Six days had gone by.
The funeral of the unfortunate Edward Craig had taken place, and locally the sensation caused by the tragic discovery had died down.
The weather was beautifully warm, the sea calm, and gradually a few holiday-makers were appearing in the streets; women in summer blouses, knitted golf coats and cotton skirts, with flannel-trousered men. They were of the class who are compelled to take their holidays early, before their employers; with them came delighted children carrying spades and buckets.
Fearing recognition by the notorious Frenchman, I was greatly handicapped, for I was compelled to remain in the hotel all day, and go forth only at night.
Frayne and his men had locked and sealed the rooms which had been occupied by old Gregory and Craig, and had returned to Norwich. In their place had come a plain-clothes man who, as far as I could gather, lounged about the corners of the streets, and chatted idly with the constables in uniform.
The plain-clothes man in our county constabulary system is not an overwhelming success. His only real use seems to be mostly that of a catcher of small boys who go out stealing fruit.
By dint of judicious inquiry, made by my manservant, Rayner, whom I had summoned from London, I had discovered something regarding the foreign gentleman, who had taken apartments in the Overstrand Road.
Rayner could always keep a secret. He was a fair-haired, bullet-headed chap of thirty-two whom I had found, eight years before the date of this story, wandering penniless in the streets of Constantinople. I had taken him into my service, and never once had occasion to regret having done so. He was a model of discretion, and to a man constantly travelling, like myself, a veritable treasure.
Sometimes upon my erratic journeys on the Continent I took him with me, at others he remained at home in my little flat off Berkeley Square. If I ever called upon him to make inquiries for me, to watch, or to follow a suspected person, he obeyed with an intelligence that would, I believe, have done credit to any member of that remarkable combination of brains—the Council of Seven, of New Scotland Yard.
Living an adventurous life, as he had done, his wits had been sharpened, and his perception had become as keen as that of any detective. Therefore, I had called upon him, under seal of secrecy, to assist me in the investigation of many a mystery.
Knowing his value, I had wired to him to come to Cromer. He arrived when I was out. First, he looked through my traps, folded my trousers and coats, arranged my shirts and ties in order with professional precision, and when I returned, entered my room, saying briefly—
"I'm here, sir."
I threw myself into a chair and told him all that had occurred—of course, under strictest secrecy.
Then I gave him minute instructions as to making inquiries of the servants at the house in the Overstrand Road. A servant can always get useful information from other servants, for there is a freemasonry among all who are employed in domestic capacities.
Therefore, it was with interest that I sat in my room, overlooking the sea, on the following day, and listened to Rayner's report.
In his straw hat, and well-cut grey tweed suit, my man made a very presentable appearance. It was the same suit in which he went out to Richmond with his "young lady" on Sundays.
"Well, sir," he said, standing by the window, "I've managed to get to know something. The gentleman is a Belgian doctor named Paul Arendt. He has the two best rooms in the house and is the only visitor staying there at present. They say he's a bit eccentric; goes out at all hours, but gives lots of money in tips. Seemingly, he's pretty rich."
"Has he had any visitors?" I asked quickly.
"One. Another foreigner. An Italian named Bertini, who rides a motor-cycle."
"Has he been there often?"
"He came last Monday afternoon—three days ago," my man replied.
"Anything else?"
"Well, sir, I managed to make friends with the maidservant, and then, on pretence of wanting apartments myself, got her to show me several rooms in the house in the absence of her mistress. Doctor Arendt was out, too, therefore I took the opportunity of looking around his bedroom. I'd given the girl a sovereign, so she didn't make any objection to my prying about a bit. Arendt is a rather suspicious character, isn't he, sir?" asked Rayner, looking at me curiously.
"That's for you to find out," I replied.
"Well, sir, I have found out," was his quick answer. "In the small top left-hand drawer of the chest of drawers in his room I found a small false moustache and some grease-paint; while in the right-hand drawer was a Browning revolver in a brown leather case, a bottle of strong ammonia, and a small steel tube, about an inch across, with an india-rubber bulb attached to one end."
"Ah!" I said. "I thought as much. You know what the ammonia and rubber ball are for, eh?"
The man grinned.
"Well, sir, I can guess," was his reply. "It's for blinding dogs—eh?"
"Exactly. We must keep a sharp eye upon that Belgian, Rayner."
"Yes, sir. I took the opportunity to have a chat with the maid about the recent affair on the East Cliff, and she told me she believed that the dead man and Doctor Arendt were friends."
"Friends!" I echoed, starting forward at his words.
"Yes, sir. The girl was not quite certain, but believes she saw the Belgian doctor and young Mr. Craig walking together over the golf-links one evening. It was her Sunday out and she was strolling that way just at dusk with her sweetheart."
"She is not quite positive, eh?" I asked.
"No, sir, not quite positive. She only thinks it was young Mr. Craig."
"Did Craig or Gregory ever go to that house while our friend has been there?"
"No, sir. She was quite positive on that point."
"What does the doctor do with himself all day?" I asked.
"Sits reading novels, or the French papers, greater part of the day. Sometimes he writes letters, but very seldom. According to the books I noticed in his room, he delights in stories of mystery and crime."
I smiled. Too well I knew the literary tastes of Jules Jeanjean, the man who was fearless, and being so, was eminently dangerous, and who was passing as a Belgian doctor. He, who had once distinguished himself by holding the whole of the forces of the Paris police at arms' length, and defying them—committing crimes under their very noses out of sheer anarchical bravado—was actually living there as a quiet, studious, steady-going man of literary tastes and refinement—Doctor Paul Arendt, of Liège, Belgium.
Ah! Some further evil was intended without a doubt. Yet so clever were Jeanjean's methods, and so entirely unsuspicious his actions, that I confess I failed to see what piece of chicanery was now in progress.
My next inquiry was in the direction of establishing the identity of the motor-cyclist.
That night Rayner kept watchful vigil instead of myself, for I had been up five nights in succession and required sleep. But though he waited near the house in the Overstrand Road from ten o'clock until four in the morning, nothing occurred. Jeanjean had evidently retired to rest and to sleep.
After that we took it in turns to watch, I having made it right with the night-porter of the hotel, for a pecuniary consideration, to take no notice of our going or coming.
For a whole week the notorious Frenchman did not emerge after he entered the house at dinner-time. I was sorely puzzled regarding the identity of that motor-cyclist. Would he return, or had he left the neighbourhood?
Early one morning Rayner, having taken his turn of watching, returned to say that Bertini, with his motor-cycle, had again met the "foreign gentleman" at the railway bridge—the same spot at which I had seen them meet.
They had remained about half an hour in conversation, after which the stranger had mounted and rode away again on the Norwich road, while Jeanjean had returned to his lodgings.
My mind was then made up. That same morning I took train to Norwich, where I hired a motor-car for a fortnight, and paying down a substantial deposit, drove the car—an open "forty," though a trifle old-fashioned—as far as Aylsham, a distance of ten miles, or half-way between Norwich and Cromer. There I put up at a small hotel, where I spent the rest of the day in idleness, and afterwards dined.
Aylsham is a sleepy little place, with nothing much to attract the visitor save its church and ancient houses. Therefore, I devoted myself to the newspapers until just before the hotel closed for the night.
Then I rang up Rayner on the telephone as I had made arrangement to do.
"That's me, sir," was his answer to my inquiry.
"Well," I asked, "anything fresh?"
"Yes, sir. A lady called to see you at seven o'clock—a young French lady. I saw her and explained that you were away until to-morrow, and——"
"Yes, yes!" I cried eagerly. "A French lady. Did she give her name?"
"No, sir. She only told me to tell you that if I mentioned the word 'nightingale,' you would know."
"The Nightingale!" I gasped, astounded. It was Lola! And she had called upon me!
"When is she coming back?" I demanded eagerly.
"She didn't say, sir—only told me to tell you how sorry she was that you were out. She had travelled a long way to see you."
"But didn't she say she'd call back?" I demanded, full of chagrin that I should have so unfortunately been absent.
"No, sir. She said she might be able to call sometime to-morrow afternoon, but was not at all certain."
I held the receiver in my trembling fingers in reflection. Nothing could be done. I had missed her—missed seeing Lola!
Surely my absence had been a great, and, perhaps, unredeemable misfortune.
"Very well," I said at last. "You know what to do to-night, Rayner?"
"Yes, sir."
"And I will be back in the morning."
"Very good, sir," responded my man, and I shut off. I paid my bill, went outside and lit up the big headlamps of the car. Then I drove slowly out of the yard, and out of the town, in the direction of Cromer.
It had been a close day, and the night, dark and oppressive, was overcast with a threatening storm. The dust swept up before me with every gust of wind as I went slowly along that high road which led towards the sea. I proceeded very leisurely, my thoughts full of my fair visitor.
Lola had called upon me! Why? Surely, after what had occurred, I could never have hoped for another visit from her.
Yes. It must be something of the greatest importance upon which she wished to consult me. Evidently she knew of my presence in Cromer—knew, possibly, of the efforts I was making to unravel the mystery of old Vernon Gregory.
Yet, I could only wait in impatience for the morrow. But would she return? That was the question.
The car was running well, but I had plenty of time. Therefore, after travelling five miles or so, I pulled up, took out my pipe and smoked.
I stopped my engine, and, in the silence of the night, strained my ears to catch the sound of an approaching motor-cycle. But I could hear nothing—only the distant rumble of thunder far northward across the sea.
By my watch I saw that it was nearly midnight. So I restarted my engine and went slowly along until I was within a couple of miles of Cromer, and could see the flashing of the lighthouse, and the lights of the town twinkling below. Then again I stopped and attended to my headlights, which were growing dim.
A mile and a half further on I knew that Rayner, down the dip of the hill, was lurking in the shadow. But my object in stationing myself there was to follow the mysterious cyclist, not when he went to keep his appointment, but when he left.
In order to avert suspicion, I presently turned the car round with its lights towards Norwich, but scarcely had I done so, and stopped the engine again, when I heard, in the darkness afar off, the throb of a motor-cycle approaching at a furious pace.
My lamps lit up the road, while, standing in the shadow bending as though attending to a tyre, my own form could not, I knew, be seen in the darkness.
On came the cyclist. Was it the man for whom I was watching?
He gave a blast on his horn as he rounded the corner, for he could no doubt see the reflection of my lamps from afar.
Then he passed me like a flash, but, in that instant as he came through the zone of light, I recognized his features.
It was Bertini, the mysterious friend of Jules Jeanjean.
I had but to await his return, and by waiting I should learn the truth.
I confess that my heart beat quickly as I watched his small red light disappear along the road.
The gusty wind had died down.
In the silence of the night I listened to the receding noise of the motor-cycle as it swept down the hill into Cromer town, where I knew Rayner would be on the alert.
The sound died away, therefore I relit my pipe, and mounting again into the driver's seat, sat back thinking—thinking mostly of Lola, and my ill-luck at having missed her.
Before me, in the white glare of the lamps upon the road, where insects of the night, attracted by the radiance, were dancing to their deaths, there arose before me that sweet, perfect face, the face that had so attracted me. I saw her smile—smile at me, as she did when first we had met. Ah! How strange had been our friendship, stranger than novelist had ever imagined. I had loved her—loved as I had never loved before, and she had loved me, with that bright, intense look in her wonderful eyes, the woman's look that can never lie.
There is but one love-look. A man knows it by his instinct, just as does a woman. A woman knows by intuition that the fool who takes her out to the theatre and supper, and is so profuse in his protestations of undying admiration, is only uttering outpourings of vapid nonsense. Just so, a man meets insincerity with insincerity. The woman gets to know in time how much her vain, shallow admirer is good for, for she knows he will soon pass out of her life, while the man's instinct is exactly the same. In a word, it is life—the life of this, our Twentieth Century.
The man laughed at and derided to-day, is a hero ten years hence.
A few years ago Mr. John Burns carried a banner perspiringly along the Thames Embankment, in a May Day procession, and I assisted him. To-day he is a Cabinet Minister. A few years ago my dear friend, George Griffith, wrote about air-ships in his romance, The Angel of the Revolution, and everybody made merry at his expense. To-day airships are declared to be the chief arm of Continental nations.
Ah, yes! The world proceeds apace, and the unknown to-morrow ever brings its amazing surprises and the adoption of the "crank's" ideas of yesterday.
Lola had called to see me. That fact conjured up in my imagination a thousand startling theories.
Why?
Why had she called, after all that had passed between us?
I waited, waited for the coming of that mysterious cyclist, who arose from nowhere, and whose business with Jules Jeanjean was of such vast and secret importance.
The very fact of Jeanjean being in Cromer had staggered me. As I sat there smoking, and listening, I recollected when last I had heard mention of his name. Hamard—the great Hamard—Chief of the Sûreté of Paris, had been seated in his private bureau in the offices of the detective police.
He had leaned back in his chair, and blowing a cloud of tobacco-smoke from his lips, had said in French—
"Ah! Mon cher Vidal, we are face to face in this affair with Jules Jeanjean, the most ingenious and most elusive criminal that we have met this century in France. In other walks of life Jeanjean would have been a great man—a millionaire financier, a Minister of the Cabinet, a great general—a leader of men. But in the circumstances this arch-adventurer, who slips through our fingers, no matter what trap we set for him, is a criminal of a type such as Europe has never known within the memory of living man. Personally I admire his pluck, his energy, his inventiveness, his audacity, his iron nerve, and his amazing cunning. Truly, now, cher ami, he is a marvel. There is but one master-criminal, Jules Jeanjean."
That was the character given him by Monsieur Hamard, the greatest French detective since Lecoq.
And now this master-criminal was beneath the railway arch at Cromer meeting in secret a mysterious cyclist!
What evil was now intended?
I waited, my ears strained to catch every sound. But I only heard the distant rumble of the thunder, away across the North Sea, and, somewhere, the dismal howling of a dog.
I waited, and still waited. The sky grew brighter, and I grew perceptibly colder, so that I turned up my coat-collar, and shivered, even though the previous day had been so unusually warm. The car smelt of petrol and oil—a smell that nauseated me—and yet my face was turned to the open country ready to follow and track down the man who had swept past me to keep that mysterious tryst in the darkness.
Looking back, I saw, away to the right, the white shafts of light from the high-up lighthouse, slowly sweeping the horizon, flashing warning to mariners upon that dangerous coast, while, far away in the distance over the sea, I could just discern a flash from the lightship on the Haisboro' Sands.
In the valley, deep below, lay Cromer, the street-lamps reflecting upon the low storm-clouds. At that moment the thunder-storm threatened to burst.
Yet I waited, and waited, watching the rose of dawn slowly spreading in the Eastern sky.
Silence—a complete and impressive silence had fallen—even the dog had now ceased to howl.
And yet I possessed myself in patience, my ears strained for the "pop-pop" of the returning motor-cycle.
A farmer's cart, with fresh vegetables and fruit for the Cromer shops on the morrow, creaked slowly past, and the driver in his broad Norfolk dialect asked me—
"Any trouble, sir?"
I replied in the negative, whereupon he whipped up his horse, bade me a cheery "good morning," and descended the hill. For a long time, as I refilled and relit my pipe, I could hear the receding wheels, but no sound of a motor-cycle could I hear.
Time passed, the flush of dawn crept over the sea, brightened swiftly, and then overcast night gave place to a calm and clear morning. The larks, in the fields on either side, rose to greet the rising sun, and the day broke gloriously. Many a dawn had I witnessed in various parts of the world, from the snows of Spitzbergen to the baking sands of the Sahara, but never a more glorious one than that June morning in Poppyland, for Cromer is one of the few places in England where you can witness the sun both rise from, and set in the sea.
My headlights had burned themselves out long ago. It was now four o'clock. Strange that the nocturnal cyclist did not return!
All my preparations had, it seemed, been in vain.
I knew, however, that I was dealing with Jules Jeanjean, a past-master in crime, a man who, no doubt, was fully aware of the inquiries being made by the plain-clothes officers from Norwich, and who inwardly laughed them to scorn.
The man who had defied the Paris Sûreté would hardly entertain any fear of the Norfolk Constabulary.
Many country carts, most of them going towards Cromer, now passed me, and their drivers wished me "Good morning," but I remained at my lonely vigil until five o'clock. Then I decided that Jeanjean's friend must have taken another road out of Cromer, either the Sheringham, the Holt, or the Overstrand, the three other main roads out of the town.
What had Rayner done, I wondered? Where was he?
I sat down upon the grassy bank at the roadside, still pondering. Of all the mysteries of crime I had assisted in investigating, in order to write down the details in my book, this was assuredly the most remarkable.
I knew that I was face to face with some great and startling affair, some adventure which, when the truth became known, would amaze and astound the world. Jules Jeanjean was not the man to attempt small things. He left those to smaller men. In his profession he was the master, and a thousand escrocs, all over the Continent, forgers, international thieves, burglars, coiners, rats d'hotel—most ingenious of malefactors—regarded the name of Jeanjean with awe.
One of his exploits was well known up and down the Continent—for the Matin had published the full story a year ago. Under another name, and in the guise of a wealthy rentier of Paris, he made the acquaintance of one of the Inspectors of the Paris detective service. Inviting him to his private sitting-room in the Hôtel Royale, on the Promenade des Anglais, he gave him an aperitif which in less than three minutes caused the police official to lose consciousness. Thereupon Jeanjean took from the Inspector's pocket his card of authority as a detective—a card signed by the Prefect of Police—and at once left the hotel.
Next night, at the Café Américain in Paris, he went up to a wealthy German who was spending a harmless but gay evening at that well-known supper-resort and arrested him for theft, exhibiting his warrant of authority.
In a taxi he conducted him to the Prefecture of Police, but on their way the German asked him if they could come to terms. The pseudo-Inspector hesitated, then told the taxi-driver to go to a small hotel opposite the Gare du Nord. There he and his prisoner discussed terms, it being eventually agreed that the German—a well-known shipowner of Hamburg—should in the morning telegraph to his bank for eighty thousand marks, for which sum he would be allowed to go at liberty.
It was well known, of course, to Jeanjean that his "prisoner" had been guilty of the offence for which he had "arrested" him, and the coup was quite easy.
He kept the German in the hotel till ten o'clock next morning, and then the pair went to the Crédit Lyonnais together. At four o'clock—the bogus Inspector still with his "prisoner,"—the money was brought to the obscure hotel, and after Jeanjean had carefully counted through the notes he allowed his prey to go at liberty, advising him to take the next train back to Germany.
At six o'clock, the sun shining out warm and brightly, my patience was exhausted. I had spent the night hours there in vain. Yet I dare not drive the car into Cromer, for I intended to repeat my effort on the following night. Therefore I started the engine, and was soon back in the yard of the small hotel in Aylsham.
There I put up the car, breakfasted, and then taking the first train to North Walsham, arrived in Cromer about half-past nine o'clock.
When I entered my room at the Hôtel de Paris the maid came quickly along, saying—
"Will you please go up to see your servant, sir! He's very unwell!"
"Unwell?" I said. "Why, what's the matter?"
"I don't know, sir. The police brought him in about half an hour ago. He's been out all night, they say. And they found him very ill."
I darted upstairs and entered Rayner's room without knocking.
He was lying upon the bed, still dressed, his face pale as death.
"Ah, sir!" he gasped, "I—I'm so glad you've come back! I—I wondered whether anything had happened to you. I—I——"
He stretched out his hand to me, but no other word escaped his lips.
I saw that he had fainted.
At once I knew that some startling incident had happened.
Dr. Sladen, called by the police, entered the room a few moments afterwards, whereupon I turned to him, and in order to allay any undue curiosity, said—
"My man has been taken ill, doctor. Exhaustion, I suppose. He's a great walker, and, unknown to me, has apparently been out for a night ramble."
"Ah, yes," answered the quiet, old-fashioned medical man, peering at the invalid through his glasses.
Slowly he took Rayner's pulse, and then said—
"Heart a little weak, I suppose. There's nothing really wrong—eh?"
"I think not. He was talking to me only a few moments ago, and then suddenly fainted. Been on a long ramble, I should think."
"At night, eh?" asked the doctor in some surprise.
"It is a habit of his to walk at night. He does the same thing in London—walks miles and miles."
We dashed cold water into Rayner's face, gave him a smelling-bottle belonging to one of the maids, and very soon he came round again, opening his eyes in wonder at his surroundings.
"Here's Doctor Sladen," I said. "You feel better now, don't you, Rayner?"
"Yes, sir," was his feeble reply.
"Ah, you've been on one of your night rambles again," I said reprovingly. "You over-do it, you know."
Then Sladen asked him a few questions, and finding that he had recovered, shook my hand and left.
The instant the door was closed upon the doctor Rayner sat up, and with a serious expression upon his face said—
"Something has happened, sir. I don't know what. I'll tell you all I know. I went up to the railway arch as you directed, and lay down in the hedge to wait. After a long time the foreigner from the Overstrand Road came along, lit a cigar, and waited. He was wearing an overcoat, and I suppose he must have waited a full half-hour, until, at last, the cyclist came. They had a brief talk. Then the cyclist left his cycle about fifty yards from where I was in hiding, and both men set off towards the town. I, of course, followed at a decent distance, and they didn't hear me because of the rubber soles on my boots."
"Well, what then?" I inquired impatiently.
"They separated just against the Albion, and then followed one another past the church, and to the left, behind this hotel, and along to the house where the dead man lived—the house you pointed out to me. Close by they met another man who, in the darkness, I took to be a chauffeur. But I had, then, to draw back into a doorway to watch their movements. The chap I took to be a chauffeur, after a few words with the two foreigners, came along in my direction, and passed within a yard of me, when of a sudden he turned and faced me. 'What are you doing here?' he asked quickly. 'Nothing,' was my reply. 'Then take that for your inquisitiveness,' he said, and in a second I felt something over both my nose and mouth. It was only for a second, but I recollect I smelt a strong smell of almonds; and then I knew no more, nothing until I found myself here."
"That's most extraordinary!" I exclaimed. "Then you don't know what became of the three men?"
"Not in the least, sir," Rayner replied. "I was so thoroughly taken aback, that I must have gone down like a log."
"Then, that's all you know?"
"Yes, sir."
Scarcely had he finished relating his strange adventure than Inspector Treeton entered, and greeting me, explained how Rayner had been found by a constable, lying senseless, about three miles out of the town on the road to Holt.
By that I knew he must have been conveyed there, probably by a motor-car, driven by the chauffeur who had so mysteriously attacked him, apparently at the foreigners' orders. It was Jeanjean's work, no doubt. The Frenchman had seemingly eyes at the back of his head, and had evidently detected that his actions were being spied upon.
To the police inspector I made no mystery of the affair, merely replying, as I had to the doctor, that my manservant was in the habit of taking long walks, long nocturnal rambles, and that he evidently had overdone it.
"Doctor Sladen has already been here and seen him," I added. "He says he's quite right again."
This satisfied the highly-esteemed local inspector, and presently he left us, expressing the hope that Rayner would very soon be himself once more.
"Well," I said to my man when the inspector had gone, "it's evident that while you were unconscious they picked you up, put you in the car, and tipped you out upon the road outside the town. Perhaps they believed you to be dead."
"Like enough, sir," he said, smiling grimly.
"They evidently trapped you, Rayner," I said, laughing. "You were not sharp enough."
"But, who'd have thought that the fellow could have come straight for me, and rendered me insensible in a tick—as he did?" asked my man as he lay, still extended on the bed, a dirty, dishevelled figure. "I know I was caught, sir; those men were cleverer than I was, I admit."
"Yes, Rayner," was my reply. "I don't blame you in the least. I'm only glad that your plight isn't worse. The men had a motor-car, it seems, at their disposal somewhere, and they went in the direction of Holt."
"That appears so, sir."
"Why, I wonder? Bertini probably obtained his machine and followed the car. They must have gone either through Wells and Fakenham, or East Dereham."
"Back to Norwich, perhaps, sir. All roads from here seem to lead to Norwich."
"But you say the incident happened close to Beacon House, where old Gregory lived—eh?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then they objected to you being present. Evidently something was intended and you prevented it."
"No. Perhaps I didn't prevent it. They prevented me instead."
Rayner was a bit of a humorist.
"Quite likely," I answered, smiling. But I was full of chagrin that I had been out all night, waiting on that lonely road, while that mysterious affair had been in progress.
"Well, at any rate, Rayner, you've had a very funny experience," I said, with a laugh.
"And not the first, sir, eh?" he replied, stretching lazily on the bed. "Do you recollect that funny case at Pegli, just outside Genoa? My word, those two assassins nearly did me in that night, sir."
"And three nights later we gave them over to agents of the Department of Public Security," I said. "Yes, Rayner, you had a tough half-hour, I know. But you're an adventurer, like myself. As long as we solve a mystery we don't regret the peril, or the adventure, do we?"
"No, sir. I don't—as long as you give a guiding eye over it. But I tell you straight, sir, I don't like detectives. They're chumps, most of 'em."
"No. Don't condemn them," I said. "Rather condemn the blind and silly police system of England. The man who snares a rabbit gets a conviction recorded against him, while the shark in the city pays toll to the Party and becomes a Baronet. I'm no socialist," I added, "but I believe in honesty in our daily life. Honesty in man, and modesty in woman, are the two ideals we should always retain, even in this age of degeneracy and irreligion."
"I think the local police are blundering the whole of this affair," Rayner went on. "Yet I can't make out by what means I was so suddenly put out of action. That curious, strong smell of almonds puzzles me. It's in my nostrils now."
"Your fancy, I expect," I said.
At that moment came a knock at the door, and the tall young constable entered, the same man who had been on duty when I had gone up to inspect the seat where Craig's body had been found.
"The Inspector has sent me, sir," he exclaimed, saluting, "to say he'd like to see you at once. He's just along the West Cliff—at Beacon House, where Mr. Craig lived in."
"Certainly," I replied. "Tell him I will come at once."
The constable disappeared, and turning to Rayner, I said: "I wonder why Treeton wishes to see me in such a hurry? What has happened now?" Then, promising to return quickly, I went out.
At Beacon House, I found Treeton standing in the front sitting-room, on the ground-floor, talking seriously with the landlady.
"Hulloa! Mr. Vidal," he exclaimed as I entered. "Something more has occurred in this house during the night. The place has been broken into by burglars, who've got clean away with all old Mr. Gregory's collection of jewellery."
"Burglary," I repeated slowly; and then all that Rayner had told me flashed across my mind. I saw the reason for Jeanjean and his mysterious cyclist companion being near the house, and also why Rayner, on being detected, had been rendered senseless.
"Have you found any trace of the thieves?" I asked, having already decided to keep my own information to myself.
"Lots of traces," laughed Treeton. "Come and see for yourself."
We ascended the stairs, followed by the excited landlady and her husband.
"This is really terrible," moaned the woman. "I wish we'd never set eyes upon the poor young man and his uncle. We heard nothing in the night, nothing. In fact, I didn't discover that the room had been opened until an hour ago, when I was sweeping down the stairs. Then I noticed that the seals placed upon it had been broken, and the lock sawn right out. Why we didn't hear them, I can't think!"
"Ah, you don't hear much when the modern burglar is at work," declared Treeton. "They're far too scientific for that."
He showed me the door, from which the lock had been cut away, saying—
"They evidently got in by the window of the room downstairs, where we've just been, for it was found closed but not latched. They came up these stairs, cut out the lock, as you see—and look at that!" he added as we entered the old man's room.
The strong old sea-chest stood in the centre of the room. The lid, which had been nailed down, and sealed by the police, had been wrenched off and the box stood empty!
"Look!" cried Treeton again. "Every scrap gone—and it must have been a pretty bulky lot—a couple, or even three, sacksful at the least."
I went to the two windows which overlooked the narrow street behind, and examining the sills, saw marks where the paint had recently been rubbed away.
"Yes, I see," I remarked, "and they lowered the plunder to confederates outside."
"But who could have known of the existence of the jewellery, here?" asked Treeton. "Only ourselves were aware of it. At the inquest all mention of it was carefully suppressed."
"Somebody, of course, must have talked, perhaps unthinkingly, about it, and the news got round to the thieves," remarked the landlord.
I remained silent. Had I not, from the first, marvelled that old Mr. Gregory should disappear and leave behind him that collection of valuables?
"I've wired to Norwich, to Frayne, to come over at once, and see if he can find any finger-prints," said the local inspector. "We've discovered something here which the burglars left behind. Look at this."
And from a corner of the room he picked up something and handed it to me.
It was a woman's little, patent leather walking-shoe, with two white pearl buttons as fastening. The size I judged to be threes, but, as it was still fastened, it must have been too large for the wearer, who apparently having dropped it, was unable for some reason to regain it, and so left it behind.
"That's very strange!" I said, turning the little shoe over in my hand. It was not much worn, and of very good quality. "A woman has evidently been here!"
"Evidently, Mr. Vidal," replied the officer. "But surely a woman would never have the pluck to do a job of this sort. Nine people slept in this house last night and never heard a sound."
Truth to tell, I did not expect they would have done, now that I knew the robbery had been engineered by Jules Jeanjean.
"Very remarkable—very," I declared. "Probably Frayne, when he takes the finger-prints, will find some clue," I added, laughing inwardly, for I knew that those who had committed that robbery were far too clever to leave behind any traces of their identity. Besides, to actually lower the booty down into a public street showed a daring spirit which one only finds in the most expert criminals.
I could not, however, account for the discovery of that little shoe. Had it really been lost—or had it been placed there in order to mystify and mislead the police?
The latter suggestion had, of course, never entered Treeton's head.
"I wonder," I said to him, "if you would allow me to take this shoe along to the hotel? I want to take the exact measurements."
"Certainly, Mr. Vidal," was his reply. "You'll send it round to me, at the station, afterwards?"
"In an hour you shall have it," I promised him. Then I placed the shoe in my pocket, and made a tour of the room, touching nothing because of Frayne's coming hunt for finger-prints.
Jeanjean always wore gloves, skin-thin, rubber-gloves, which left no trace of his light touch. The curved lines of his thumb and forefinger were far too well known in Paris, in London, in Berlin and Rome, where the bureaux of detective police all possessed enlarged photographs of them.
Back in my room at the Hôtel de Paris, I took from a drawer the plaster cast of the woman's footprints I had found near the spot where Craig had been found.
Then, carrying it down to the shore near the pier, I made a print with the cast in the wet sand left hard by the receding tide.
Afterwards, I took the tiny, patent leather shoe from my pocket, and placed it carefully in the print.
It fitted exactly.
The ingenious theft of old Gregory's treasure created the greatest consternation amongst the police, though the truth was carefully concealed from the public.
Treeton pledged Mr. and Mrs. Dean and their servant to secrecy, therefore all that was known in Cromer was that there had been an attempted burglary at Beacon House.
Cromer is a quiet, law-abiding town, and burglars had not been known there for years. Therefore the inhabitants were naturally alarmed, and now carefully locked and bolted their doors at night.
I returned the shoe to the police-station, but made no mention of the result of my test.
From the first I had guessed that old Gregory would not leave his treasure behind. Yet, if he were not guilty of Craig's murder, why had he fled?
Lola had visited him, and Jeanjean had been in Cromer. Those two facts were, in themselves, sufficient to tell me that Gregory was an impostor and that Craig, whoever he might really have been, had fallen the victim of some deadly vengeance.
Would Lola return to see me?
In the days that followed—bright June days, with the North Sea lying calm and blue below the cliffs—I waited in patience, scarce leaving the hotel all day, in fear lest she might again seek me, and, paying me a visit, find me absent.
Rayner considered me inactive and grumbled in consequence.
He spent his time lolling upon one of the seats on the cliff-top outside the hotel, idly smoking Virginian cigarettes. He had openly expressed his dissatisfaction that I had not made any attempt to follow the mysterious Doctor Arendt and his Italian friend.
Truth to tell, I was utterly confounded.
To follow Jules Jeanjean, now that he had got clean away with Gregory's treasure, would, I felt, be an utterly futile task. He was too clever to leave any trace behind—a past-master in the art of evasion, and a man of a hundred clever disguises.
What would they say at the Prefecture of Police in Paris, when I related to them the strange story of Jeanjean's exploits in England? Was it possible, I wondered, that the master-criminal, finding the Continent of Europe growing a trifle too hot for him, had come to England to follow his nefarious profession. If so, then he would certainly cause a great deal of trouble to the famous Council of Seven at the Criminal Investigation Department in London.
Thus days went on—warm, idle, summer days with holiday visitors daily arriving, houses being repainted, and Cromer putting on her best appearance for the coming "season." Seaside towns always blossom forth into fresh paint in the month of June, window-sashes in white and doors in green. But Cromer, with its golf and high-class music, is essentially a resort of the wealthy, a place where the tripper is unwanted and where there are no importunate long-shoremen suggesting that it is a "Nice day for a bowot, sir!"
Where was Lola? Would she ever return?
I idled about the hotel, impatient and angry with myself. Yes, Rayner was right after all! I ought to have made some effort to follow the three men. But now, it was quite impossible. They were, no doubt, far away, and probably old Gregory's treasure was by that time safe in his own hands.
The evidence of the shoe puzzled me. The wearer of that little shoe with the two pearl buttons had, without doubt, been near that seat on the East Cliff where Craig had been killed—present, in all probability, when he had been so mysteriously stricken down.
Was it possible that a woman—the same woman—had assisted in the burglary, and had inadvertently lost her shoe? Perhaps she had taken her shoes off in order to move noiselessly, and in trying to recover them could only regain one!
Lola, I remembered, possessed a very small foot. She was always extremely neat and dainty about the ankles and wore silk stockings and pretty shoes. Was it the print of her foot that I had found near that fatal seat? Was it her shoe that had been found at Beacon House?
Ah! If I could but see her? If she would only call upon me once again!
Day after day I waited, but, alas, she did not come.
That she was most anxious to see me was proved by the fact that she had dared to call at all after what had occurred. She had some strong motive in meeting me again, therefore I lived on in hope that she would return.
The Nightingale! Heavens! What strange memories that one word brought back to me as I sat in the window of my high-up room, gazing over the summer sea.
It was now July, and Cromer was rapidly filling with better-class folk. Now and then I went to London, but only for the day, fearing lest Lola should send me a telegram to meet her. In my absence Rayner always remained on duty.
I had written to her address in the Avenue Pereire, in Paris, but had received no reply. Then I had sent a line to the concierge of the house wherein the flat was situated. To this I had received an ill-scribbled few lines in French, expressing a regret that Mademoiselle had vacated the place some weeks previously and that her present address was unknown.
Unknown! Well, that, after all, scarcely surprised me. Lola's address generally was unknown. Only her most intimate friends ever knew it; and for obvious reasons. She existed always in a deadly fear.
Perhaps it was that very fear which even now kept her from me!
Several times I had advertised in the personal column of the Matin in the hope that she might see it and communicate with me, but all to no avail.
In Cromer the sensation caused by the mysterious crime had quite died down.
Frayne, in Norwich, had ceased to make further inquiry, and Treeton now regarded the problem as one that would never be solved. So, with the daily arrival of visitors, Cromer and its tradespeople and landladies forgot the curious affair which had afforded them such a "nine days' wonder."
The month of July passed, and, with the London season over, every one rushed to the seaside. Cromer was filled to overflowing. The narrow streets were crowded with well-dressed folk, and large cars passed one at every turn. Stifled town-dwellers were there to enjoy the strong, healthy breezes from the North Sea, and to indulge in the bathing and the golf.
Yet, though August came, I still kept on my room at the Paris, hoping against hope that Lola might yet return.
Quite suddenly, one day, I recollected that curious letter in Italian, signed "Egisto," and addressed to his "Illustrious Master," found at Beacon House.
It had referred to something which had appeared in the Paris Matin of March 17. Consequently I sent to Paris for a copy of the paper, and, one morning, the pale yellow sheet arrived.
"The business we have been so long arranging, was successfully concluded last night," the writer of the letter had said, adding that a report of it appeared in the Matin on the day of this letter.
Eagerly I searched the paper, which was, as usual, full of sensational reports, for the French newspaper reader dearly loves a tragedy.
The "feature" of the paper is always placed in the right-hand corner near the bottom, and, as I searched, my eyes fell upon the words, in bold capitals: "Motor Bandits: Dastardly Outrage near Fontainebleau."
What followed, roughly translated into English, read—
"By telephone from Fontainebleau. Early this morning we have received information of a dastardly outrage in which two lives have been sacrificed. It appears that, just after midnight, Monsieur Charles Benoy, the well-known jeweller of the Rue de la Paix, was travelling from Paris to his château near Maret-sur-Loire, on the other side of the Forest of Fontainebleau. He was accompanied by his son Pierre, aged twenty-four, and driven by the chauffeur, named Petit. With him, in the car, M. Benoy had in their leather cases four diamond collars of great value, and two pearl necklaces, which he intended to show next day to a certain American gentleman who has recently purchased the ancient Château de Provins, and who was one of the jeweller's customers.
"M. Benoy's intention was to take the jewels over to Provins in his car on the following morning. Apparently all went well on the journey. They passed through Melun, entered the Forest, and at a high speed passed through the little hamlet of Chantoïseau, where they were seen by two gendarmes.
"According to the story of the chauffeur, when about four kilometres beyond Chantoïseau, at a lonely point of the forest, he saw two red lights being waved in the roadway, and reduced his speed on this sign of danger.
"As he did so, however, three men sprang out from the undergrowth. They called upon him to stop, and a revolver was fired point-blank at him. Next moment the bandits fired, without further ado, upon the occupants of the car, but the chauffeur, severely wounded, then fainted, and knew no more until he recovered consciousness in the barracks of the Gendarmerie in Moret.
"What happened, apparently, was that the three assassins, after shooting all three of the occupants of the car, threw the bodies into the roadway, seized the automobile, and drove off with the jewels. M. Benoy and his son were dead when found, the father having two bullet-wounds in his head, while the son had been struck in the region of the heart. The chauffeur, Petit, lies in a critical condition, and only with great difficulty has been able to give an account of the murderous attack.
"Inquiries at M. Benoy's shop, in the Rue de la Paix, have revealed the fact that the jewellery is worth about four hundred thousand francs.
"The car was seen returning through Melun, being driven at a furious pace by the bandits, but, unfortunately, all traces of it, and of the three men, have been lost.
"According to the chauffeur's description of one of the men, who wore motor-goggles as a disguise, the police believe the outrage to be the work of the notorious Jules Jeanjean, the ingenious criminal of whom the police have been so long in search.
"The occupants of the car were treated with inhuman brutality. The bodies of both father and son, together with the number-plates of the car, were thrown unceremoniously into the undergrowth; that of Petit was allowed to lie across the footpath, but for what reason cannot be guessed at.
"From the fact that the number-plates of the car have been found, it would appear that before the bandits moved off they replaced the correct numbers by false ones. No doubt, also, a rapid attempt was made to alter the appearance of the body of the car, because, close by, there were found two pails containing grey paint, and large brushes with the paint still wet in them.
"From this it is seen that the intention of the bandits was to make a long run, perhaps all through the following day, to reach some distant point of safety.
"It will be remembered that Jules Jeanjean was the prime mover in the terrible outrage near Lyons, where three motorists were shot dead and two wounded. Two men named Dubois, and Leblon, were arrested, and before their condemnation confessed that Jeanjean, a dangerous anarchist, had instigated the plot.
"Readers of the Matin will not need to be reminded of the many desperate crimes of which this atrocious scoundrel has been the author; of his amazing daring and marvellous cunning; and of the almost uncanny ease with which he, time after time, defies every effort of the police to trace and capture him.
"M. Hamard, Chef de la Sûreté, and several inspectors have left Paris, and are upon the scene of the outrage, while descriptions of the missing jewellery have already been circulated."