or I can offer you the poetical works of one or two of our most modern poets. Second-hand books or _objets d'art_ we do not deal in. We consider," she concluded, "that modernity, absolute modernity, is the proper cult."

Harvey Grimm fanned himself for a moment with his hat. His companion was gazing, with his mouth a little open, at a picture upon the wall which appeared to him to represent the bursting of a ripe tomato upon a crazy landscape.

"An impression of war," the young woman remarked, following his gaze. "A wonderful piece of work by a young Futurist painter."

Harvey Grimm studied it for a moment through his eyeglass, and coughed. He turned back to the table and picked up a paper-covered volume.

"Poetry," he murmured, "is one of my great solaces."

"Have you met with the work of Stephen Cresswell?" the young woman enquired, almost solemnly.

Harvey Grimm repeated the name several times.

"For the moment----" he confessed.

"Eightpence," the girl interrupted, depositing one of the paper-covered volumes in his hand. "Perhaps your friend would like one, too. I can promise you that when you have read Cresswell's Spring Lyrics, you will find all Victorian poetry anæmic."

Harvey Grimm handed a copy to his companion, laid down two shillings and pocketed the eightpence change a little diffidently.

"You would perhaps like to look around," the young lady suggested.

She vanished into an inner room. Almost at that moment the door leading into the street was violently opened, and a young man of somewhat surprising appearance abruptly entered. He was over six feet in height, he wore a flannel shirt and collar much the worse for wear, a brown tweed coat from which every button was missing, and through an old pair of patent boots came an unashamed and very evident toe. The two visitors stared at him in amazement. The young man's eyes, from the moment of his entrance, were fixed upon the paper volume which Harvey Grimm was carrying.

"Sir," he enquired, "am I to conclude that you have purchased a copy--the copy of poems you hold in your hand?"

"I have just done so," Harvey Grimm admitted, "also my friend."

The young man pushed past him towards the inner room.

"Bertha," he exclaimed loudly, "eightpence, please! You have sold two copies of my poems. The eightpence!"

There was a momentary silence and then the clinking of coins. The young man reappeared and made for the door with an air of determination in his face. Harvey Grimm tapped him on the shoulder.

"Sir," he said, "forgive me if I take a liberty, but am I right in presuming that you are the author of this volume?"

"I am," was the prompt reply, "and I am going to have a drink."

"One moment, if you please," his questioner begged. "This, you must remember, is an impertinent age. Modernity demands it. Are you not also hungry?"

"Ravenous," Mr. Stephen Cresswell confessed, "but what can one do with eightpence?"

"You will join my friend and myself," Harvey Grimm declared firmly. "We are going to take a chop."

The young man's tongue seemed to wander around the outside of his lips.

"A chop," he repeated absently.

"At a neighbouring grill-room," Harvey Grimm went on. "Come, I have bought two copies of your poems. I have a claim for your consideration."

"Do I understand," the young man asked, "that you will pay for the chop?"

"That will be my privilege," was the prompt assertion.

"You are doubtless mad," the poet observed, "but you are probably opulent. Let us hurry."

They left the place and crossed the street, the young man in the middle. Aaron Rodd was speechless. His eyes seemed fascinated by the deficiencies of their new friend's toilet, a fact of which he himself seemed sublimely unconscious. Harvey Grimm, however, proceeded to make a delicate allusion to the matter.

"Some little accident, I gather," he remarked, "has happened--forgive my noticing it--to your right shoe."

The poet glanced carelessly downwards.

"It occurred this morning," he sighed. "To tell you the truth, I had scarcely noticed it. There was a green streak in the sunrise. I hastened----"

Harvey Grimm had paused in front of a boot shop.

"This place," he said firmly, "will do as well as another."

"Why not?" the young man agreed, entering promptly, seating himself upon the nearest vacant chair and holding out his foot. "Something light," he begged. "You will observe that my foot is long and narrow."

The shopman withdrew the tattered remnants of shoes and stared in amazement at his prospective customer's bare feet. The latter held out his hand for a cigarette and tapped it against the side of Harvey Grimm's case.

"It appears to me," he continued, gazing at his mud-stained feet, "that I came out without socks. The sunrise again. However, it is a deficiency which I perceive that you are in a position to remedy."

He selected without embarrassment a pair of socks and shoes, and was perfectly willing to don a tie which they purchased from a small haberdasher's shop at the end of the street. That affair disposed of, however, he became quite firm.

"The affair of the chop----," he insisted.

"We are there," Harvey Grimm interrupted, leading him to an hotel grill-room.

The young man paused before the large, open grid and carefully indicated the chop which he considered suitable for his consumption. He then seated himself opposite his two friends and expressed himself in favour of a mixed vermouth.

"A very pleasing encounter, this," he declared, drawing the eightpence from his pocket and looking at it thoughtfully. "May I ask, sir, whether you are acquainted with my poems?"

"Not yet," Harvey Grimm confessed.

"Your purchase, then, was accidental?"

"Entirely," his patron explained. "My friend and I are adventurers. We seek the unusual. The appearance of the shop where we met you attracted us. The young lady to whom we addressed some enquiries tendered us a copy of your verses."

The young man sighed.

"It is a scandalous thing," he said, "to be published in paper covers at eightpence--fourpence to the author. So you are adventurers. You mean by that thieves?"

"Sir," Aaron Rodd interrupted, "I am a solicitor."

"My ignorance," the young man declared, "is amazing, but that, I presume, is a legalised form of robbery? I am one of the few persons in the world who give value for the money I earn. I produce, create. If only ten thousand people in the city were to pay eightpence for a copy of my works, I should be affluent, as you two are. I should lunch here every day and drink Burgundy."

"Then in a very short time," Harvey Grimm reminded him, "you would cease to write poetry."

His protégé shook his head.

"A well-nurtured body is an incentive to poetic thought," he insisted. "There is a richness of imagery which comes with after-dinner composing; a sort of mental starvation, an anæmic scantiness of similes, which follows the fruit luncheon and cold water of necessity. Adventurers, gentlemen, are you? That is to say you are people with wits. Tell me, then--bring me an idea from the practical world--how shall I make ten thousand people buy a copy of my poems?"

"Come, that's an interesting problem," Harvey Grimm declared. "Of course, if one were to answer you in a single word, that one would be advertisement."

"If I could write my name across the heavens, or flash it from a million lights through the clouds," the young man remarked, "I would do so, but these things call for either miraculous powers or money. I have neither."

"Your case," Harvey Grimm promised, "shall have our attention, my friend's and mine. In the meantime, the moment seems opportune, pending the arrival of our chops, for a glance at your work. Permit me."

The poetaster crossed his legs, leaned back in his chair, thrust an eyeglass into his eye, and turned over the pages of the paper volume which he had been carrying. Aaron Rodd followed his example. The poet, entirely unembarrassed, eyed hungrily each covered dish which passed. At the arrival of the meal, Harvey Grimm solemnly pocketed his book and replaced his eyeglass. Aaron Rodd went on reading for a moment. Then he glanced surreptitiously at their guest and laid his volume face downwards upon the table.

"Your poems, I perceive," Harvey Grimm observed, as he helped himself to a potato, "are not written for the man in the street."

"They are written," the poet declared, falling hungrily upon his chop, "for any one who will pay eightpence for them."

Conversation faded away. It was not until the service of coffee and cigars that anything more than disjointed words were spoken. The young man's face was still colourless but his eyes were less hard. He took out his pencil and toyed for a moment with the menu.

"Some little trifle," he suggested, "commemorative of the occasion?"

"I would rather," Harvey Grimm confessed, "think out some scheme for advertising your work. There's a little thing here about a lame 'busman----"

"Any scheme you suggest," the young man assented dreamily. "I frankly admit that the dispersal of my productions is a matter in which I have failed. The appreciative few may have purchased but the man of the day passes on, ignorant of the great need he really has of poetry. Ten thousand copies of my poems, sold in London, would produce at once a more gracious spirit. You would observe a difference in the deportment, the speech, the greater altruism of the multitude. How shall I force my works into their hands and their eightpences into my pocket?"

"Fourpence only," Aaron Rodd reminded him. "The publishers get half."

"In the event of a large circulation," the poet pointed out, with a wave of the hand, "better terms might be arrived at. You, as a legal man, can appreciate that possibility."

"There is only one idea which occurs to me," Harvey Grimm declared, after a brief pause. "Come and we will make an experiment."

They marched out into the streets and walked solemnly along towards Leicester Square. Suddenly Harvey Grimm stopped short and accosted a small, grey-haired man who was carrying a bag and walking quickly.

"I beg your pardon, sir," the former began.

"What is it?" the little man demanded.

Harvey Grimm took him gently by the lapel of his coat. The little man seemed too surprised to resist.

"I want the privilege of a few minutes' conversation with you," Harvey Grimm continued. "You are one of the uneducated ten thousand who, on behalf of my friend here, Stephen Cresswell, the great poet, I am anxious to reach. Have you read Cresswell's poems?"

"I am in a hurry," the little man insisted, gazing at his interlocutor in a bewildered manner, and struggling to escape.

"The whole world is in a hurry," Harvey Grimm observed, drawing the paper volume from his pocket with the other hand. "This volume of poems will cost you eightpence. It will bring relief to its impoverished author, you yourself will become an enlightened----"

"I wish you'd let me go," the little man protested angrily. "I don't know you, and I don't want to stand about the streets, talking to a stranger. Let me go or I'll call a policeman."

"A policeman can afford you no assistance," Harvey Grimm assured him. "I shall remain polite but insistent. You will buy this volume of poems for eightpence, or----"

"Or what?" his victim demanded.

Harvey Grimm leaned down and whispered in his ear. The little man's hand shot into his pocket. He produced sixpence and two coppers, snatched at the book and hurried off. The victor in this little rencontre turned to his companions with an air of triumph and handed the eightpence to the poet, who immediately pocketed it.

"The whole problem is solved," he declared.

"You are a great man, sir," the poet exclaimed, grasping him by the hand, "but what was it you whispered in his ear?"

"I simply told him," Harvey Grimm said blandly, "that I should biff him one. The cost of a new hat is ten and sixpence; the price of your poems is eightpence."

"You are a great man, sir," the poet repeated heartily. "Watch the newspapers."

* * * * *

With a bunch of early violets in his buttonhole, neatly and correctly dressed from the crown of his hat to his patent boots, Mr. Harvey Grimm, one morning about a fortnight later, turned down the narrow street which led to his friend Aaron Rodd's office. He took a few steps and paused in surprise. A little crowd encumbered the pavement in front of him. There were at least half a dozen taxicabs waiting by the side of the pavement. A printer's van was busy unloading. A constant procession, consisting chiefly of elderly and middle-aged men, were entering and leaving the little book-shop. Waiting his turn, Harvey Grimm stepped in. The whole of the central table was taken up by great piles of a little paper-covered volume, recognisable at once as the Poetical Works of Stephen Cresswell, and as fast as the flow of customers could be served, they departed with one or more copies in their pockets. The young lady whose hair was more untidy than ever, and who wore a stupefied air, doled them out in doll-like and mechanical fashion. She had lost her air of superiority. She pointed no longer to the sketches upon the walls or the pottery beyond. She behaved like a dazed automaton. Now and then Harvey Grimm could hear her reply to enquiries.

"There will be a cloth edition of Mr. Cresswell's works out in a few days," she said. "The printers have promised them by the end of the week."

In the background were two very obvious newspaper men, waiting so far unsuccessfully to get in a word with her. Mr. Harvey Grimm elbowed his way by some means or other into the line, paid his eightpence and retired into the recesses of the little suite of rooms beyond for a moment's breathing-space. A rush of at least a dozen old gentlemen had made exit temporarily impossible. As he stood and watched the scene, he was conscious of a fashionably dressed young man lounging in an easy chair a few yards away. The young man suddenly arose.

"My benefactor!" he cried.

Harvey Grimm gripped his copy of poems tightly and held it up.

"Pax!" he exclaimed. "I have one."

The poet smiled wearily. He drew his erstwhile patron a little further back into the most retired portion of the premises.

"Listen," he said, "this has been the most stupendous, the most colossal joke of the day. On the first night I sandbagged a wholesale provision merchant who admitted that he had never read my poems, and he wrote to _The Times_ the next morning. I made myself objectionable to seven others the following night. They, too, made various complaints. After that I retired--their description of my identity was becoming embarrassing."

Mr. Harvey Grimm was a little puzzled.

"But the thing has been going on right up till last night," he declared. "The papers for days have been a source of joy to me."

"After the first few nights," the young man explained, "I was compelled to engage substitutes. I have acquaintances whose life has been spent--shall we say on the fringe of things? With their aid I made the acquaintance of various professional gentlemen from the east end, who for a suitable remuneration took up this business with avidity. They were of all sizes and they operated in all localities, choosing their victims, so far as possible, with discretion. There was but one question--'Have you read the poems of Stephen Cresswell?'--generally a bewildered negative and then biff! The people began frantically to enquire who was Stephen Cresswell, where were his poems to be obtained? People who had the slightest pretensions to literary knowledge were assailed with questions. _Punch_----"

"I saw _Punch_," Mr. Harvey Grimm interrupted. "Very clever!"

"Then the stream began," the young man continued. "I can assure you that from the opening time till dark this place is mobbed. You see, on the third night a confederate was saved from an imaginary assault by promptly producing a copy of my poems. He wrote to the paper in mock indignation but describing his escape. Then the rush began. Eleven thousand copies have been sold, some at a premium. Eleven thousand fourpences have found their way into my pocket. A morocco-bound and vellum-covered edition are waiting in the press for one thing."

"And that?"

"The name of my benefactor. I wish to dedicate the third, fourth and fifth editions of my poems to you," the young man declared grandiloquently.

Mr. Harvey Grimm pondered.

"It is an immense compliment," he acknowledged. "We will talk of it."

"In the meantime," the poet went on, "listen. The curse of these days is jealousy and imitation. A young man of worthy upbringing but wholly ignorant of art, who perpetrated the daubs which you see upon the walls here, was struck with my success. Only last Thursday an elderly gentleman, such a one as might have been selected by my own employés, was stopped in Hampstead and asked whether he had seen the sketches of Sidney Wentworth, displayed in Manchester Street, Adelphi. The fool admitted that he had never heard of them and down he went. I ask you, sir, was there ever a more flagrant case of spoiling a man's market? From the moment this absurd affair was reported, public feeling has begun to change. Curiously enough, there has been very small resentment, even on the part of those who have suffered slight pains in the cause of art, as to my methods. Now, however, that the idea has commenced to spread that such means are becoming a regular curriculum of the advertiser, I have noticed distinct expressions of indignation. In plain words, I can see the end coming."

"Nothing lasts," Mr. Harvey Grimm pointed out, "and you must admit you've had a run for your money."

"I've had more than that, sir," the poet admitted. "I am established. Many of the leading periodicals of the day, including _Titbits_ and the _London Mail_, have invited me to contribute to their pages. The Society of Authors has made me a tempting proposition to join their ranks. You may look upon me, sir, as a man whose future is now assured."

"I am delighted to hear it," Mr. Harvey Grimm declared heartily. "I fear I must now be getting on."

The young man took down, his hat, possessed himself of a pair of expensive doeskin gloves and a silver-topped cane.

"I will let you out by the back way," he suggested. "It is my desire to accompany you."

"I am going to call upon a friend in the neighbourhood," Harvey Grimm remarked.

"The friend with whom I met you first?"

"The same."

"I shall accompany you," the young man announced, cautiously opening a side door and peering up and down a stone-flagged passage. "The way is clear, sir. Come with me."

They sallied out and found themselves in the street. The young man gripped the arm of his companion.

"For the moment," he confessed, "I am weary of poetry. I seek life. You are an adventurer, you have told me. I shall link my fortune with yours. You have a brain, sir, enterprise, and I should imagine that you are untrammelled by the modern conscience. I am in the same position. Poetry is affording me, for some time, at least, the means of sustenance. Let us go together a little further afield."

The older man looked his companion up and down. He was a strong, well-built young fellow, and the hollows of his cheeks had already filled out. Notwithstanding his mannerisms, he was without doubt a young man of resolution.

"We will see," Harvey Grimm suggested, "what Aaron Rodd has to say about it."

"I like your friend's name," the young man declared solemnly. "I am sure that he will accept me as a comrade."

They trod the few remaining yards of pavement, ascended the stone stairs, and, after a preliminary knock at the door, Harvey Grimm, exercising the privilege of familiarity, turned the handle and stepped inside, followed by his companion. For a single moment neither of them spoke. Harvey Grimm's first conscious action was to close the door behind him. Then they stood inside the apartment, transfixed. Around them was a scene of the wildest disorder. The linoleum had been torn up and thrown into a corner, planks had been torn bodily from the floor, the cupboards stood open and their contents were thrown right and left. The little row of tin boxes stood on their sides, and masses of dusty parchment littered the whole place. Seated in his chair before the desk was Aaron Rodd, with a gag in his mouth, his arms bound behind him, his legs tied together. His face was livid, his eyes half closed. He showed no signs of life at their coming. The poet produced a knife.

"We must set him free," he said.

His companion, subconsciously amazed at the young man's initiative, followed him to the desk. Methodically the latter, having removed the gag from Aaron Rodd's mouth, cut the bonds which held him, one by one. Harvey Grimm produced a small brandy flask and held it to his lips. The poet threw open a window and swung the chair round. Aaron Rodd groaned.

"He is coming to," Cresswell remarked hopefully.

He caught up a sheaf of newspapers and fanned the swooning man vigorously. Then he suddenly paused. Harvey Grimm followed the direction of his gaze. A sheet of violet-coloured note-paper was pinned upon the desk. The poet sniffed.

"What a delicious odour!" he murmured. "And how familiar!"

They both approached a little nearer. The sheet of note-paper, fluttering a little in the breeze which streamed through the window, gave out the subtlest and most delicate perfume, a perfume which seemed like a waft from a field of violets, carried on a west wind. There were only a few words, written in a delicate feminine handwriting:--

"_Should there not be honour, even amongst thieves?_"

The young man struck a theatrical attitude.

"Fate has sent me to join you," he declared, waving his hand towards the sheet of violet-coloured paper. "I recognise the handwriting. I know well the perfume. I can tell you who wrote that note."

_Chapter III_ _An Alliance of Thieves_

Aaron Rodd was walking along the, to him, unfamiliar thoroughfare of Bond Street when he was suddenly confronted with a vision. A large limousine motor-car was drawn up just in front of him. An elderly lady with white hair, leaning upon the arm of a powdered footman, crossed the pavement, followed by a girl who was smothered in sables, carried a small dog under her arm, and wore a great bunch of violets partially concealed by her furs. Aaron Rodd's abrupt pause was not one of politeness alone. With an eagerness which took no account of manners or discretion, he gazed at the girl, open-eyed, open-mouthed, blankly, unashamed. If anything were left to complete his bewilderment, it was the little smile upon her lips as she met his eyes.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Aaron Rodd!" she murmured, as she passed.

She disappeared through the swing doors of the shop. Aaron stared after her as though expecting a backward glance, stared at the very handsome motor-car, at what appeared to be a coronet upon the panel, at the imperturbable expression of the powdered footman, standing with a rug over his arm, looking into vacancy. Then he limped on a few feet and devoted himself to an absorbed contemplation of some Japanese trifles in a curio shop.

He lost count of time in his firm determination to await her return. As a matter of fact, it was only a few minutes before he was conscious of her reappearance. She hesitated for a moment on the threshold of the shop, shook her head at the footman who was already opening the door of the car, and approached Aaron Rodd. He turned abruptly from the window and greeted her with grave politeness. She glanced at his left arm, still in a sling; at the heavy walking-stick by which he supported himself.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Rodd," she said. "You have met, perhaps, with a little accident? It is so?"

"Your friends were a little rough," he replied.

"I shall be annoyed with them," she promised. "You received my message?"

"Certainly," he replied. "On the whole I agree with you."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"And what are you doing in Bond Street?" she asked him.

"I am on my way to meet my friend Harvey Grimm."

She nodded.

"That is your clever confederate, who stole our diamond," she remarked suavely.

"A very fortunate circumstance for you," he ventured to remind her. "If that stone--the real one, I mean--had been discovered in your possession at the police-station, I fancy that your position in this country would have become a little difficult."

"Oh, la, la!" she laughed. "You should have seen the face of Mr. Brodie though, when they examined the imitation stone! I do not think that the English police are pleased with him. They were very kind to my grandfather and me."

"Nevertheless," he advised, "if I were your brother, I think that I would keep away from London just now."

"And why?"

Aaron Rodd glanced up and down the pavement to be sure that there were no listeners.

"That fellow Brodie is not such a fool as he seems," he declared. "He has made one mistake. I do not think that he is likely to make another."

She laughed.

"If it is to be a duel of wits," she murmured, "between Leopold and Mr. Brodie, do you know, I believe that Leopold will win."

"There is such a thing as over-confidence," he reminded her.

"I have so many ways," she told him, with twinkling eyes, "of diverting these people from the scent. Do you recognise the old lady upon whom I am in attendance to-day, the old lady who went with me into that shop?"

"I have not that pleasure," he replied grimly. "Is she one of the gang?"

"She is a royal princess--the Princess Augusta. If you do not believe me, look in this week's _Tatler_ and you will see her picture--perhaps mine. You are a very funny man, Mr. Aaron Rodd, and you have treated us very badly indeed, but I like you--yes, I like you quite well. How much money did you get for that stone you stole from us?"

The colour mounted mercilessly to his temples. He seemed suddenly bereft of words.

"Do not be foolish," she continued quickly. "Really, as you know, I am an adventuress myself, and I rather admire you both. I think that we ought to make friends. You could be of great service to us. There is no need for us to quarrel because you have had the best of this first little exchange. What do you say to that, my friend?"

Aaron Rodd found himself and became once more a man. He looked her squarely in the eyes.

"I would rather be friends with you," he said, "than any one in the world."

For a moment the triumph was his. It was she who was almost embarrassed by his directness. Then intervention came.

"Ah!" she exclaimed, "the Princess! Au revoir!"

She stepped lightly away from him, with a little nod of farewell. The footman stood bare-headed as he opened the door of the car. One of the principals of the establishment which the grey-haired lady had just quitted stood bowing upon the pavement. In the face of all this, the girl turned deliberately around and waved her hand as the car drove off. Aaron Rodd limped down Bond Street, called for a taxi and drove to the Milan Court....

His two auditors listened to Aaron Rodd's story with varying expressions--the poet with pleased and affable sympathy; Harvey Grimm, on the other hand, with obvious irritation. They were seated in a corner of the smoke-room and the latter at once despatched a waiter for a copy of the _Tatler_. When it arrived, they all three pored over one of the leading illustrations. There was no doubt whatever in the minds of any of the three men as to the identity of the girl who was depicted as being amongst the ladies-in-waiting of a royal personage.

"That," the poet declared, "is a young lady whose name is Henriette de Floge. She has an underhand service at Badminton and she wants to learn to be a futurist. She attended a class last year, organised by an artist friend of mine in Chelsea. Ye gods!"

"That, without a single doubt," Aaron Rodd assented, laying his forefinger upon the illustration, "is the young lady who was in attendance this afternoon upon the Princess Augusta."

"And it is equally and absolutely and conclusively certain," Harvey Grimm pronounced, "that she came to Manchester Street, Adelphi, as the confederate of Jeremiah Sands."

"Who," the poet asked eagerly, "is Jeremiah Sands? I like the name."

"Jeremiah Sands," Harvey Grimm told him, "is the head and brains of the smallest but most formidable band of criminals who have ever succeeded in eluding justice for nearly ten years. There is a reward of twenty-five thousand dollars for his arrest in America, and he is wanted in most of the capitals of Europe. He has a dozen aliases and a score of personalities. This much about him is certain. He is either of Belgian or French birth, he is a young man, and he has spent the greater part of the last seven years in America. The universal excuse given by the police of every country for their failure to apprehend him, is that for at any rate the last five years he has simply accumulated his booty and has made no effort to dispose of it. As you know, most of the thieves of the world are traced backwards through the receiver of stolen goods. His last exploit in New York was the theft of the Van Hutten jewels. It was, without a doubt, one of those diamonds which was mislaid in Aaron Rodd's office, and it was one of Jeremiah Sands' agents who paid our friend here that last domiciliary visit in search of it."

"What, by the by, became of that diamond?" the poet enquired.

"We are living upon it," Mr. Harvey Grimm confessed.

The poet sighed enviously.

"It is a beautiful existence," he declared. "When are we going to embark upon another adventure of the sort?"

"The aftermath of the last one is still enveloping us," Mr. Harvey Grimm reminded him. "There is Scotland Yard, who have seen the imitation stone and who suspect us of changing it. Then there is Mr. Jeremiah Sands, who knows that we did, and who is only just beginning to realise that we have been clever enough to dispose of it. Finally, there is Mr. Brodie, the amateur detective, who has the same idea and who is furious with us for letting him down with the authorities. Between the three, you see, our position is a little difficult. Personally, I am much interested in our friend Aaron's account of his conversation with the young lady. Her suggestion of some measure of alliance appeals to me."

"And me," the poet agreed. "Let us approach them at once. I should like to come into contact with this Jeremiah Sands."

There was a brief interval whilst a waiter deposited before them a tray of cocktails, subtly ordered by the poet by means of sundry evolutions with his forefinger. Afterwards, Mr. Harvey Grimm sat for a few moments in silence, smoothing out his immaculate doeskin gloves.

"Listen," he said presently, after a cautious glance around the room, "I will tell you my impressions. Jeremiah Sands has never been caught, for two reasons--first, because he has stored up all his booty and has never been in the hands of the receivers; secondly, because he has hiding-places in every capital of Europe, all of them safer than London or New York. At the present moment he is like a rabbit which has been ferreted out of its hole. Europe is suddenly closed to him. He has been driven to London. He is ill at ease here. He has lost many of his agents. To maintain his Belgian nationality he has been forced into the army. The perfect machinery of his wonderful system must be seriously dislocated. The time, too, has probably arrived when he finds it necessary to dispose of some of his plunder. Let us offer him a tentative amity."

Aaron Rodd frowned.

"Do you think that he would trust us after that last little affair? I don't mind being the thief or the thief-catcher," he added bluntly, "but I rather hate being the third party."

"The only party we have to consider is ourselves," Harvey Grimm replied deliberately. "To tell you the truth, I fear that we have lost the confidence of Paul Brodie. I am not sure whether it would be worth our while to try and regain it. The sharing of rewards is a poor game. I would rather hear what Jeremiah Sands has to say."

He took up his pencil and scrawled a few lines across a half sheet of note-paper. They both looked over his shoulder:--

"_If the young lady with violets would like to resume her conversation with a certain person in Bond Street this morning, please reply in Friday's 'Telegraph.'_"

"I propose," Mr. Harvey Grimm explained, "to insert this in to-morrow morning's _Telegraph_, to send a copy to Mr. Brinnen and await results."

"Brilliant!" the poet exclaimed. "It gives the proper flavour to the whole thing. But why not write a note and send it up by the waiter?"

Mr. Harvey Grimm smiled.

"My young friend," he said, "you are an adventurer of the bull-dog type. Let me tell you this. I happen to know it to be a fact. From the moment when Mr. Paul Brodie communicated his suspicions as to our friends, to Scotland Yard, their every movement, and without doubt their correspondence, has been closely watched. I will guarantee to you that not a letter is delivered to either Captain Leopold Brinnen, to Mr. Brinnen or to the young lady, which does not run a very considerable risk of being opened."

The poet listened with a pleased smile.

"I like the flavour of this sort of thing," he acknowledged. "Let us insert the advertisement, by all means. If the young lady suggests a meeting, I shall recommend myself as the most suitable person to keep the appointment."

* * * * *

Soon after midday, two mornings later, Mr. Stephen Cresswell entered the smoking-room at the Milan. He was carrying a _Daily Telegraph_ under his arm, he wore a bunch of violets in his buttonhole, and he was dressed with great care. He approached the table where Harvey Grimm and Aaron Rodd were awaiting him.

"You, too, have seen the answer to our advertisement?" he exclaimed. "Capital!"

"We were just now discussing it," Harvey Grimm assented.

The poet sat down, made signs to the waiter, hitched up his trousers and made himself thoroughly comfortable.

"I have decided," he announced, "that I am the proper person to entertain the young lady."

Harvey Grimm nodded thoughtfully.

"Tell us through what channel of thought, my young friend, you have arrived at that conclusion?" he begged.

The poet straightened his tie. There was no doubt that he was a remarkably good-looking young man.

"I am a modest person," he said, "but it is useless to deny that nature has been kind to me. Then, too, there is a peculiar and romantic importance attached to the successful poet whose reputation has been enhanced in so singular a fashion. The young lady will be interested in me from the start. She will be proud to remember that we are old acquaintances, and she will treat me with greater confidence than any ordinary person."

Harvey Grimm lit a cigarette deliberately. Aaron Rodd's heavy eyebrows seemed to have contracted a little.

"Why are you so sure that it will be the young lady who will keep the appointment?" the former enquired.

Stephen Cresswell placed his forefinger upon the advertisement in the paper which he had been carrying:--

_Milan Café, luncheon,_ 1.15 _Wednesday. Will discuss. Bond Street._

"That tells us nothing," Harvey Grimm pointed out. "So far as the probabilities are concerned, I should say that it is extremely unlikely that either the young lady or any of those associated with her will keep the appointment. Any negotiations we may have will probably be conducted through a third party."

The poet's face fell. He ordered another cocktail brusquely.

"How shall we know whom to look out for, then?" he demanded.

"The onus of recognition will rest with the others," Harvey Grimm replied. "I have engaged a table just inside the door. We shall take our places there before one-fifteen and await the arrival of whoever may come."

"In case it should be the young lady," the poet persisted, "you would find that my previous acquaintance with her would be of immense service to us. She would place confidence in me."

"You shall be of the party," Harvey Grimm promised. "I have ordered the table for five, so as to be on the safe side. I do not understand our friends selecting a place for a meeting, but, on the other hand, there is a flavour of genius in such apparent recklessness. If you are ready, I think it is time that we made a start."

They strolled down to the café and took their places at a table just inside the door. At precisely a quarter past one a little tremor of excitement suddenly unloosed their tongues.

"My God!" Harvey Grimm muttered.

"They must be mad!" Aaron Rodd whispered, in a hoarse undertone.

"It is Henriette de Floge," Stephen Cresswell murmured complacently. "You will perceive soon the advantage of my presence."

The girl approached their table smilingly. She was followed by the young officer in Belgian uniform. The three men rose to their feet. She smiled pleasantly at Aaron Rodd.

"You have not yet met my brother, have you?" she asked. "Let me present Captain Leopold Brinnen--Mr. Aaron Rodd, Mr. Harvey Grimm, and----"

She paused, with her eyes fixed questioningly upon the poet. The young officer had brought his heels together and bowed ceremoniously to the two men.

"I am not, I hope, forgotten," the poet observed. "My name is Stephen Cresswell. I have had the pleasure of playing Badminton with you in Walter Donne's studio."

She looked across at him with slightly upraised eyebrows, the faint tracings of a somewhat insolent smile at the corners of her lips.

"Badminton? Is that an English game? I perceive that I have a double. I have not played it."

"You are Mademoiselle de Floge?" the poet persisted.

She shook her head gently.

"On the contrary," she replied, "I am Henriette Brinnen. Leopold, this is Mr. Stephen Cresswell."

They all took their places, the poet a little heavily. His stupefaction, even though it proceeded from a different cause, was only a little less profound than that of the other two. Mr. Harvey Grimm took up the menu once more and gave a few murmured orders to the _maître d'hôtel_. Aaron Rodd, who was on her right-hand side, leaned towards the girl. His face was almost haggard with anxiety.

"Forgive me," he whispered, "but is this wise? Have you counted the cost of it?"

"I do not understand," she answered, a little vaguely.

"You know that we are all watched," he reminded her. "We thought it best even not to communicate with you direct."

"You three are such droll men," she laughed. "There is your nice-looking friend, Mr. Stephen Cresswell, who sits there and will not take his eyes off me. He does not believe that he has never met me before. And Mr. Harvey Grimm--well, he does not seem a nervous person, does he, and just now he is almost pale. And you, too--you speak with bated breath of risks and being watched. How, then, do you carry through your great coups, my friend? Have you not learnt the first axiom of the adventurer--there is nothing which dispels suspicion so readily as candour?"

Aaron Rodd shrugged his shoulders and busied himself with the task of attending to his companion's wants. Conversation around the little table became platitudinal. The three men, although they behaved in all respects reasonably, were unable to keep their thoughts and attention from wandering continually towards their slim, grave-looking young guest in his somewhat battered uniform, who seemed chiefly engrossed with his luncheon. It was hard to believe that he sat there in one of the best-known restaurants in the world, with a great price upon his head. In some respects he was like his sister, Aaron Rodd decided, although there was a curious virility of expression which flashed sometimes into his features, and a more calculating light in his hard, clear eyes. His mouth was unusually long, straight and thin, his cheekbones a little high. One could believe that, notwithstanding his inconsiderable stature, his frame was like steel. He spoke English very deliberately, with now and then the slightest American accent, but on the few occasions when he addressed his sister it seemed to be a relief for him to relapse into French. It was not until the coffee was served that he leaned a little towards Harvey Grimm and dispelled by a few words the atmosphere of unreality which had somehow or other hovered over the little luncheon-party.

"Sir," he proposed, "let us approach the object of this meeting."

"With pleasure," Harvey Grimm assented.

"For some reason or other," the young man continued, "my sister, although, as we know to our cost, her acquaintance with you so far has not been altogether profitable, has confidence in you. Let us speak frankly. You gentlemen, I believe, are what is generally known as _chevaliers d'Industrie_?"

There was a sudden flush of colour in Aaron Rodd's cheeks. The poet, who was a little sullen, distinctly scowled. Only Harvey Grimm bowed placidly, seemingly unconscious of the faint note of contempt in the other's tone.

"In the ordinary sense of the word, that is true," he admitted.

"Consider, then, our position," the young man continued. "My grandfather and sister, whom I meet again after an absence of some years, owing to the haste with which they were compelled to leave Belgium, are almost penniless. My own--savings consist of perhaps half a million pounds' worth of diamonds. These jewels," he went on, knocking the ash from his cigarette, "have all been stolen. They can only be disposed of in an irregular fashion. That is to say, the stones must be recut. In normal times, this problem would present no difficulties to me. To-day, when London is the only capital of Europe open to us, I must admit that I find myself in a difficult position. The few artificers in this country are, I understand, well known and watched. I am bound, therefore, to employ an agent. Under the peculiar circumstances to which I have alluded, I cannot seek for an honest man. I am prepared to make it worth the while of men such as yourselves to deal honestly with me."

"My brother has your English gift of plain speech, you see," the girl whispered soothingly to Aaron Rodd.

The young officer lit a fresh cigarette and watched the smoke curl upward for a moment.

"Surely it is best?" he said softly. "These gentlemen are at the present moment living, and living, no doubt, exceedingly well, upon the proceeds of one of my diamonds. They should not, therefore, be sensitive."

"I may be allowed to remind you, sir," Harvey Grimm interrupted, "that, incidentally, the little artifice by means of which we secured it is responsible for your unhindered presence here to-day."

"I take that fact into consideration," Leopold Brinnen assented, "in the toleration with which I view the circumstance. The point is, are you willing to deal with me?"

"I am perfectly willing to do so, sir," Harvey Grimm replied. "I am willing, too, and so, I am sure, are my friends, to take a certain amount of risk. I may add that I am probably the only man in England who can dispose of your jewels so that they cannot be traced, but before we proceed further, let me ask you a question. Are you aware, sir, of your position? There is an amateur detective here from New York, named Paul Brodie, who has no other object in life than to lay his hands upon a certain person. Scotland Yard, although just now they are a little fed up with Mr. Brodie, have very definite intentions with regard to the same person. You are living here openly. You are even flaunting your well-known Belgian uniform. There are eyes upon us as we sit at this table. There are eyes upon you and your sister and your grandfather, from the moment you rise in the morning till the moment you retire at night. Your rooms are at all times subject or liable to be searched. Any place you might visit is liable to be searched. Let me ask you, then, a plain question. More than any other quality I admire courage. Don't you think, however, that you are playing a little too near to the fire?"

The young officer stroked his thin black moustache. He had listened to Harvey Grimm's words attentively. He even indicated, in the slow movement of his head, some measure of approbation.

"To all that you have said, Mr. Harvey Grimm, I can make you only one reply," he said. "Every step which I have taken in life has been carefully thought out. The present position, although necessity has here intervened to some extent, has been subject to the same attentive consideration. I am safer than you think. Let that be enough. That I have friends is proved by the little visitation which was made upon Mr. Aaron Rodd the other day. I offer you no apologies, sir," he continued, bowing across the table. "It was part of the game. When we thrust the law outside our lives, as you have done and I, then we must take our knocks philosophically. For the future, however, even though we play the thieves' game, there is no reason why we should not play it honestly."

"A very admirable sentiment," the poet murmured.

"To put this matter upon a business basis, Mr. Grimm," Captain Brinnen continued, "supposing I supply you with a certain quantity of diamonds, will you guarantee to have them cut as so to render them unrecognisable, dispose of them, hand me two-thirds of the proceeds and retain a third yourself?"

"I have worked before upon those terms," Harvey Grimm replied. "I accept them. There is one little matter, though, to be cleared up."

Captain Brinnen smiled grimly.

"I fancy that I follow you," he observed. "You refer to the mysterious disappearance of a diamond from your friend's office?"

Harvey Grimm coughed.

"Bearing in mind, as I took the liberty of pointing out a few minutes ago, that its disappearance saved you from considerable inconvenience----" he began.

"The affair is finished," Brinnen interrupted. "Carry out faithfully the other transactions which we may arrange, and we will adopt--shall I say a resigned attitude?--with regard to that incident. When are you prepared to deal with the first parcel of stones?"

"At any moment," Harvey Grimm promised. "You will bring them to me?"

The girl, who had been listening eagerly to their conversation, leaned across the table.

"I think," she said, "that this time you had better come and fetch them, Mr. Grimm, or, better still--send Mr. Aaron Rodd."

"Or me," the poet suggested.

She shook her head.

"It is to be Mr. Aaron Rodd," she decided. "You will not be afraid?" she added, turning towards him with a little smile at the corners of her lips.

"Where am I to come to, and when?" he enquired.

She glanced at her brother, then back again towards her neighbour.

"I shall tell you presently," she whispered.

The little party broke up shortly afterwards. The hall outside, where they lingered to make their adieux, was unusually crowded. Harvey Grimm felt a touch upon his elbow.

"A pleasant luncheon, I trust?"

He frowned as he recognised Brodie, who was apparently waiting for a friend. It was exactly the meeting which he had desired to avoid. He greeted him, however, with his customary geniality.

"Lunching late, aren't you?" he observed.

Brodie seemed scarcely to hear him. His eyes were fixed upon the young Belgian, who, with his arm in a sling, was being helped carefully into his overcoat. Suddenly, however, he stretched out his arm, laid it upon Harvey Grimm's shoulder and drew him to within whispering distance.

"See here, Harvey," he muttered, "I don't know what game you're playing, but if any man tries to boost me, he's going to have a rough journey."

Harvey Grimm was shocked.

"My dear fellow!----" he began.

"Don't waste your breath," the other interrupted, as he turned away. "Remember I've got my eye on you, as well as our friend there. It may be a waiting game, but you'll find me there at the finish, sure as my name's Paul Brodie."

He strode off towards the telephone booth. Harvey Grimm found his hand gripped by his guest.

"My sister and I thank you for a very excellent luncheon, Mr. Grimm," Captain Brinnen said politely. "I trust that you will soon give us an opportunity of repaying your hospitality."

"You will come to me," the girl whispered in Aaron Rodd's ear, "at number thirteen, Grosvenor Square, this afternoon at five o'clock...."

The poet was inclined to be peevish as the three men walked down the Strand.

"In this adventure," he declared, "I do not see where I come in. Aaron Rodd is to go and fetch the diamonds, and probably have tea with the beautiful young lady who has changed her name, and you," he went on, addressing Harvey Grimm, "thereupon vanish with the stones to your mysterious treasure-house and return with the gold. I am simply not in it. I might as well not exist."

"It is regrettable but true," Harvey Grimm assented. "Remember, however, that you are a self-invited new-comer to our little circle. A place shall be found for you presently. I can promise you that the cycle of our adventures will not be ended with the realisation of Jeremiah Sands' diamonds. This affair, unfortunately, presents no opportunity for your activities. I do not propose, even, to offer you more than a trifling share in the financial results."

"Financially," the poet announced airily, "I am independent. The taste for my poetry has spread like a forest fire. There will be a trifle of mine, by the by, in the _Pall Mall_ to-night. Don't forget to look out for it."

Harvey Grimm for once was unsympathetic.

"Look here," he said, stopping suddenly, "I wish you'd forget your poetry for a few minutes. There is just one way you can make yourself useful. You saw a sleek, podgy, bulky, fat-faced looking man, with hair brushed back, who spoke to me in the hall at the Milan?"

The poet nodded.

"I remember," he murmured, "wishing that you would allow me to edit your acquaintances."

"That man," Harvey Grimm continued, "was Paul Brodie, an amateur detective. He has set himself the task of bringing about the arrest of Jeremiah Sands. He came to Europe with that idea. It was he who had the old gentleman and his daughter taken to the police-station from my rooms. We have been working together, but he's out with us now, and he blames us for that fiasco. I should like to know why he is still hanging about the Milan Court."

"I will return there," the poet promised. "I will endeavour to engage him in conversation."

Harvey Grimm smiled pityingly.

"Oh, my ingenuous youth!" he murmured. "Your ideas of tackling a detective are bright and engaging, yet, do your best. The very imbecility of your methods may lead to success. I should very much like to know where Paul Brodie is proposing to spend this afternoon."

Cresswell nodded in mysterious fashion and left them. Harvey Grimm passed his arm through his friend's, as they turned into the little street which led down to Aaron's Rodd's offices.

"Aaron," he said earnestly, "if your little expedition this afternoon should by any chance involve you in any manner of trouble, remember that there's one golden motto--silence. You make a cult of it in private life. If anything should happen to you--don't depart from it."

* * * * *

At precisely the appointed hour, Aaron Rodd was shown by a footman in deep black livery into a small but charmingly-furnished room in the largest house which he had ever entered. On his way thither he had caught the sound of many voices, laughing and talking, the tinkling of teacups, the scraping of a violin. Evidently some sort of reception was in progress, for outside a canvas shelter was stretched to the curbstone, and a long row of automobiles and carriages was in evidence. It was almost ten minutes before the door was abruptly opened and Henriette Brinnen appeared. She had changed her clothes since luncheon, and was wearing a gown of some soft grey material, and a large hat with black feathers. In her hand she was carrying a small brown paper package, sealed at both ends. The little smile with which she welcomed him was bewildering.

"I have kept you waiting," she exclaimed, "and I must send you away again quickly! Believe me, I am not always so inhospitable. This afternoon, as it happens, Madame is receiving and I must help her. I would ask you to come and be presented but it is more important that you proceed swiftly with your mission."

"Of course," he assented, taking the parcel from her hand.

"Tell me first," she begged, keeping her fingers upon the closed door, "why were you so sad and silent all luncheon-time?"

He laughed a little hardly, hesitated, and was suddenly frank.

"Because," he told her, "I have not yet got used to my new rôle in life."

"But it is amusing, surely?"

"Perhaps I am old-fashioned," he sighed. "I rather resent being driven into the crooked ways."

"You are thinking only of yourself, then?"

"To be perfectly truthful," he assured her, "I was thinking very little of myself. I am afraid for you."

"But why for me?"

"Because you are reckless," he answered. "Your brother may be the cleverest adventurer who ever kept the police at arm's length, but there is always the risk. You cannot go on playing a part for ever. You may hide at the Milan Court and call yourself what you will, and the chances are with you, but to borrow some one else's identity, to advertise yourself as the companion of a reigning princess, to occupy a position of trust and favour in her household and help to receive her guests, how long do you think that will go on?"

She laughed at him but her eyes were full of kindness.

"You speak only of my brother's cleverness," she said. "Is that because I am a woman? Let me assure you, my dear friend, in many ways I am his equal. Your fears are exaggerated. I am right, am I not, when I assume that your present position is new to you?"

"It is," Aaron Rodd confessed. "Until these last few weeks--until the day, in fact, when I first saw you in the Embankment Gardens and Harvey Grimm sauntered, an hour later, into my office--I have lived miserably, perhaps, but honestly."

She laughed once more in his face.

"Oh, but you are so foolish!" she murmured. "Believe me, no person is really honest. We all live upon our neighbours. There is only one thing in life which is common to all religions--honour. By honour I mean fidelity to one's friends. Take that into your heart, dear Mr. Aaron Rodd, and you can hold your head as high as any man's on earth."

He stooped and kissed her fingers as she stood by the open door, an action, curiously enough, which he had never contemplated in his life before in connection with any woman, yet which seemed to him at that moment an entirely natural proceeding.

"That, at least," he promised, "is something which I can hold on to."

He descended the stairs, the clasp of her fingers still tingling on his, was handed from the grave major-domo, who guarded the hall, to another servant, and on to the footman, who summoned a taxicab for him. He gave the address of his office and was driven promptly off. A few yards from the corner of the Square, however, the taxicab slackened speed and stopped by the side of the pavement. Almost before he realised what was happening, the door was opened. An inspector, in uniform and peaked cap, let down the vacant seat and sat opposite to him. Mr. Paul Brodie, smoking a large cigar, followed and took the place by his side. The cab went on. Aaron Rodd remained stonily silent. The eyes of the two men were fixed upon the brown paper parcel which he had had no time to conceal.

"Sorry to take you out of your way, Mr. Rodd," Brodie said, with ponderous sarcasm, "but we just want you to call for a moment at the Marlborough Street police-station. In the meantime, you wouldn't care to tell us, I suppose, what you have in that small parcel you are holding so carefully?"

Aaron Rodd sat perfectly still. A chain of wild ideas flashed through his brain, only to be instantly dismissed. He thought of throwing the parcel out of the window, hurling himself upon the two men and making a fierce struggle for liberty. There was something ignominious in the facility of his capture, in the completeness of his failure. Yet he realised perfectly well that escape by any means was hopeless, that behaviour of any sort incompatible with his supposed position would be an instant confession of guilt.

"I am engaged on confidential business on behalf of a client," he announced stiffly, "and I cannot conceive what authority you have to delay me or to ask me questions."

Mr. Brodie nodded sympathetically.

"That's perfectly correct," he admitted, "perfectly correct."

Not another word was spoken until the cab drew up outside the police-station. Mr. Brodie paid the taxicab driver, and Aaron Rodd, with an escort on either side of him, crossed the pavement, passed through the bare stone hall and into a small waiting-room. A superintendent, who was writing at a desk, glanced up as they entered. Mr. Brodie leaned down and said a few words in his ear. The former nodded and turned to Aaron Rodd.

"Have you any objection," he asked, "to our examining the parcel which you are carrying?"

"None whatever," Aaron Rodd answered coolly.

Mr. Brodie took it from him and carried it to the desk. The superintendent broke the seals and withdrew the lid from an oblong wooden jeweller's box. There was a mass of cotton-wool inside, which he hastily removed. Then his fingers suddenly stopped. He gazed downwards and frowned. Mr. Brodie's face was a study. The imprecations which broke from his lips were transatlantic and sufficing. Aaron Rodd, emboldened by their consternation, stepped forward and looked over their shoulders. At the bottom of the box reposed a small, black opal scarf-pin, the safety-chain of which was broken. The superintendent rose to his feet, whispered something sharply to Mr. Brodie, who lapsed into a gloomy silence, and turned to Aaron Rodd.

"Do you mind telling me where you were taking this box, Mr. Rodd?" he asked.

"To a jeweller's, to have the pin mended," was the prompt reply.

The superintendent replaced the wadding, thrust the lid back along its grooves, tied up the box and returned it to its owner.

"We are very sorry to have interfered with your mission," he said, "but before you leave us I am going to ask you, so that we may be perfectly satisfied, to allow me to search your person."

Aaron Rodd shrugged his shoulders.

"Pray do as you will," he consented, holding out his arms.

The superintendent went carefully through his pockets, felt his clothing and returned to his place.

"We are very sorry to have detained you, sir," he said, "the necessities of the law, you know. Inspector, get Mr. Rodd another taxi-cab."

"I know something about the law," Aaron Rodd declared, trying hard to feel that this was not some absurd nightmare, "and I still fail to realise on what possible authority you can practically arrest a solicitor leaving the house of an exceedingly distinguished client, break the seals of a private packet, and dismiss him without a word of explanation."

The superintendent glanced severely at Mr. Brodie.

"We are unfortunately in the position, Mr. Rodd," he confessed, "of having been misled by false information. We can do no more nor less than apologise. Our action, mistaken though it seems to have been, was undertaken in the interests of the law, with the profession of which you are connected. I hope, therefore, that you will be tolerant."

Aaron Rodd received his packet, wished the three men a brief "Good afternoon" and left the police-station. He drove at once to his office, where he found the poet reclining on three chairs drawn up to the window, with a block of paper in his hand and a pipe in his mouth.

"Where's Harvey Grimm?" Aaron demanded.

The poet laid down his pencil and waved his hand.

"Gone!"

"Gone? Where?"

"I have no idea," was the bland reply. "I spent an hour or two at the Milan, conversing with several friends, and incidentally looking out for Mr. Brodie. Then an idea came to me. I needed space and solitude. I thought of your empty rooms and I hastened here. If you would like to listen----"

"Damn your poetry!" Aaron Rodd interrupted. "Tell me what you mean when you say that Harvey Grimm has gone? He was to have been waiting here for me."

"As I left the Milan," the poet explained, "I enquired of the hall-porter if Mr. Harvey Grimm had returned. The man told me that not only had he returned but that he had left again in a taxicab, a few minutes afterwards. I understood the fellow to say that he had gone into the country and would not be back for several days."

Aaron Rodd put his hand to his forehead. Already a dim suspicion of the truth was finding its way into his brain. Then there was a gentle tinkle from the bell of his newly installed telephone. He took up the receiver. The voice which spoke was the voice of Harvey Grimm.

"That you, Aaron?"

"Yes!"

"Anything happened?"

"Yes!"

"It's O.K. You needn't explain. Back in about a week. So long."

Aaron Rodd laid down the receiver. He was still a little bewildered, oppressed by a certain sense of humiliation. He threw the packet which he had been carrying so carefully upon his desk and scowled.

"What's upset you?" Cresswell asked amiably.

"Seems to me I'm nothing but a cat's-paw," Aaron Rodd replied gloomily. "A messenger boy could have done my job."

"Don't worry," the poet advised. "By the by, you don't happen to know of a rhyme for silken, do you?"

The telephone bell, ringing once more, intervened to save the poet from the ink-pot which Aaron's fingers were handling longingly.

"What is it?" he demanded, taking up the receiver.

"Just a little message for Mr. Aaron Rodd, please," was the soft reply. "Please forgive me--it was so necessary. And the pin was for you--a little peace-offering. Will you please have the chain mended and wear it?"

That was all. There was no pause for any reply. The connection was finished. Aaron laid down the receiver, lit a cigarette and almost swaggered back to his desk.

"Sorry, old fellow," he said genially. "I can't seem to think of one for the moment. I'll have a try."

_Chapter IV_ _Ulysses of Wapping_

On the following morning, Aaron Rodd, somewhat to his surprise, received a visit from his only client. Mr. Jacob Potts, who was a publican and retired pugilist, and whose appearance entirely coincided with his dual profession, looked around the apartment with a little sniff.

"Ho!" he exclaimed. "Better times arrived, eh? 'Ad a spring-cleaning, 'aven't you? Telephone, too, and new chairs! Golly! Does it run to cigars?"

Aaron Rodd shamelessly offered him a box of Harvey Grimm's Cabanas. His client bit off the end of one with relish and seemed inclined to swallow it. He eventually spat it out, however, lit the cigar, and, throwing himself back in a chair, crossed his rather pudgy legs.

"Know anything about maritime law?" he began.

"Not much," Aaron Rodd admitted. "A lawyer very seldom knows anything outside his little bent," he went on. "We have great rows of books properly indexed, turn up the point and read the decisions."

"Where are your'n?" Mr. Jacob Potts enquired, looking around the somewhat bare walls.

"Pawned," Aaron Rodd confessed. "All the same, I can go into the law library and give you an answer on any point you like to put forward, within a very few minutes."

Mr. Potts nodded.

"That's why I kind of took a fancy to you years ago, when you was a nipper," he confessed. "No doubling and twisting about you. Just a straightforward answer to a straightforward question. 'Do you know anything about maritime law?' sez I. 'No,' sez you, 'but I can find out.' And so you can. Now, one of the regular kidney of you fellows'd have been messing about for half an hour and then have read it all out of a book. You never tumbled to it yet, guv'nor, did you, what my new line of business was?"

"Never," Aaron Rodd acknowledged. "From your conversation at various times I gathered that you saved money in the ring, acquired a prosperous public-house property, and were in some way or other responsible for the organisation of labour in your neighbourhood."

Mr. Jacob Potts grinned.

"Let it go at that," he decided. "Well, the point I want to know about is this. Supposing in the course of business I committed an offence against the law, you understand, and I legs it for a nootral country, you see--might be Holland, for instance--can I be 'auled off a Dutch boat in nootral waters on my way to Holland?"

"It would depend," Aaron Rodd replied, "on the nature of your offence. I will let you know your exact position, if you like to come in a little later."

"That goes," Mr. Potts agreed. "I've a call to make at a public-house in Craven Street. There's a promising lad there I saw with the gloves on for the first time in 'is life the other night. I thought of making a match with 'im against Canary Joe. 'Ave you ever seen Canary Joe box?"

"I have never seen a boxing match in my life," Aaron Rodd replied.

"Lumme!" Mr. Jacob Potts gasped. "Well, I suppose yours ain't a sporting profession. Mine is--in every sense of the word," he added with a grin. "What about twelve o'clock, guv'nor? That'll give me time to get a can of beer and some bread and cheese."

"I shall be quite ready for you at that time," Aaron Rodd promised.

The ex-publican departed, and Aaron Rodd, after giving him time to get away, followed him out into the street, spent half an hour in the nearest law library, and returned with a volume under his arm. He found the poet seated on the top of the stairs outside his rooms.

"My dear fellow," the latter exclaimed peevishly, as he rose to his feet, "this new habit of yours of locking the door after you is most inconvenient."

"Why not go to your club and wait?" Aaron Rodd suggested. "It's only a few yards away."

"Inhospitable," the other sighed, "and I have come to you filled with a most generous idea. Listen. This may seem a commonplace thing to you but to me it is an epoch in my career. I have opened a banking account."

"I noticed that the book-shop was thronged, as usual, as I came by," Aaron Rodd remarked.

"This week," the poet declared solemnly, "will practically sever my connection with the book-shop. My publishers insist upon it that my work must be distributed in the regular fashion. Henceforth, the poems of Stephen Cresswell will be on sale at every reputable bookseller's--at four and sixpence, if you please. I have also an agent, and, as I before remarked, a banking account. Things have changed with me, Aaron Rodd. Only yesterday I found myself in need of a ten-pound note, referred the matter to my publishers and found them most affable.... How are adventures this morning?"

"Nothing doing," was the prompt reply, "until Harvey Grimm comes back. My only client has been to ask me a question about maritime law. He is coming back directly."

The poet ignored the hint.

"My presence here will do you good," he pointed out. "He will perhaps take me for another client. He is not a man of culture by any chance?"

"He is not," Aaron Rodd admitted tersely; "nor is he one of those who have been whacked into reading one of your poems."

"He must have read about them, at any rate," Cresswell insisted a little irritably. "If you introduce me, you had better mention my identity. Fame so far has left me quite unspoiled. I still feel a little thrill of pleasure in noticing the effect which the mention of my name has upon strangers.... Come in," he added pleasantly, in response to a thunderous knock at the door.

The door opened and Mr. Jacob Potts entered, bringing with him a strong atmosphere of old ale and bread and cheese. To Aaron Rodd's surprise, he recognised the poet with a broad grin.

"My Ulysses of Wapping!" the latter exclaimed, holding out his hand. "What a meeting!"

Mr. Jacob Potts jerked his thumb towards Cresswell as he turned to the lawyer.

"One of my clients," he remarked.

Aaron Rodd was puzzled. He had once paid a visit to the river-side public-house over which Jacob Potts presided, and he found it hard to associate Cresswell in any way with the atmosphere there. Mr. Jacob Potts had pressed a thick forefinger to his lips.

"Mum's the word, guv'nor," he declared reassuringly. "Don't you worry."

The poet picked up his hat.

"From this gentleman," he asserted grandiloquently, "I have no secrets. To be frank with you, it was he and another friend who are responsible for those incidents in my career with which you have been professionally connected."

Mr. Jacob Potts glanced at him admiringly.

"That's 'ow 'e talks down at Wapping. Ain't it wonderful!" he observed.

Stephen Cresswell edged towards the door.

"When you have finished with our friend here," he said, addressing Aaron, "come across to the Milan. I have a proposition to make anent the opening of my banking account. It is connected with food and drink. Au revoir! Farewell, my river-side Goliath," he added, waving his hand to Jacob Potts. "Remember, our little bargain still goes."

Mr. Potts' large face was convulsed into humorous wrinkles.

"That's a queer gent.," he declared, as the door closed. "Come to me, 'e did, sometime ago--heard I'd been a bit of a bruiser and asked me to teach him a knock-out blow, something quick and not dangerous. Lord love me, I used to let 'im go on, and give 'im 'is fill o' beer, for the sake of hearing 'im talk! 'Ow I larfed when I tumbled to 'is game--me and the missis! He'd written some stuff wot no one would read, and 'is idea was to advertise it. Up you goes to an old gent at a dark corner. ''Ave you read my book?' he arsks. 'No!' sez the old gent. 'Cresswell's Poems, eightpence a copy, number thirty-two Manchester Street,' he sez, and biffs 'im one. Then other nervous old gents, 'ear about this and buys the poems, give the proper answer when they're tackled and 'ome they goes to tea. 'Oly Moses, it was a great scheme, but it was a greater before I'd done with it!"

"Where did you come in?" Aaron Rodd asked curiously.

Jacob Potts drew his chair a little closer to Aaron Rodd's desk.

"Well," he explained, "it's giving things away a bit, but to one's lawyer I don't know as it matters. I'm a kind o' provider of men as can be trusted to give any one a clout on the side of the 'ead and no questions arst. I could lay my hand at the present moment on some titty of 'em, good to give any ordinary person a dom'. Why, the third night after yon chap'd come to me, I'd twenty-five of 'em out, all asking the same question, at ten bob a time. It cost 'im a bit."

"But where on earth did he get the money?" Aaron Rodd asked. "He was broke when we met him first."

"I financed him," Jacob Potts confessed. "I tell you the idea fair tickled me. I found the coin and he paid me back like a gentleman. I only sends 'em out now when we're slack with other work, but whenever we 'ave a little affair doing, whatever the cost may be, we always commence it the same way--''Ave you read Stephen Cresswell's poems?' 'No,'--and then biff!"

The publican leaned back in his chair and his fat body shook with laughter. He mopped the tears from his eyes with a big red bandanna handkerchief.

"To think of meeting 'im 'ere!" he murmured weakly. "You see, we 'as our jokes even in the serious professions. Not that I ever let my boys go too far," he concluded, "and I keep 'em out of trouble as much as I can. That's why I want to know the law about this sea business."

Aaron Rodd read him extracts from the volume he had brought back, and explained several doubtful points. The publican's face was a little grave when he had finished.

"I ain't at all sure," he decided, "that I fancy trusting any of my best boys with this job, and I loathe foreigners, any way."

"Well, I won't ask you any questions," Aaron Rodd said, "but if you want any free advice, here it is. You've made plenty of money. I should keep friends with the law, if I were you. You can't employ such a band of ruffians as you've been talking about, and not find a wrong 'un amongst them now and then."

"If one o' my lads," Jacob Potts declared solemnly, "was to squeal, I tell you the rest would be on 'im like a pack of fox'ounds on a fox. They'd tear 'im limb from limb, that's wot they'd do."

"That wouldn't do you a great deal of good if you were in prison," Aaron Rodd reminded him. "However, you know the law now."

"I know it, and I ain't sweet on the job," Mr. Jacob Potts confessed. "'Owsomever! Good morning to you, Mr. Rodd, and much obliged. You'll add your little bit on to my quarterly account.... Wot 'o, another client!" he added. "I'm toddling."

He shook hands with his adviser and reached the door just as it was opened and Henriette entered. He stood for a moment as though stupefied. Then, as he disappeared through the doorway, he turned round and winked solemnly at Aaron.

"Wishing you good morning, guv'nor!" he said as he closed the door.

Curiously enough, as on that first morning when, they had met in the Embankment Gardens, a little ray of wintry sunshine, which had stolen in through the dusty, uncurtained windows, lay between them. Aaron Rodd, whose first impulse had been one of joy at this unexpected visit, stopped suddenly in his progress across the room. There was something so entirely different about her, a change so absolute and mystifying. The faintly supercilious deportment and expression of the young woman of the world, carrying herself so easily and with such natural grace and self-possession, seemed to have deserted her. She was suddenly a frightened child seeking for shelter, and with a lightning-like effort of imagination he seemed to see her flying for sanctuary from those terrors of which he had already warned her.

"Is anything wrong?" he enquired quickly--"anything fresh, I mean?"

She sank into his chair. She was panting a little, as though she had been hurrying.

"I am afraid!" she confessed. "I am terrified! Give me your hand to hold, and listen."

She gripped his strong fingers. They both almost held their breaths. There was no sound except the distant rumble of traffic. By degrees she grew calmer.

"You are not worrying about my errand?" he asked anxiously. "You know what happened to me?"

"It isn't that," she told him simply. "That was all planned beforehand. You didn't mind?"

"Of course not," he assured her.

"It is something which happened before I came to England," she went on, "something terrible, something from which it seems to me I can never escape. Listen.... I must tell you one day--I shall tell you now. Leopold has always been fortunate, but the luck went against me one day. I was face to face with detection. I had the whole of the jewels in my possession. I was confronted with the worst. I hadn't time to think. I killed the man who would have brought ruin on all of us, and--and, on me, worse than ruin.... Do you hear?--I killed him!"

Aaron Rodd sat speechless. She seemed so small and delicate-looking. It was incredible!

"He was a great man, a colonel in the Prussian Guards. He had high connections, some of them Belgian. The threats of his people reached my ears even before I had escaped. They swore to get me back into Belgium, and if I were once there, God knows what would happen to me! At first, when I reached London, I felt safe. I managed to become attached to the household of Madame. Surely in London was sanctuary! And lately I have felt different. This man--I will not tell you his name--he is connected even with the family of Madame herself. I begin to fear that they have suspicions. The Princess has been cold to me lately. There are several others in the household who seem to look askance at me. I have had letters from relatives in Belgium, inviting me to go back. Some of them, I know, have been forgeries. During the last few days I have been followed about. Only yesterday there was a little fog. I was in the square, near the corner of Brook Street. Suddenly I heard swift footsteps just behind me, there was a whistle, a taxicab drove up by the kerb. There was a man in it, sitting back in the corner. I saw his face--it was cruel, horrible! I could hear another man running from out of the fog towards me. I knew what they wanted--to thrust me into the taxicab. And just at that moment I shrieked, and two strangers came from one of the big houses and I clung to them. The taxicab drove off and the man seemed to melt away. The two gentlemen thought I was mad. They escorted me to another taxicab. Since then I dare not move alone."

"How did you come here?" he asked.

"In one of Madame's cars. It waits for me outside. Even at the corner of this street there were two men who frightened me. To-day my week of service is up with Madame. She has not encouraged me to stay longer. She looks at me with the eyes of suspicion. And at the Milan Court I am afraid! My grandfather is so old--the world is finished for him. And Leopold is so cold and mysterious. He comes and goes with never a word.... There! You see what has happened to me!" she exclaimed, with a little quaver in her tone. "I have lost my nerve. And I have been brave, Monsieur Aaron Rodd--believe me, I have been brave."

"Of course you have," he answered encouragingly, "and of, course you will continue to be brave. You must not fancy things. Believe me, you are safe here--safe, at least, against being sent back to Belgium against your will. The fears for you and about you----"

"Well, what are they?" she interrupted anxiously. "Tell me about them?"

"These diamonds," he continued slowly. "If I might venture to say so, it seems to me that your brother is making a mistake in dragging you into the affair at all. We could have done our business with him and left you out of it."

"But he is watched every hour of the day," she explained. "They cannot find the jewels, and they can prove nothing against him unless they do find them, but they know very well that soon he must dispose of them, and they never willingly let him out of their sight. Besides, we are all to share in the proceeds. Why should we not take a little of the risk? Oh, believe me," she went on eagerly, "I can face anything that comes to me through the jewels. It is the other thing I am afraid of. I cannot speak even to you of that awful moment. The man who guessed our secret--he offered silence. We were alone...."

She broke off suddenly, absolutely incapable of speech. She was white almost to the lips. Her eyes were filled with reminiscent horror. He leaned over and took her hands once more a little clumsily in his.

"Don't think of it," he begged. "That part of it, at any rate, is done with. One must fight for what one has, for the sake of others."

"I know--I know!" she agreed, trying to smile at him. "But tell me again--there isn't any way, is there, that the Belgian authorities--I suppose they do still control their own law-courts--could be cajoled into having me sent back? I am frightened. I begin to wonder whether these men, who I am sure have been watching me, are emissaries from the foreign police."

He smiled reassuringly.

"Not a chance," he declared. "They have something else to do just now. Believe me, you are frightening yourself about nothing. If you are being watched, and I should think it extremely probable that you are being watched, it is simply because you are living under the same roof as your brother and because you are an exceedingly likely medium for the disposal of the jewels."

"If I were sure that that was all!" she murmured.

"It is all," he told her confidently. "There! Besides, in that other case, remember that you are not friendless. I don't think I need tell you," he went on, a little awkwardly, "that if there were any way I could help, any way I could ensure your safety, it would make me very happy."

"I think that I felt that," she answered softly. "I think that that is why I came to you. Leopold has gone to one of his hiding-places--I do not know where--and he will not be back for several days. Please do not go far away. Be where I can telephone to you, or come."

"I wouldn't ask anything better," he promised.

Her eyes glowed for a moment. She gave him her hand impulsively, and he was dizzy with the strangeness and the joy of it. He had been so long debarred from intercourse with her sex that femininity was making a late but extraordinarily subtle appeal to him. He found himself, even in the moment when he was studying the colour of her eyes, counting the wasted years of his life, remembering with a sick regret the lines upon his face, the streak of grey in his hair.

"You are going back now to the Milan?" he enquired.

"From here. You could not----?"

"Of course I could," he assented eagerly, taking down his hat. "I promised to meet our friend Cresswell there."

"That ridiculous Poet!" she laughed. "Whatever made him a friend of yours?"

"He would tell you Fate," was the smiling reply. "Harvey Grimm would tell you a sense of humour. I really don't know what I could say about it. He isn't a bad fellow."

"You are sure you have no more business to attend to?" she asked earnestly. "I can sit and wait quite patiently while you finish."

He sighed as he closed his desk.

"I am afraid my office itself is rather a farce," he told her. "As a lawyer I have been a failure. My only client passed you on the stairs as he went out."

She heard him a little incredulously.

"That seems so strange," she observed. "I am sure that you are clever."

"The majority of the world seems to have come to a different conclusion," he sighed, as he stood on one side to let her pass out.

"Here comes your client back again," she whispered. "I will wait for you upon the landing."

Mr. Jacob Potts came puffing up the stairs. He beckoned mysteriously to Aaron Rodd and drew him on one side.

"Guv'nor," he whispered, "'ave you got any pals in this building?"

"I don't know that I have, particularly," was the somewhat doubtful reply. "Why?"

"Gave me quite a turn," Mr. Potts confessed. "There's two of my boys below, two of them who are on that job I came to consult you about."

"They are probably shadowing you," Aaron Rodd suggested.

"I'd give 'em shadow, if they tried that game on!" Mr. Jacob Potts asserted truculently. "'Owsomever, you've got the office, if there's any pals of yourn about.... If you've any fancy, sir," he added, as he turned away, "for seeing a little bout to-night down at my place, I've arranged for that young fellow I spoke about to come down and put 'em on with Canary Joe. 'Arf-past nine, and no questions arst of a friend."

"I'll remember," the other promised.

"Won't keep you longer," Mr. Potts observed, turning heavily away. "There's other clients than me about this morning, wot 'o!"

He turned back from the doorway and indulged in a huge and solemn wink.

"'Arf-past nine," he called out, "nothing charged for admission, but the salt air down Wapping way encourages the thirst, which is good for the trade. Bring a pal, if you've a mind."

Aaron waited until his client had reached the first landing before he rejoined Henriette. They drove in what was, to him, unaccustomed splendour to the Milan, and parted in the little hall.

"It is foolish," she said, as she held out her hand, "but I feel better because I have been frank with you. Sometimes my fears seem so unreal, and then sometimes I close my eyes and I get these horrible little mind pictures. Ah, but you do not know the terror of them! This is England, though, and that was what they all said--'In England you will be safe.' Tell me you are sure that I am safe?"

"Absolutely," he declared confidently.

She waved her hand to him from the lift, and he proceeded to the smoking-room in search of Cresswell.

* * * * *

The poet, having received forty pounds from his publishers, was thoroughly disposed towards a frivolous evening. He was consequently a little dismayed when, as they sat at dinner that same evening, Aaron Rodd, who had been a little distrait, suggested an alteration in their evening's entertainment.

"I wonder," he said, "if, instead of going to the 'Empire,' you would care to see a bout between Canary Joe and a youthful barman who I understand possesses genius?"

The poet made a wry face.

"I am rather fed up with biffing just now," he confessed, "but Canary Joe--why, that's old man Potts' protégé."

Aaron nodded.

"The affair is to take place in a room at the back of his public-house," he observed.

Cresswell sipped his wine and considered. His attitude was obviously unfavourable.

"I am in the humour," he declared, "for a more enervating atmosphere, the warmth and comfort of the Empire lounge, the charm of feminine society--even from a distance," he added hastily. "I am feeling human to-night, Aaron Rodd--very human."

"It is possible," his companion continued slowly, "that an adventure----"

The poet's manner changed.

"More than anything in the world I am in the humour for an adventure," he asserted eagerly.

"Then I think we will see Canary Joe," Aaron Rodd decided. "You shall be my guide."

The long taxi-ride would have been a little depressing but for the poet's uproarious spirits. He sang himself hoarse and filled the vehicle with cigarette smoke. They reached at last a region of small streets all running one way; in the background a vision of lights, suspended apparently from nowhere, the sound of an occasional siren, the constant, sometimes overpowering odour of river-side mud. When at last the taxicab came to a standstill, they were near enough to the river to hear its rise and fall against a little bank of shingle. From behind the closely-drawn windows of the public-house, one side of which seemed to abut on to the river-side, came the sound of many voices. They dismissed the taxicab and pushed open the swing-doors. The poet, who had been complaining bitterly of thirst on the way down, led the way to the counter.

"Two whiskies and sodas, Tim," he ordered. "Where's the guv'nor?"

The man jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

"Up in the room, getting things to rights," he announced. "If you take my advice, Mr. Cresswell, you'll slip in there as soon as you've had your drink. There'll be a crowd when the gong goes, and they're a tough lot to struggle with for seats."

Aaron glanced around. The room was filled with a motley throng of river-side loafers, with here and there a sprinkling of sailors. One huge Dutchman, in a soiled nautical uniform, was already furiously drunk. The two young men slipped up the stairs, to which the poet led the way, and passed through the door into the further apartment, just as the Dutchman's truculent eye fell upon them.

"Shouldn't wonder if we didn't tumble across something in the way of an adventure here," the poet remarked cheerfully. "We ought to have changed our clothes. Hello, here's the boss."

Mr. Jacob Potts, on his way down the long, dimly lit room, came to a sudden standstill. His expression scarcely confirmed the welcome which the heartiness of his invitation earlier in the day had promised. He glanced at the two visitors in something like dismay. Nothing, however, could damp the poet's spirits.

"We've come down to see the scrap, guv'nor," he declared.

"If you have," Mr. Jacob Potts replied, with something which sounded threatening in his tone, "you're welcome. If so be that you've any other reason for your coming, maybe a word of advice from me wouldn't be out of place, and that word's git."

"When we've seen the scrap and not before," Cresswell chuckled. "Do you know that it cost the best part of a quid to get down here, guv'nor? Bring 'em in and let's see what stuff they're made of."

Jacob Potts looked at the speaker doubtfully.

"You've 'ad a drop, young fellow, you 'ave," he muttered.

"Trenchantly and convincingly put, old chap," the poet replied, steadying himself by the back of the chair. "My dear friend and I are making an evening of it."

Mr. Potts' face cleared a little.

"Boys will be boys," he assented amiably, "and there's none of you the worse for a drop o' good liquor on board. Fact is I'm a bit jumpy to-night," he confessed. "My boys have got a little game on--to-night of all nights! Did you happen to notice," he asked anxiously, "if that goll-darned Dutchman was down there?"

"There is a son of Holland in the bar," the poet replied, "in a glorious state of inebriation. He is seeking for some one to destroy. Tell you the truth, we fled before him. His eye rested upon us and he scowled."

Mr. Jacob Potts lifted a blind and stared out towards the river.

"That's his steamer lying there," he muttered. "I wish to God he'd get aboard her!"

Aaron Rodd moved softly to his side.

"Is this little game you spoke of," he enquired--"the game your boys have on to-night--the one which brought you up to consult me about maritime law this morning?"

"It is," Jacob Potts admitted, "and wot about it?"

Aaron Rodd shrugged his shoulders. Before he could reply, however, a gong sounded. The door of the room was thrown open and a surging mob from the bar streamed in.

"Front seats," yelled the poet, making a dive forward, but Aaron caught him firmly by the arm.

"Stephen," he whispered, "there's something up here to-night. We may have to come into it. Let's get seats by the door, where we can slip out quietly. I'm not joking."

Considering all things, Cresswell was wonderfully amenable. They stood on one side and let the crowd rush past them and eventually found two seats against the side wall, within a few yards of the door. Mr. Jacob Potts seemed for the moment to have forgotten their existence. He was standing in the middle of the little ring, which was roped off on a raised platform, stamping with his heel upon the floor. There were shrill whistles and cries of "Order."

"Gents," Mr. Potts announced, "this is a light-weight scrap, twelve rounds, between our old friend Canary Joe and a youngster I found in Craven Street--Jimmy Dunks."

He pointed first towards a pimply-faced young man, with flaxen hair brushed smoothly down over his forehead, attired in scarlet knickerbockers and a pink vest, over which heterogeneous attire he had thrown a soiled, light-coloured ulster. His opponent wore a thin flannel vest, a pair of dilapidated golfing knickerbockers and the remains of a dressing-gown. They both arose and made awkward salutations. Canary Joe was evidently the favourite, but Mr. Potts himself led the applause for his opponent.

"Fair do's, gents," he begged. "This young 'un's a stranger, but from what I've seen of 'im I believe 'e's out to do 'is best, and we none of us can't do more."

There were a few more preliminaries and the two young men faced one another. They moved round for a moment like cats, amidst an almost breathless silence. Then there were one or two wild plunges, a little more cautious sparring, and a yell of applause as the young man in the golfing knickerbockers landed his right very near his opponent's mouth.

"Don't you treat 'im too light, Canary," they yelled from the back. "Keep your eye on 'is left."

There was a brief pause at the end of the first round. Canary Joe sat scowling at his opponent as he received the attentions of his second. The next round, although without decisive effect, was more vigorous; the third produced a black eye each. The audience settled down to enjoy itself. Suddenly the door at the back of the room was opened and from somewhere below came the sound of a gong struck three tunes. There were little murmurs of annoyance, disjointed oaths and growls from various quarters, but, without a single moment's hesitation, at least a score of the audience rose to their feet and made for the door. Aaron Rodd and his companion watched them as they slunk by. The poet was exceedingly interested.

"Someone's going to get a biffing to-night," he confided. "I wonder what it's all about."

Aaron acted on an inexplicable impulse.

"Let's go and see," he suggested.

The poet rose at once to his feet. He was ready enough, if a trifle dubious.

"They won't want us butting in," he remarked. "All the same, we might see a little of the fun. It will be more like the real thing than this."

They passed down the few stairs into the bar. Several of the men had paused for a drink, but others had already slunk out into the street. Following on the heels of the hindmost, Aaron Rodd and his companion found themselves almost swallowed up in a sudden fog which had rolled in from the river. From somewhere in the midst of the chaos they heard a quick, authoritative voice.

"Joe, you and half a dozen of you take the corners of the street. Hold up anything that tries to come down. Start a fight amongst yourselves if there are coppers about. You others come out on the wharf."

"That Dutchman's in this, I'll swear," the poet whispered. "Let's try and find our way down to the river. I know where the gate is."

Almost as he spoke, a heavy hand descended upon his shoulder, and a dark, evil face was thrust almost into his.

"Look here, guv'nor," the man said, "you mayn't be after any 'arm down 'ere but it's one o' them nights we don't need strangers around. You tumble? The old man's wolves are out and they've a nasty way of snapping anything that comes along."

"What's the game, Sid?" the poet asked engagingly. "We're only here for a bit of sport."

"Never you mind what the game is," was the terse reply. "You get back and watch those two chickens scratching one another's faces."

There was a moment's silence. Then from a few yards off came the sound of a slight moan, as from a person suffocating.

"What's that?" Aaron Rodd demanded sharply.

"Never you mind what it is," was the swift reply from their unseen adviser. "Take your carcases inside, if you want to keep them whole."

He vanished in the fog. Aaron Rodd gripped his companion's arm.

"Stephen," he muttered, "that was a woman's voice!"

"Sounded like it," the poet assented. "Have you got your electric torch in your pocket?"

"Yes!"

They heard the rattle of a key in the gate which led out on to the wharf. For some time it refused to turn. Again they heard the moan, and Aaron's blood ran cold.

"I can't stand this, Stephen," he whispered hoarsely. "Come on."

"One moment," the poet answered. "They can't get the gate open. I don't believe the guv'nor's on to this. Stay where you are for a minute."

He hurried back, tore up the stairs and into the dimly lit room, filled still with breathless expectancy. It was the end of another round, during which Canary Joe had obtained some slight advantage. The poet walked straight up the room, regardless of the growls which assailed him, and touched its presiding spirit upon the shoulder.

"Guv'nor," he said, "you told me, when we had dealings, that you'd never taken on any job in which there was a woman to be harried."

"That's right, boy," Jacob Potts agreed.

"There's a woman in the game to-night, a woman who has been brought down here by some of your lot, and who is down there now, either drugged or half conscious. They are trying to get her on the Dutchman's steamer."

"How do you know it's a woman?" was the brief demand.

"I tell you we both heard her groan," the poet insisted.

Jacob Potts rose to his feet.

"Boys," he said, addressing the belligerents, "and gents, there will be a ten minutes' interval. Sorry, but it's business. Joe will serve the drinks, which for this occasion only will be free."

The ten minutes' interval, softened by the promise of free drinks, displeased no one. Jacob Potts, still in his shirt-sleeves, strode out of the place, through the front room of the public-house and out into the street, where a queer, unnatural silence Seemed to reign.

"There ain't no woman about 'ere!" he exclaimed.

Aaron Rodd suddenly flashed his torch. The iron gate was closed. There was no one before it. They could hear the sound of men's footsteps a few yards away on the old wooden wharf.

"They've just gone through," Aaron whispered fiercely. "Come on!"

Jacob Potts produced a key from his pocket and swung the gate open.

"If you fellows have made a fool of me," he muttered, "there'll be trouble, but if my boys have let me in, there'll be hell!"

Just as he finished speaking they once more heard the faint, smothered cry from in front, followed by a man's oath. They saw the flashing of a light and heard the fall of a rope from the wharf into the river. Jacob Potts quickened his pace.

"Turn on that glim o' yours, guv'nor," he growled, "and mind where you're going. 'Ullo there?"

There was a confusion of answering voices.

"It's the guv'nor!" they heard some one say.

Then the light of Aaron Rodd's torch flashed upon the short, wooden dock, and upon the half-dozen men grouped at the top of the crazy steps at its furthest extremity. One of them came back. It was the man who had warned the poet and Aaron.

"Guv'nor," he said earnestly, "this ain't your show. You leave us alone and get back to the fight."

"That be damned!" Jacob Potts replied firmly. "It's no job of yourn to tell me wot to do. You know very well there's just one thing I stick at, and I asks you a plain question, Sid, and a plain answer expected. Is that bundle you're carrying a woman, or ain't it?"

"It's a woman," the man proclaimed doggedly, "and it's going on board the 'Amsterdam.'"

The answer of Jacob Potts was bellicose and unprintable. He strode along the little wharf, followed by Aaron Rodd and Cresswell. Behind came the man called Sid, his face darker and more evil than ever, his breath coming short with anger.

"Boys," Jacob Potts exclaimed, "drop that! You hear me? Women ain't in the game. You've all been told that."

There was a moment's hesitation. Then they heard the voice of their leader, hoarse and vicious.

"Get on with it, boys. It's going to be the river for any one who stands in our way to-night."

There were six of them altogether, besides Sid. Three of them moved now towards the steps, below which a boat was bobbing up and down. Another man was seated in it, holding to the side by a boat-hook, and the three men at the top of the steps were carrying something. Sid and the other two turned round.

"Guv'nor," the former began----

There was a sickening crash as Jacob Potts' fist caught him almost in the mouth. He rolled over and up again on to his feet, remaining warily out of reach, but after that one blow easily able to keep his assailant occupied. Aaron Rodd had sprung for the steps, and received a blow on the side of the head from one of the other men which sent him reeling almost into the river.

"Get her aboard," Sid cried out. "We can tackle this lot. No one can get down the street. The boys'll see to that."

Then there was a fierce, ugly silence for several moments. Jacob Potts, winded from the first, the river on either side of him and murder in the man's face whom he fought, panted and groaned with every fresh movement. Aaron Rodd found himself suddenly in a new world, a new uplifting instinct sending the blood tingling through his veins. He was fighting, a thing he had never done since his school-days, fighting with long, swinging blows, making scarcely an effort to protect himself, fighting in an atmosphere indescribable, the thirst for blood hot in his veins, with one desire throbbing in his heart--to kill or throw into the river the man who kept surging up towards him. It was a vicious face, fair-complexioned once, but dark now with engine grease, with bleary eyes, mouth wide open all the time, disclosing a broken row of hideous sickly-looking teeth. But for the man's evil life he would have disposed of his opponent with his first few blows, for he had been in his day a bruiser of some repute, but Aaron Rodd knew n