Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 62, No. 2, October 3, 1931

Mr. Hewes Wasn’t Grasping, but He Figured Gems Worth $450,000 to a Maharajah Might Be Valuable to Him Also

Chapter I The Release of Jim Garth

The warden looked with an undisguised expression of curiosity in his eyes at the young man who sat in the chair opposite him. It was not often that he had men of the upper classes, men who belonged definitely under the classification of gentlemen, either incoming or outgoing. He had seen and talked to this young man just a year ago when he had first come into the prison to serve a sentence for embezzlement: he had encountered him only once or twice during that year. To-day he was signing the papers which would release him.

Prison leaves its mark on most men, but it does not as a rule make such a startling change in a man as it had in this instance. Jim Garth had come into prison ruddy, tanned from an athletic life, a clear, humorous light in his eyes. His hair had been black and wavy, and worn rather long. His face had been unlined and carefree.

The man who sat opposite the warden was so changed it took an effort of memory for the latter to recall his first impressions. Jim Garth’s eyes were somber and brooding. His dark brows were drawn together and deep lines had formed in his forehead. His lips were tightly dosed with a bitter little quirk in the corners. His hair was close-cropped and salted with a sprinkling of gray. But the somber eyes met the warden’s steadily, unwaveringly.

“Well, Mr. Garth,” said the warden cheerfully, “I am as glad to release you to-day as you are to be released, I’m sure.”

“Thank you,” said Garth. His tone was unemotional.

“It isn’t often that we have a man of your caliber in here, Garth, and I have tried to make it as easy for you as possible.”

Garth’s head went back and he laughed shortly, bitterly. “I’m grateful for your thoughtfulness, warden. I’m afraid there isn’t much any man can do to make a stay in jail pleasant.”

The warden passed a box of cigarettes and Garth accepted one and lit it from the match the warden held. “I have always believed your story, Garth,” continued the warden. “I think you held the bag for the men who were really guilty. I think if you hadn’t been an honest man you would never have served this term.”

“I am sure,” said Garth, ironically, “that is a great consolation.”

“You mustn’t be bitter, Mr. Garth. The thing is passed and over now.”

Garth gave the warden a sharp look. “Passed and over, eh? Do you honestly think that, warden? Because if you do you are less worldly than I should have thought. Do you think I can ever go back to the friends who knew me or move in the same strata of society? Do you think I will ever be able to shake the stigma of having been a jail-bird? Do you think any one in the business world will ever give me a job when my name has been plastered over every newspaper in the country as the guilty seller of fraudulent oil stocks? My dear man, everything that ever meant anything at all to me is shut away forever!”

“But you are a wealthy man, Mr. Garth. You will be able to live where you wish and how you wish. The possession of wealth makes it easy for people to forget the past.”

Garth studied the ends of his fingers. “Every cent I ever had or am likely to have, warden, went into making good to those people who were caught in the trap I unwittingly set for them. No one lost by that oil deal — except myself. I have lost everything — money, position, friends.”

“You are young, Mr. Garth. You can make a fresh start.” The warden knew he was just talking clap-trap phrases. He knew that the scar on this man’s soul was too deep to be healed by words.

Garth inhaled deeply on his cigarette and then crushed it out in an ash tray on the warden’s desk.

“You forget, warden, that I was a prominent person. People all over the world read the story of my disgrace. Wherever I turn it will be remembered. No, warden, there is just one thing in life left for me.” The warden shifted uneasily in his chair, for he guessed what was coming. Garth continued: “There is just one thing left for me, warden, and that is to square accounts with the man who was responsible for sending me here. When I have done that, nothing else will matter.”

“Revenge,” said the warden, mechanically, “is never as sweet as most people think it will be.”

Garth laughed, and the sound of his laughter was not pleasant. “I want to turn the screws on him as he turned them on me, warden. I want to trap him as he trapped me. I want to see him suffer as I have suffered — over a long period of time. I want him to know what it is to sit hour after hour in a two-by-four cell with nothing but bitterness in his heart. I want him to know what torture it has been for me... here.” Garth’s voice had risen in passionate anger.

The warden rose. “Remember, Mr. Garth,” he said, gravely, “that your thirst for revenge may result only in bringing you back here. You have a black mark against you on the books that will count against you in life.”

Garth also rose. “I am painfully aware of that, warden, but I promise you that I will gladly spend the rest of my life here if I can just balance my account. That’s all I ask for, warden.”

“I wish you luck, Mr. Garth. I hope that when you are free you will lose some of your bitterness. It will never bring you happiness.”

“Happiness!” The departing prisoner laughed. “Happiness! Your sense of humor, warden, is nothing short of extraordinary.”

Chapter II The $450,000 Plot

It was a restaurant which specialized in food, an extraordinary thing in this day of the speakeasy. It was one of the last places in the city where the gourmet could still satisfy his delicate tastes, and because the American palate has been paralyzed by bad gin it was patronized only by a few customers who still ate food for the joy of eating and sipped rare wines for their flavor rather than for their alcoholic effect.

The fat man at the corner table was obviously having a delightful time. He had ordered with care and was eating with relish. The white linen napkin was tucked into a middle waistcoat button, but despite this precaution there was a fresh stain on the expensive necktie he wore — a fresh stain to join the others which were already old friends. His clothes were wrinkled and unbrushed, yet if one knew about cloth it was apparent that this suit had come from one of the best tailors. Now and then the fat man removed his gold-rimmed spectacles to wipe away the mist which befogged them as he leaned over the steaming casserole of quail, cooked in a ravishing wine sauce. He seemed entirely oblivious of the other two men who sat at an adjoining table, yet these two men were attracting curious glances from the other patrons. Martin Hewes had no curiosity, at the moment, except about the next mouthful of quail.

It was not remarkable that the other two men attracted attention. One of them wore a turban, and had the dark skin and aquiline features of the East Indian. Glittering black eyes were fixed intently on the man who sat opposite him, eyes that seemed to be boring through the strange, mask-like face of his companion. The other man, an Englishman, was immaculately clad in striped gray trousers, black coat, wing collar, bow tie, spats. The one outstanding thing about his appearance, however, was that in his right eye he wore a monocle of opaque green glass. Close scrutiny would have shown the observer that this was not altogether an affectation, for behind that green glass was no eye at all. Some accident had left nothing but a seared socket which the man cleverly hid by the wearing of a monocle. He had thin, bloodless lips, which seemed to be twisted into a perpetual ironic smile. The one good eye, pale green in color, was cold and heartless as splintered ice. He toyed idly with the caviar which the waiter had brought him.

“Well, Mr. Singh,” he said, “let’s hear your proposition,” his voice was suave, oily, but with a decidely unpleasant edge to it. He spoke in a normal, conversational tone with no attempt to keep any one from hearing. It wouldn’t have done much good if any one had heard him, for he spoke in Arabic.

Mr. Singh leaned forward, ignoring his canape, to the pained horror of the waiter. “Shall we come directly to the point, Mr. Sheringham?” he asked, also in Arabic.

“By all means,” said the man with the green eyeglass. “I don’t think we need beat around the bush. I know who you are, Mr. Singh, and you know who I am and what my business is.”

Mr. Singh rubbed his hands together enthusiastically. “Precisely. It is gratifying to me to be able to place my cards face up on the table. I represent a prince of my land, Mr. Sheringham — a man whose wealth is so fabulous that even he himself does not know how much he has.”

“The Maharajahs are noted for their riches,” said Mr. Sheringham, an acquisitive gleam in his one eye.

“My master,” said Mr. Singh, “is a collector of precious gems. Whenever he hears of some jewel which would augment his collection he acquires it, regardless of expense or effort. There is a piece of jewelry here in your city which he wishes. I have been commissioned to get it and I must have it.”

“All things are possible,” said Mr. Sheringham. “Go on.”

“It is a necklace,” said Mr. Singh, “a necklace of matchless diamonds which was brought to New York by James Carrington, the millionaire, for his wife. Word spread from the diamond market in Amsterdam that this was the most beautifully matched string of diamonds in the world. My master will not be happy until it is in his possession. Carrington will not sell at any price, so it must be acquired in some other fashion.”

Mr. Sheringham regarded the prongs of his fork thoughtfully. “But if your master did get possession of this necklace he would never be able to show it, Mr. Singh. I know of the Carrington string, and if it were — er — shall we say removed, every one would be on the lookout for it and it would be promptly identified and your master prosecuted.”

The East Indian laughed softly. “You do not understand the collector’s lust for possession, Mr. Sheringham. He would not be fool enough to show the finest string of diamonds in the world. Now to put matters quite frankly, I am led to believe that you have the organization and the skill to steal this necklace. I am here to buy your services.”

Sheringham regarded his companion, the sardonic twist to his lips tightening. “How is it that you would trust me to turn the necklace over to you after I have stolen it?” he said.

Mr. Singh shrugged. “My dear Mr. Sheringham, what could you do with the necklace after you had it? You are not a collector. These diamonds are of such a distinctive tint that even though they were re-cut they would still be distinguishable. You couldn’t sell them, Mr. Sheringham. That is why I trust you.” And it was Mr. Singh’s turn to indulge in a grim smile.

“Sound enough,” agreed Sheringham. “At what figure do you value the necklace?”

“Four hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” said Mr. Singh, impressively.

“In that case,” said Sheringham, grimly, “it will cost you just that amount in cash if I am to get the string for you.” Mr. Singh gasped. “Furthermore,” Sheringham continued, “you will pay that to me in advance and I will retain it whether I succeed or fail.”

“My dear sir!” Mr. Singh was overcome.

“It’s a highly precarious venture,” said Sheringham, “and the risk of being detected is so great that I would not take it for anything less than the sum I mention. If I fail and some of my men are caught, I shall need funds to get them out of trouble. So you see, I must have the money, win or lose.”

Mr. Singh’s dark skin seemed to grow darker. “I’m not sure that I should object to the sum you mention if you succeed. But to pay it to you in case of failure seems — well, staggering!”

Mr. Sheringham’s lips tightened. “That’s my proposition — take it or leave it. There is no point in argument, Mr. Singh, because I am not a flexible person.” He looked steadily at Mr. Singh. “I might add, that I am not expecting failure, Mr. Singh. But I must be prepared for it. This is a business with me and I do not run it on a speculative basis.”

“What it means,” said Mr. Singh, “is that if you are close pressed you will not care about the necklace. You will be already paid.”

Mr. Sheringham smiled. “Failure means an end of my prestige, Mr. Singh. Believe me, we will stop at nothing to succeed. It is only because we have stopped at nothing in the past that my reputation is known to you.” Mr. Singh sighed. “I must risk it,” he said dolefully, “because I dare not return to my master without the diamonds. Come to my room at the Ritz to-morrow morning at eleven and I will have the money.”

Mr. Martin Hewes, the fat man at the next table, regarded a piece of cold quail on his plate with the light of tragedy in his eyes. His attention had been distracted from his lunch and it was spoiled. Mr. Hewes spoke and understood Arabic fluently, and the conversation at the next table had been too interesting for him to concentrate both on it and quail.

Chapter III Martin Hewes Stumbles

Mr. Hewes walked from the restaurant toward his apartment, which faced on the park. Walking was something Mr. Hewes almost never did, and only when it was forced on him. On this occasion Mr. Hewes wanted to think, and he knew there would be no chance for thinking in a taxicab. What one needed was leisure and a cigarette in the comfortable arm chair he knew was waiting for him, but he couldn’t wait to do his thinking. So he walked and thought.

So deeply did Mr. Hewes think that he took no notice of his surroundings. Thus it was that he failed to see the shadowy figure of a ragged man slunk down on a park bench with his tattered shoes stretched out across the pavement, thus it was that Mr. Hewes tripped over those feet and nearly fell flat. It was only by the most heroic effort that he regained his equilibrium. He turned back angrily, his chain of thought broken. The ragged man was standing up.

“I say, old man, I’m most frightfully sorry,” he said. “It was damned careless of me to have my feet sprawled all over the sidewalk. I hope you didn’t hurt yourself.”

Mr. Hewes, who had been about to indulge in the luxury of some good old Anglo-Saxon expletives, checked himself and the anger died out of him. Mr. Hewes was perhaps the most curious person in the world, and already the problem of the man with the green eyeglass and his Indian friend was banished from his mind. This tramp — this ragged bum was a gentleman! His words and the intonation of his voice were a dead give-away.

“It’s quite all right,” said Martin Hewes, absently. He stared at the young man in rags. As he stared the young man swayed unsteadily on his feet and sat down rather abruptly on the park bench.

“Drunk?” asked Martin Hewes. There was no censure in his voice. Just curiosity. The man in rags laughed and it wasn’t a pleasant sound. Martin Hewes took a cigarette from his case, tapped it on the back of his hand and lit it. Then without a word he turned away from the young man and hailed a passing cab. When the driver had pulled up at the curb, Martin Hewes turned back. “Come on,” he said, shortly. The young man on the bench looked at him curiously, but he didn’t move. “Come on,” repeated Martin Hewes.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” said the young man. He was trying to put a stiffly formal note in his voice, but somehow he failed. His voice cracked a little, spoiling the effect.

“Don’t be a damned idiot,” said Martin Hewes, calmly. “We’re going to eat.” He said it almost eagerly, his manner belying the fact that he had just completed an enormous dinner.

“You’re awfully kind, old man,” said the ragged one, “but I’ve just had something.”

“That,” said Martin Hewes, “is a damned lie. Come on, I don’t care to stand here all night. Please don’t make it necessary for me to call on the taxi driver to lift you into the cab. You know you’re so hungry you can’t stand on your feet.”

Very slowly the young man rose to his feet and walked unsteadily toward the cab. “I don’t know who you are,” he said, “but you’re right. I’m as hungry as hell!”

He got into the cab and Hewes joined him after giving an address to the driver. They rode only a few short blocks in silence and then the cab drew up before the old brownstone house where Martin Hewes lived. They got out and after Hewes had paid the driver they mounted the stairs and the fat man opened the door with a latchkey and switched on a light.

“My housekeeper’s gone home,” he said, “but there’s always a cold bird or a bit of ham in the ice box. Cheese, beer, bread and butter! How does that sound?”

The ragged young man moistened his lips. “It sounds swell!” he said, and grinned.

“Follow me,” said Martin Hewes.

Cold partridge, thick slices of ham, bread and butter, ice cold beer and a Stilton cheese all came out of the ice box and were spread on the kitchen table by the host. He said nothing but waved the young man to a chair. With a grateful glance the young man attacked the food with an ardor that left no question as to his appetite. Martin Hewes sat down on a kitchen chair and lit a cigarette. He watched the young man, his eyes twinkling benevolently behind his gold-rimmed spectacles. He liked to see people enjoy food. He hoped the young man wasn’t too ravenous to appreciate the really fine flavor of that cheese.

At last the young man leaned back in his chair with a satisfied sigh. Hewes passed his cigarette case and the young man took one, lit it, and drew the smoke hungrily into his lungs. This chap has suffered, thought Martin Hewes. He was young, yet there was a sprinkling of gray in his close-cropped hair, and the lines about his eyes and mouth betrayed tragedy.

“I don’t know how to thank you, sir,” said the young man, in a low voice. “If there is any way I can pay you for this I’ll gladly—”

“What’s your name?” cut in Martin Hewes.

The young man hesitated noticeably. Then he spoke. “Garth,” he said quietly. “Jim Garth.”

Martin Hewes gazed reflectively at the ceiling. “Former international polo player, former amateur trap-shooting champion, former millionaire, and — er — former convict,” he said.

Jim Garth smiled bitterly. “You seem to have me down to a T, Mr. — er—”

“Hewes. Martin Hewes.”

“Everything about me is ‘former,’ Mr. Hewes.”

“Just released?” asked Martin Hewes, casually.

“Ten days ago.”

“No job, eh? Friends not too cordial?”

“Precisely.”

Martin Hewes watched the ash drop from his cigarette onto his vest unmoved. “You turned your whole fortune over to the people who were caught in that oil fraud, didn’t you. Mr. Garth?”

“I did.”

“Quixotic but admirable,” said Martin Hewes. “I gather you are what is known in modern parlance as a ‘fall guy.’ ”

“I believe that’s the term.”

“I take it,” said Martin Hewes. “that under the circumstances your are open to a business proposition.”

“I told you,” said Jim Garth, “that I would do anything to square myself for that meal I’ve eaten. It saved my life.”

“Anything?” asked Martin Hewes, slowly.

“Anything.”

“Come up to my study,” said the fat man.

Chapter IV Garth Accepts a Proposition

Martin Hewes’s study was something to see, and Jim Garth stared at it in undisguised amazement. To begin with, Martin Hewes never allowed his housekeeper to clean it but once once a year, and it was heavy with dust and cigarette ashes. Papers were littered helter-skelter over everything while the desk and tables were the repositories for the strangest collection of odds and ends, guns, pieces of pottery, pipes, fishhooks, empty liquor bottles and pieces of string. In one corner a chessboard stood on a littered taboret, an unfinished game set up on it. Pictures of considerable value hung crookedly on the walls, coated with dust. The room was lighted by a soot-darkened skylight and every Inch of wall space not occupied by pictures was covered with shelves of books.

Martin Hewes seemed unaware of anything unusual about the room and he pointed out a battered chair to Garth. He placed a box of cigarettes at the young man’s disposal and leaned back in his own plush arm chair with the comfortable sigh of a man who is content. For a moment or two he studied Garth’s face, the tips of his fingers together.

“I’ll tell you, Mr. Garth,” he said, abruptly. “I’m a sort of detective. That is to say I’m interested in crime, and when something turns up that interests me I work on it whether I’m hired or not. When I’m not hired I keep my findings to myself. It doesn’t matter much to me one way or another. It’s just that I love the game.”

“I see,” said Garth. He was instinctively drawn to the sloppy Hewes, drawn by the magnetic twinkle in his eyes, and by the kindness of his voice.

“I’ve knocked around the world a good deal,” said Hewes, “and I’ve picked up a thing or two that stand me in good stead. To-night I was sitting in a restaurant having dinner, and at the next table two men were planning a colossal crime. They discussed it quite openly because they didn’t think anyone would understand them. They spoke in Arabic. Now there probably aren’t more than four people in all of New York who can speak Arabic fluently, but I happen to be one of them.”

“Extraordinary,” said Garth. “What were they plotting?”

“One of them is going to steal the famous Carrington necklace.”

“Why, that’s nonsense!” cried Garth. “It can’t be done.”

“Just the same,” said Hewes, “the other man thought so highly of his ability that he is going to pay him four hundred and fifty thousand dollars for the attempt — win or lose!”

“Good God!”

“Precisely. You see the purchaser has ample confidence in the other man to accomplish the theft.”

“Aren’t you going to Carrington and warn him?” demanded Garth.

Mr. Hewes looked at his guest, a faint smile flitting over his lips. “I’m not interested in the moral aspects of crime, Mr. Garth. It’s a game with me, a game I play and from which I exact as much recompense — financial recompense — as possible. I see an opportunity for the making of a tidy little sum of money in this deal and if you see fit to join me I think we can manage.”

“Join you?”

“Yes. The fact is, Mr. Garth, I am about to offer you a partnership in my business. Fifty-fifty on all profits, and I’ll stake you to clothes and money until there are profits.”

For a moment Jim Garth wondered if this ineffectual looking fat man was day-dreaming. But something about those mild eyes behind the glasses made Jim Garth realize that he was in earnest, and that he was capable.

“It’s a generous offer, Mr. Hewes. What is your plan in regard to the Carrington necklace?”

Martin Hewes brushed the cigarette ash from his expanse of waistcoat. “If we go to Carrington and warn him,” he said slowly, “we will probably get laughed at for our pains. But, if we wait until the necklace is stolen, and then steal it back — well, Carrington might be willing to part with a tidy little sum to regain his treasure. Twenty-five — fifty thousand dollars. Who knows?”

“But how do we steal it back?” asked Jim Garth.

A far-away, whimsical look came into Martin Hewes’s eyes. “My dear Garth,” he said slowly. “I have been nosing around in the field of crime for a great many years and there aren’t many tricks of the trade I don’t know. But physically, my dear fellow, I am a very lazy man. With your energy, your ability to shoot and fight, and my brains, I should be willing to stack myself up against that gentleman with the green eyeglass and think I had better than an even chance.”

“Man with the green eyeglass!” cried Jim. His hands tightened spasmodically over the arms of his chair, “You don’t mean Basil Sheringham, the explorer?”

“Quite so,” said Hewes. “Mr. Sheringham, socially prominent explorer, big game hunter, and what have you, is in reality one of the slickest international crooks in the business. A man has to be good, Garth, to get four hundred and fifty thousand dollars in a down payment, win or lose.” Hewes lit another cigarette. “Your social position will be a help in dealing with Sheringham, too. What do you say, Garth? Will you take a share in my humble business? Before you know it you will be independent financially again. Twenty-five thousand on this deal for you would be a good start.”

There was an excited glint in Jim Garth’s eyes, and the knuckles of his hands showed white, so tightly was he gripping the arms of his chair. “There is just one person in the world, Mr. Hewes, with whom I have a score to settle. I suspect you know who that person is, but in case you don’t, I’ll tell you. If there is any way I can make Basil Sheringham suffer; if there is any way I can smash him — crush him down into the dirt. I’ll do it. Basil Sheringham is the man who sent me to jail, deprived me of my friends, my fortune, my happiness.”

Martin Hewes smiled faintly. “I knew that, Garth.”

“Then,” said Jim Garth, “you know that I’m with you... one hundred per cent!”

Chapter V The Necklace

Mr. Basil Sheringham stood on the doorstep of the Carrington mansion, stick under arm, gloves in hand, hat at just the right angle, and that faint, sardonic smile on his lips which seemed always to hover there. A stolid-faced butler admitted him and relieved him of hat, stick and gloves.

“Miss Carrington, please,” said the man with the green eyeglass.

The butler disappeared and returned, walking with the noiseless step of a cat. “This way, sir.”

Peg Carrington was an extraordinarily popular young woman, and it was not due entirely to the fortune which was hers. She had real charm of personality and people liked her for herself. She came to the door of the livingroom to greet the explorer.

“This is grand, Basil,” she said. “You’re just in time for tea, spelled h-i-g-h-b-a-l-l. Dad’s back from an exhausting day at the office watching the money roll in.”

“He’s lucky,” said Sheringham. “It’s rolling out for most people. I had your invitation to the reception you’re giving Thursday, so I thought I’d drop in and accept in person.”

“Glad you can come,” said Peg. “It’ll be an awful bore. Hundreds of people you don’t want to see but have to, if you follow me. Dad, here’s Basil Sheringham.”

James Carrington did not look like the moving picture conception of a millionaire. He didn’t wear wing collars or spats or any of the other expected trappings. Instead he had on a baggy tweed suit, was smoking a foul-smelling pipe, and sipping a highball. He waved casually to Sheringham.

“Hello. Make yourself a drink. I’m too damned lazy. How’s the exploring business?”

“All right, only there’s nothing to explore now except the homes of millionaires.”

“Help yourself,” said Carrington.

“Dad’s in an awful stew over the reception,” explained Peg. “He’s trying to pretend he has a date to play ping-pong with somebody.”

Carrington made a wry face. “Why the... well why any one should open his house to a couple of hundred sightseeing friends is over my head. We don’t owe anybody anything, at least not to my way of thinking. Nice quiet dinner with fifteen or twenty guests is all right. But hundreds of dancing, gin-drinking nincompoops is almost too much to bear.”

“Most people would think fifteen dinner guests was quite a party,” said Sheringham, pouring a stiff measure of Irish whisky into his glass.

Carrington grinned sourly. “Must be at least fifteen people. I expect to be bored by each person in at least ten minutes. That allows me two hours and a half. After that I go to bed.”

Sheringham glanced at his wrist watch. “My time is almost up.”

“Don’t be an ass,” said Carrington. “Sit down and be as dull as you like.” Sheringham sat down and took several tentative sips at his drink. “Excellent,” he pronounced it. “I suppose,” he said, “that you have to bring in a lot of extra servants for a function of this sort.” His tone was utterly casual.

“Sure. Detectives and servants and what have you.”

“Detectives?” Sheringham’s one eye was fixed on his amber-colored drink.

“Our dear friends,” said Carrington, his voice heavy with sarcasm, “are apt to be a little light-fingered unless we have an ostentatious watch set. Souvenirs, they call ’em. Just a little something to remember me by. But it’s damned annoying all the same.”

“Still, I don’t suppose you keep anything of great value in the house. I mean jewelry and that sort of thing.”

“Not much!” said Peg. “Why, can you believe that he has that diamond necklace of mother’s right here in a safe that could be opened with a sardine key!”

Not a muscle of Sheringham’s face moved. Carrington groaned.

“Will you tell me, Sheringham, what the good of owning jewelry is if you keep it down town in a safe deposit vault and wear paste imitations? As far as that necklace goes, it would be just as safe if I hung it on a chandelier. Nobody would take it.”

Sheringham watched the smoke curl up from his cigarette. “I’m afraid I’m a little stupid,” he said slowly. “Why not?”

Carrington’s eyes sparkled. The necklace was his pet toy. “Did you ever see it, Sheringham?”

“No-o.” Still watching the blue smoke curling upward.

Carrington rose. “Well, when you do, you’ll see how useless it would be for a thief to take it.” He crossed to the bookcase, pushed aside a piece of Florentine tapestry and disclosed an old-fashioned wall safe. Sheringham’s one eye was cold as steel as he watched. A couple of turns of the dial and Carrington opened the safe. He brought out a blue plush box and took it over to Sheringham.

“Cast your eyes on that piece of glass,” he said, with a delighted chuckle.

Sheringham’s hands were steady as rock when he opened the lid of the box and stared at its contents. The most remarkable gems his skilled eye had ever encountered twinkled up at him. He felt a slight acceleration of his heart-beats. No doubt the Maharajah coveted this exquisite string. Sheringham thought it the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life.

“Nice, eh? Pretty lovely, eh?” Carrington was like a child.

Sheringham looked up at him. “It’s the most marvelous thing I ever saw,” he said earnestly. “I should think you would have an armed platoon to guard it.”

Carrington laughed. “Worth half a million to me,” he said, “but not one cent to a crook. He couldn’t dispose of it, see? The color of those stones is so unique that even if they were recut they would be recognizable. No, Sheringham, it’s just as I said. I could hang it up on the chandelier and it would be perfectly safe.”

Sheringham closed the lid of the box. “There are collectors,” he said, casually, “who would covet that even though they couldn’t show it to the world at large. Personally I almost feel as though you should give me a receipt for its return right now.”

Carrington took the box, laughing, dropped it back into the safe and rejoined them. “It’s a kick to know that you own the finest diamonds in the world,” he said. “You’ve traveled all over the world, Sheringham, but I’ll bet that’s unsurpassed. Right here in little old New York!”

“In spite of what you say,” said Sheringham, “it would give me the willies to have it in that safe. As Peg said, you could open that safe with a sardine key.”

“Nonsense,” said Carrington.

Sheringham rubbed tips of his fingers together thoughtfully. “I’ll bet you a ten spot against another highball that I can open it while you’re mixing a drink.”

“Done!” laughed Carrington.

Sheringham rose and went over to the safe, rubbing the ends of his fingers on the rough surface of his coat. “I once took a course in safe-cracking from a convict I knew,” he said. “I used to be pretty good at it.” His slender fingers manipulated the dial, caressingly, gently. The millionaire and his daughter watched him interestedly. It took Sheringham about a minute and a half. He turned away from the open safe door nonchalantly and crossed to the cellarette to pour himself another drink. “Almost easier without the sardine key,” he said.

“I’ll be damned,” said Carrington.

“You see,” said the explorer, “it might just as well be hung on the chandelier. That thing is pie for a clever safe man.”

Carrington was unperturbed. “All I can say is that it’s a fortunate thing that you’re an honest man, Sheringham.”

“It is most fortunate,” agreed Sheringham, taking a deep swallow from his glass.

Chapter VI The Plan of Crime

Mr. Sheringham strolled down the avenue till he came to a lofty office building. His, lips were twisted into an even broader smile than usual as he entered the elevator and asked to be let out at the fourth floor. One of the plate-glass doors bore the legend “Paradise Gardens. Walk in.” Mr. Sheringham walked in to what was a small, but very complete barroom. There were several fables about, at one of which sat a man. He was a thin, wiry individual, dressed in a dark suit and wearing a tweed cap pulled well down over his eyes. He was playing solitaire. A cigarette with an inch-long ash hung between rather flabby lips. Now and then he inhaled and then blew the smoke out through his nostrils.

Sheringham nodded to the bartender. “Manhattan for me, Joe,” he said and crossed to the table where the card player sat. He took the chair opposite him. The card player looked up. His black eyes were set too closely together and there was an unpleasant, almost mad look in them.

“Hello,” he said, the cigarette still between his lips. Then he went back to his card playing. There was a bulge under his left arm-pit which meant to the skilled observer that he was armed.

Sheringham waited in silence until the barman brought his cocktail. He sipped it for a moment or two, and then put it down.

“Well, Kid,” he said slowly, “the set-up is complete. It’s going to be easy.”

Kid Cronin continued to study the cards without looking up. The cigarette had burned down so close between his lips that he seemed in imminent danger of being scorched. Presently he took a fresh one from a package in his pocket and lit it from the finished stub.

“Spill it,” he said. His voice was a harsh, croaking discord. His eyes were still riveted on the cards. Sheringham was undisturbed by the apparent lack of interest on Cronin’s part.

“Things have turned out better than we could have hoped,” he said. “The Carringtons have unwittingly collaborated with us by giving a large reception to which I am invited. You and Macfee will be present in the guise of additional waiters or footmen or some such thing. We will set the time for the robbery at a quarter to twelve. At that time you will be stationed near the front door. Macfee will be in the cellar. He will handle the lights.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. Our luck was stretched a little further. Carrington showed me where he kept the necklace. He even let me open the safe and leave my fingerprints all over it.”

Cronin looked up sharply, his black eyes narrowed to pin-points. “What’s the idea?”

“I told him the necklace would be easy to steal. He is just stubborn enough to leave it where it is now that I’ve demonstrated how simply it could be done. Moreover I can open the safe on Thursday night and leave as many prints as I want to. Carrington and his daughter will both swear that I left them to-day. It’s really a break.”

Cronin grunted. “If you had the necklace in your hands why didn’t you make a break for it and save all this rigmarole?”

“Simply because I don’t care to spend the rest of my days on the dodge. You forget, Kid, that it is my social standing that has made this racket possible. No, I shall be on hand after the theft on Thursday, ready to offer my help and experience in the capture of the thief.”

Kid Cronin shuffled the cards. When he spoke the cigarette bobbed erratically between his lips. “Get down to the details,” he rapped.

Sheringham sipped his cocktail. “At the given moment, after Macfee has done his bit, I open the safe which, now that I know the combination, will take about fifteen seconds. I slip to the door and pass the necklace to you.”

“Yeah? And then what?”

Sheringham drummed with his fingers on the edge of the table. “Kid, I want you to get the most conspicuous automobile you can find. Bright colors — something that will be easily identified. I want you to delay your getaway until you are sure that the car has been seen by several people. Then you drive away like mad.”

“Yeah? And then what?”

“Well, then, Kid, the truck will be waiting about two blocks away and before the chase is organized you will disappear from the face of the earth.”

“I get you,” said the Kid, without looking up.

“You slip away at once and go to the usual place,” concluded Sheringham, “and the thing is done.”

Very gently the Kid caressed the bulge under his arm. Sheringham’s lips smiled, but his eyes were steely. “Yes, Kid,” he said softly, “if you have to.”

The Kid looked up and for the first time he took the cigarette from between his lips. He smiled broadly, and in those close-set eyes was an expression of delighted cunning. He moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue.

“O. K.,” he croaked.

Chapter VII The Carrington Party

Jim Garth’s fingers trembled slightly as he carefully adjusted the black dinner tie he was wearing. To-night! To-night might be the first step in his promised squaring of accounts with Basil Sheringham. Hewes was certain that the man with the green eye-glass would take this opportunity of the reception to pull off his little stunt. Garth’s dark eyes were burning as he gazed at his own reflection. All the bitterness and anguish that had been his for the last year welled up within him at the prospect of coming face to face with Sheringham once more. Perhaps this was to be his hour.

Martin Hewes, who sat languidly in an arm chair watching his young partner put the finishing touches to his evening attire, indulged in a troubled smile. He studied the ash of his cigarette for a moment or two.

“I know what this night means to you, Jim,” he said slowly. “But remember, for our purposes, restraint and finesse are essential. You can’t act too quickly, Jim, or the fat will be in the fire.”

Garth’s lips tightened. “I’ve waited a year, Martin. I guess I’ll be able to keep myself in check for a few hours. Of course Sheringham won’t pull this alone. Dollars to doughnuts his man, Macfee, will be there in some capacity or other.”

“There’s a worse danger than that,” Hewes said. “I’ve been scouting around a bit for the last few days and my long ears have picked up some things here and there. Sheringham has a henchman named Cronin who is a bad boy with a gun. You’ve got to watch out for him because he’s sure to be around somewhere to shoot Sheringham out of any jam he may get into, and if they find out that you are onto their little game, I’m afraid that white shirt-front will be punctured by a few well-placed holes!”

Jim Garth’s hand strayed around to a bulge on his hip pocket. “It takes two to make a really artistic gun fight,” he said.

The Carrington butler stared at Jim Garth with an impassive, expressionless face. “Your card of invitation, sir.”

“I misplaced it,” said Garth placidly.

“Well, if you’ll give me your name, sir, we have a list of the invited guests here to check against.” Standing behind the butler was a man, who for all his dress clothes, was a ludicrously obvious detective. He was looking at Garth with an air of professional suspicion.

“If you don’t mind,” said Garth, “I will not give my name, but if you call Miss Carrington I’m sure she will set matters straight.”

“Miss Carrington is in the receiving line, sir, and unable to see you. If you will just give me your name...”

Jim fixed him with a baleful glare. “I must see Miss Carrington,” he said sternly. “It is a matter of... of life and death.”

The butler was silent for a moment. He had seen these gate crashers before and he knew Miss Carrington would be very annoyed if she was called out to face some unwelcome caller. That was why he was stationed at the door — to keep this sort of person out. This man, however, was obviously a gentleman, and something in the intensity of his look made the butler waver.

“I’ll ask Miss Carrington it she’ll see you,” he said.

As he moved away the detective shifted his position so that he stood directly in front of Jim, blocking his entrance. “No tricks, brother,” he said, out of the corner of his mouth.

Jim smiled, took out a cigarette case, offered one to the detective, who refused with a grunt, and lit one for himself.

After two or three minutes the butler returned with Peg Carrington. She was dressed in a stunning, low cut gown, with a long, sweeping, graceful skirt. The butler nodded toward Jim and she looked at him, puzzled. Then her mouth opened in a little exclamation of surprise.

“Jim!” she cried softly. “Jim Garth.”

He felt a sudden tightening of the muscles in his throat. There had been a time when Peg Carrington had figured very definitely in his plans for the future, and the sight of her brought back all the old longing for her with disturbing force. She held out both her hands to him and he took them in his, struggling to keep his voice steady when he spoke.

“Can I see you for just a minute, Peg — alone?” he asked.

“You can see me, Jim Garth, for as long as you like.” She drew him across the hall to a little reception room, closed the door behind him, and they were alone. She looked at him expectantly for a moment and then squeezed his hand tightly in her. “When did you...” she hesitated.

“Get out?” he concluded for her dryly. “About three weeks ago, Peg.”

“Jim! And you haven’t been here to see me before!”

His lips were set in a tight, hard smile. “Would you have wanted to see an... an ex-convict, Peg?”

“Jim!” She moved disconcertingly close to him. “You know how I felt about that whole business. You know I’ve always believed in you — believed that you were duped in that deal — believed that you’ve paid the price for some one else. I wrote you that, Jim, in... in prison. But you never answered.”

Jim turned away. He couldn’t bear to look into those soft, understanding eyes.

She was something that might have been his, but that was gone for ever now.

“I’ve burned all my bridges, Peg,” he said. “I had to. God knows that having you believe in me is the one and only thing I have to cling to. That and the prospect of squaring my account with the man who smashed everything for me.” He paused. “But somehow, Peg, I had to come here to-night. I just wanted a glimpse of you and of the people that were once my friends. No one will spot me in this crowd. I... I’ve changed.”

“Oh, Jim!” There was a catch in her voice. “The fun has gone out of your eyes, Jim, and the smile that was always on your lips has grown hard. Let me help, somehow.”

“Just seeing you has helped,” he said hoarsely. Then he took a deep breath. He hadn’t come here to open old wounds, but to take the first step in balancing the ledger. Right now he should be out of here, watching for Sheringham and his men. He hated to deceive Peg as to the real reason for his presence, but there was no way out of it. He must play the game as Martin Hewes wished it played, for Hewes had given him his chance.

“You must go back to your guests, Peg. Just let me wander around for a bit and then I’ll slip away.”

“But you’ll come back, Jim? Sometime when we can really talk?”

“If you want me to, Peg,” he said, simply.

“Of course, I want you to!”

When he was alone Jim glanced at his watch. It was eleven thirty. He guessed that if Sheringham was going to do anything it would be soon, while the whole crowd of guests were still milling about. Jim crossed the hall to the door of the big room where the reception line stood, his head lowered to avoid being recognized. He didn’t wish to be hailed by some old friend at this moment when all his attention and wits must be focused on Sheringham.

Standing in the door he looked around the room. He saw Mrs. Carrington in the reception line with her husband and realized that she was not wearing the diamond necklace. Probably this occasion was too public for a display of the famous stones. Then his eyes, roving about the room, picked up Sheringham and he felt every muscle in his body go tense and hard as he stared at the man with the green eyeglass... the man who had ruined his life.

Sheringham was standing over by a gorgeous Florentine tapestry, chatting with a woman whom Jim did not know. Jim had spent a year in jail while that man had moved about freely among Jim’s friends... that man who was a scoundrelly thief and a murderer. Little beads of perspiration stood out on Jim’s forehead. If he could just turn primitive for a moment... If he could just inflict some bodily punishment, some torture, on that suave, cool charlatan.

And then as Jim stood there, seething with anger, the entire house was suddenly plunged into blackness.

Chapter VIII Get-away

A pandemonium of excited shouts and hysterical women’s screaming resulted almost at once. At first nearly every one thought it was some part of a scheme of entertainment planned by the Carringtons, but the millionaire himself had raised his voice reassuringly. Probably some fuse had blown out, he told them. Here and there a match flickered in the darkness, or the tiny flame of a cigarette lighter. People were laughing and bumping into each other.

Aside from those who understood the cause for the sudden darkness, Jim Garth was the only one who came close to guessing the truth. This was Sheringham’s doing. Some one had thrown off the switch in the basement and before light was restored the explorer would have accomplished his plans.

Jim hesitated in the door debating what he would do. He had strict orders from Hewes not to raise an alarm. Sheringham was to be allowed to succeed temporarily. But if he got away without Jim’s being able to trail him they might fumble the whole affair. Should he wait here in the door, or should he try to work his way across the room in the darkness to the spot where Sheringham had stood when the light went out? Sheringham had of course been prepared for this and had probably made his way to the hiding-place of the necklace without any hesitation. Jim decided to stay where he was. When the lights came on he would have a full view not only of the room in which the guests had been received, but also the hall and the front door. In the darkness he pulled the revolver from his hip and dropped it into the pocket of his dinner jacket, where his right hand remained closed over it.

People were still laughing and shouting to each other in the gloom. Some one bumped into Jim and muttered an apology. Already the butler had acquired sufficient presence of mind to find some candles. He came out of the dining room with them set in a candelabra, holding them high above his head. They cast an eerie light in the big rooms. Some one started a mock cheer.

Then as the light bearer approached Jim saw that standing not three feet from him across the doorway was Basil Sheringham. Somehow, in the darkness, the explorer had made his way across the room and was now leaning nonchalantly against the doorjamb. Jim’s first impulse was to speak to him, and his second and wiser one was to shrink back into the darkness. At the same moment he saw the front door open, a shadowy figure slip through it, and the door close silently. Was that chance, or had Sheringham already accomplished his purpose and was the person who had just departed in possession of the necklace?

It was a moment of rather desperate decision for him. Hewes had told him to use his own judgment, and he felt certain that Sheringham himself would not try to take the necklace out of the house. To disappear would be to attract suspicion and that would be the last thing Sheringham would want. No, the necklace was probably now in the hands of Macfee, or Cronin, Sheringham’s two aides. It was on this thought that Jim determined to run the risk of losing sight of Sheringham and making certain that the person who had just left the house was one who had a legitimate reason for going. He slipped away in the candle light to the door and out into the night.

It seemed much longer, but it was probably only three or four minutes before one of Carrington’s servants reached the control box in the basement and discovered that some one had thrown off the main switch. The house was flooded with light again when the switch was thrown in and at once every one began to babble excitedly. For a moment it seemed that there was no harm done... a moment that was abruptly ended when Basil Sheringham shouted across the room to James Carrington:

“My God, Carrington! That wall safe!”

James Carrington swung around toward the Florentine tapestry and saw something that sent a chill of fear into his veins. The tapestry was pushed aside and the wall safe stood open. He reached it in four quick strides, fumbled desperately in the interior of the safe with his hand, and then turned away, white and shaken.

“The necklace,” he said dully. “Gone!”

Sheringham was at his side. “I knew that was no blown fuse!” he said, sharply. “Some one monkeyed with the light switch. It gave them time to remove the necklace, but it seems hardly credible that they could have made a get-away. If I were you, I’d have the doors locked and have every one searched before they leave.”

“Good God!” said Carrington. “I can’t subject my friends to that sort of thing.”

“One of your friends has subjected you to a half million dollar robbery,” said Sheringham, dryly.

The detective who had been stationed at the front door joined them. Very concisely Sheringham explained what had happened and the detective hurried off to give orders that no one should leave the house.

“Better have a look out on the street,” Sheringham called after him. “If any one has left he would scarcely be out of sight.”

The detective took this to be good advice and he ran to the front door and out onto the steps. Just as he opened the door he saw a machine pulling out of the line of parked cars. It was a garish, canary yellow Rolls-Royce, and the man at the wheel had a tweed cap pulled down over his face and a cigarette dangling between his flabby lips.

“Hey, you!” shouted the detective. “Where are you going?”

Cronin leaned low over the wheel of the Rolls and it started forward with a lurch.

“Stop him!” shouted the detective to a group of chauffeurs. “Stop thief!”

Several of the men moved forward but it was too late. The Rolls was tearing down the block at a dizzy rate of speed. At the same moment a taxi shot past the door. Leaning forward and speaking to the driver was a hatless and coatless young man in dinner clothes.

Chapter IX The Only Man Missing

The detective held a hurried conference with the chauffeurs. Several of them had noticed the yellow Rolls because of the startlingly bright color. Better yet, at least three men had noticed the license number and remembered it because it was such a small one, N. Y. 42. They had seen the man in the tweed cap come down the steps from the house and get into the car, but there had been no reason to think there was anything out of the way in that. Then they had seen the second man in dinner clothes, with no hat or coat, however, come out of the house, hurriedly, look about, and then make off down the street as though he was looking for some one.

This was no time for lazy methods. A patrolman had joined the excited group, and the detective gave him the description and number of the yellow Rolls with orders to circulate it and have the driver arrested if they could catch him. Meanwhile he was to make a canvas of all the traffic officers within a radius of five blocks to make absolutely certain which direction the escaping thief had taken. No one would fail to notice the big yellow touring car.

Back in the house the detective joined Carrington and Sheringham with a long face.

“I’m afraid the thief has got away,” he said glumly. “He must have passed me in the dark as I was standing by the front door. I think we may catch him, though, because he drove off in such a conspicuous car.”

Carrington was gnawing his under lip. That necklace, besides its immense value, was his most beloved possession. Mrs. Carrington and Peg had joined them and they held a hurried consultation. Mrs. Carrington made a practical suggestion.

“If you know the thief is gone there is an unembarrassing method of finding out who he is. There is a list of every person here and each person was checked off as they came in. If you announce to the guests what has happened and then call the roll, you’ll find out who is missing.”

“That’s a splendid idea, Mrs. Carrington,” said Sheringham. “I suggest it be carried out at once.” Carrington and the detective agreed and Carrington called for silence. The guests waited for him to speak.

“My friends, a very regrettable thing has occurred. During those few minutes of darkness the wall safe here in this room which contained a priceless string of diamonds of which most of you have heard, was opened and the necklace taken.” There was an excited murmur.

“The thief has escaped,” Carrington continued, “and while we know this we do not know who he is. It has been suggested that we call off the names of the people we know to be present, and if there are any absentees it will aid us in narrowing our investigation into the identity of the thief. I have here the list of those people who came to-night. As I call off your name will you answer and show yourself?”

He began to read from the list. As he called off the names each person answered and raised his or her hand to show where he was. The detective checked off the list as Carrington read. At the end of about ten minutes it was completed, but there was not a single absentee. While this had been going on the butler had checked up on the regular servants and the extra help. No one was missing.

For a moment Carrington and the detective stared blankly at each other, Sheringham’s face was expressionless. The more delay the better for his cause. Suddenly the detective’s face lightened and he turned to Peg Carrington.

“I have it, Miss Carrington! The man who came and asked to see you. His name wasn’t on the list and naturally he hasn’t answered to the roll. Where is he?”

“I... I don’t know,” said Peg. She had been looking diligently for a view of Jim’s face ever since the lights had come on.

“Who was it, Peg?” her father asked.

She hesitated. “I’d rather not say, dad. Quite obviously it would incriminate him, and I know that he had nothing to do with this.”

“But if you know that, Peg, what harm can there be in telling me?” the millionaire asked.

“I’d rather not, dad.”

“I remember his name right enough,” said the detective bluntly. “I heard you speak to him. It was Jim Garth.”

There was one of those moments of electric silence. Carrington looked rather reproachfully at Peg, who was biting her lip. Sheringham, his face impassive, took out his handkerchief and wiped his mouth.

“Jim Garth, eh?” he said, quietly. “I thought he had another month to serve.”

“Month off for good behavior,” said Carrington, absently. He was upset by this disclosure. He knew something of what his daughter had felt for Jim, and he himself had always liked the boy. He couldn’t believe that Jim would descend to common burglary.

“I should think,” said Sheringham, acidly, “that our little problem is solved. An ex-convict — a man who has just served a term for embezzlement — is the one person known to have disappeared from the house.”

“You’re not accusing Jim of stealing the necklace, are you?” demanded Peg, hotly.

Sheringham shrugged. “Circumstantial evidence, my dear Peg. I was just as shocked as you were a year ago to learn that Garth was a crook. But we must look facts in the face, and this looks pretty bad for him.”

Peg was white and shaking with anger. “Jim Garth is no more a crook than I am, Basil, and you know it. He paid the price for some one else, and you know it as well as I do. He was left holding the bag.”

Sheringham knew it much better than she did, but nothing in his manner suggested it. “Loyalty is a splendid quality, Peg. It’s too bad that yours is misplaced.”

The detective was uninterested in personal loyalties. “Suppose you give us a description of this Garth,” he said. “I only got a brief look at him. Tell me all you know about him.”

“I can describe him readily enough,” said Sheringham, “as for the details of his career, you will find them in the criminal records.”

While Sheringham was talking to the detective the front door was opened to two men who at first glance appeared to be policemen. One of them, a sharp-eyed, gray-haired man with a lean, hard body, introduced himself to Carrington as Inspector Ives from police headquarters. He was promptly apprised of the facts by the detective.

“You pulled a boner on that car, Corliss,” said Inspector Ives. “No yellow Rolls-Royce has left this district.”

“It was the yellowest car I ever saw,” said the detective. “If you’ll question the chauffeurs out there you’ll know that there was no mistake about that.”

“Perhaps you can explain where it went then,” said Ives. “Did you notice whether it was equipped with flying apparatus? Because that’s the only way the car you describe could have got out of this neighborhood. We’ve questioned every traffic cop for blocks around and not a single damned one of them laid eyes on such a car. There are extra men on, too, because of this reception. I tell you no yellow Rolls-Royce left this neighborhood.”

“And I tell you, inspector, I saw it go with my own eyes,” insisted Corliss.

Inspector Ives shrugged. “In that case it has just been swallowed up.”

The faintest of ironic smiles twisted Basil Sheringham’s lips. How could the inspector guess that his attempt at sarcasm was almost the literal truth?

Chapter X Garth Follows the Diamonds

When Jim Garth ran out of the Carrington house on the trail of the shadowy figure who had preceded him, he at first saw no one except the group of chauffeurs on the sidewalk, but just as he was about to turn back he glimpsed Cronin climbing in behind the wheel of the yellow Rolls. It was not a moment when he could debate his course of action. Either he must assume that this man was flying with the necklace or he must go back and keep his eye on Sheringham. One thing decided him. When the lights had gone out Sheringham had been standing way across the room by the Florentine tapestry, yet when the butler appeared with candles, Sheringham was out in the entrance hall. The assumption was that he had passed the necklace to his confederate under the curtain of darkness.

Cronin had already backed the yellow car out of line and Jim saw that there was no chance of stopping him. The only hope was to find some means of following him, so he ran down the block waving frantically at a taxi which had drawn up at the corner.

“If you stick on the trail of that yellow Rolls it will be worth twenty-five dollars to me,” said Jim sharply.

“O. K., boss!”

Jim nearly smashed in the back of his head as the taxi started forward with a jerk that threw him against the seat. Cronin was already under way and the taxi driver, in order not to miss him at the next corner, was burning up the pavement. Jim leaned forward and spoke.

“If he stops and leaves that car anywhere I’ve got to follow him, so here’s your money now.” He slipped some bills into the driver’s pocket, and the man nodded, grimly intent on keeping the Rolls in sight.

Cronin swung the yellow car around the corner at a perilous rate of speed, and Jim offered up a silent prayer as the taxi lurched dangerously in pursuit. There could be no doubt now that Cronin was attempting to make a getaway, which argued that he was in possession of the diamonds. The Rolls raced through a red traffic light without slackening speed, and Jim’s taxi nearly ended its career and the careers of its occupants as it narrowly missed colliding with another car which came across their path on the green light. Jim mopped the perspiration from his forehead with a silk handkerchief.

Down the block, drawn up at the curb, was a huge moving van, the back open and a sort of runway incline sloping down from the tail board. Two men stood idly on the pavement smoking cigarettes. With a startling abruptness the Rolls brakes screamed out in protest and the big yellow car slowed down and then with a precision that spoke worlds for the skill of the driver, ran up the runway and into the body of the moving van. The two men on the sidewalk were suddenly all action. The runway was shipped into the van and the big rear doors were closed. Almost before the time it takes to tell it, the Rolls, as Inspector Ives had innocently remarked, was swallowed up.

Jim’s taxi, unprepared for any such maneuver had narrowly missed crashing into the back of the Rolls as it slowed down, swerved around it and sped past the van. Jim had a brief glimpse of the disappearing act, but enough to know what had happened.

“Keep going,” he ordered the driver, tensely. “I don’t want them to think we’re following. We’ll pick up the van in a minute.”

The taxi man’s eyes were popping out of his head. The vision of the big car driving up into the van was one of the strangest things he had ever seen. He slowed down gradually and presently drew in to the curb. He was gambling on the chance that Cronin had been too intent upon his driving to notice the fact that he was trailed, and in this gamble Jim was correct. The van came lumbering along the street now, being very careful to observe the traffic signals... a very innocent looking vehicle. Looking up and down the street Jim saw no one who might have observed the strange maneuver of the Rolls. Either luck was with Sheringham or this has been carefully arranged.

For ten or fifteen blocks the truck continued its leisurely way, with Jim’s taxi trailing as unobtrusively as possible. At last, halted by a traffic light, the truck pulled in near the pavement and a man climbed down from the front seat. Jim recognized the tweed cap and hunched shoulders of Cronin. Jim opened the door of the taxi.

“Here’s a fifty-dollar bill,” he said to the driver. “You go somewhere else and forget all about what you’ve seen to-night.”

The driver grinned broadly. “O. K., chief!”

Jim slipped across the pavement and into the shadow of the buildings, for he realized that he was decidedly conspicuous in his dinner clothes without either hat or coat. Cronin was walking along in front of him, unconcernedly, his hands stuffed into his trousers pockets, a cigarette dangling between his lips. This side street was deserted, for it was after midnight and they were well away from the theater district.

Jim quickened his pace and drew closer to the gunman. He must act quickly if he was to get the necklace. He remembered that Hewes had told him Cronin was one of the quickest men with a gun in the city and Jim’s hand closed over the butt of the pistol in his own pocket. He was only ten yards back of Cronin when the gunman turned into an alley between two buildings. Jim’s muscles tightened. Had Cronin guessed that he was being followed or was he taking a short cut? If it was the former reason, Jim knew that the minute he turned into the alley he would in all probability breathe his last. But there was no choice. The success of the whole venture hinged on his getting the necklace from Cronin before he reached a place of safety. Jim drew his gun and turned into the alley.

He had steeled himself for an attack, but it did not come. Instead he saw Cronin far down the alley, still walking unconcernedly, the red point of his cigarette showing in the darkness. Jim crouched and ran noiselessly after him. Now was the time.

Cronin did not hear his pursuer until Jim was almost on top of him. Then he turned, snarling, his hand going like lightning for the gun under his right arm-pit. Jim wanted no gun shots if he could avoid it. He did not dare have attention attracted to him until he had delivered the necklace to Martin Hewes. He sent himself hurtling through the air in a magnificent flying tackle that crushed the little gunman under its ferocity before he could draw the gun from its holster.

But that was not the end. Jim was bigger and heavier than Cronin, but the wiry little gunman fought with a maniacal fury that more than evened things. There was very little noise. Each man was fighting for his life and Cronin, writhing and twisting, was trying to get a free hand at his gun. In the darkness there was no opportunity to aim a decisive blow and Jim was slugging blindly at the smaller man, hoping by the grace of Providence that he could keep Cronin from his weapon. In the narrow confines of the alley there was little room for movement, and Jim was bruised and gasping for breath as they repeatedly crashed against the brick walls of the overhanging buildings.

When the fight ended, it was so sudden that Jim found himself leaning against one of the walls, dazed. They had half struggled to their feet and with a desperate lurch Cronin freed himself from Jim’s grasp. Jim knew it was his finish unless the fates were with him. He struck out in the blackness with every last ounce of strength in his weary arm... and the blow-landed. Cronin was catapulted backward and his head struck with a sickening thud against the bricks. He crumpled down to the pavement and lay still.

Jim, sucking in his breath in agonized gulps, knelt down and felt for his victim. The year in prison had left him out of condition and he felt weak and dizzy. His first move was to take the gun from Cronin’s holster and slip it into his own pocket. Then in a side pocket he found the plush box which contained the diamonds. He rose slowly to his feet. Once that box was in Martin Hewes’s hands he would have struck the first blow at Sheringham.

He walked unsteadily down the alley to the street and hailed a cab.

Chapter XI Caught!

Inspector Ives was not a genius, but when it came to applying the resources of the police department to his ends he was unbeatable. In matters of routine detection he never missed a trick. Thus, when he learned that Jim Garth, ex-convict, had been among those present when the lights went out and that he was now missing, he made immediate steps in the direction of locating this man.

Garth’s little scene with the warden in which he had rather unwisely said that the only thing he had left to live for was to square himself with the man who had betrayed him had led that official to notify the police that it might be worth their while to keep an eye on the former society man. This had been done in a stolid, matter-of-fact way, and so when Ives got in touch with headquarters he learned that Jim was living with Martin Hewes, the private detective.

Ives repaired at once to Hewes’s home with several plain-clothes men, only to find there was no one at home. At least their repeated ringing of the door bell brought no response and there were no lights visible anywhere in the house. He was a little at a loss to know how to interpret the fact of Garth’s residence with Hewes. To the best of his knowledge Hewes was a law abiding citizen, and it was a little incredible to the inspector that he would harbor a thief, if for no other reason than it would have a damaging effect on his reputation as a detective. But Ives was not one to go off half-cocked, and he settled down stolidly with his men to wait for Hewes or Garth to show up.

Meanwhile Jim Garth, ragged and disheveled from his encounter with Cronin, had emerged from the alley and engaged a taxi to bring him home. He sat back in the cab trying to get back some of the strength that had been sapped in his exhausting struggle. When the cab drew up before Hewes’s house he got out, paid his fare, and turned toward the steps. It was only then that he saw Ives and his men waiting. He stopped abruptly, every nerve tense.

A dozen thoughts flashed through his mind. If Ives were to arrest him now the consequences would be grave indeed, for not only was the necklace in his possession, a fact that would be hard to explain away, but also he was carrying two guns in direct violation of the Sullivan Act, and as an ex-convict he would be liable to a severe sentence. Whatever happened he must not fall into Ives’s hands at the moment.

In a very leisurely manner he turned and began to stroll along the sidewalk away from the house. The inspector and his men hesitated for a moment, wondering if after all this was not their man. Then as Jim passed a street lamp and the disheveled condition of his clothing became apparent to them, Ives called out.

“Garth! Wait!”

The inspector’s staccato hail only made Jim take to his heels like a scared rabbit. Some one fired a shot after him but it went wild and he ducked into an alley between two houses and sprinted for safety. He could hear the policemen shouting to each other and he guessed some of them had been dispatched around the block to meet him when he emerged from the other end of the alley. He hesitated for just a minute, panting for breath. He was in a maze of back yards, walled in by low wooden fences, and he scaled one of these walls and dropped into the yard beyond. Ives and two of his men were clattering down the alley.

Jim’s first move was to get rid of the two guns he was carrying. He might be able to explain away the necklace with Hewes’s assistance, but never the guns. He stumbled across the yard, littered with trash, to the next fence and pulled himself up. A shout rose behind him and the top of the fence a foot from him was splintered by a bullet. One of the detectives had mounted the wall behind to have a look around and had spotted him.

Jim literally fell over the wall into the next yard and then paused to take stock of the situation. It would be too hazardous to climb again, for they would be waiting, and his chances of escaping another bullet would be unpleasantly slim. The dim light from an upper window gave him a faint glimpse of his surroundings. He was in the back yard of a rather modern apartment building, and just to the right of it was a service passage leading to the street. This must be his avenue of escape and he started on the run down it. At the exit to the street he paused and looked cautiously out, only to withdraw hurriedly. Two of Ives’s men were patrolling the sidewalk. Behind him he could hear the shouts of the rest of the party. He was trapped.

Jim looked frantically about him. If he was to be caught he must dispose of the necklace in some place where Martin Hewes could recover it even if he himself were to land in prison. Voices were drawing nearer and whatever he did must be done quickly. There was a row of ash cans standing in the alley waiting for the collector to come for them in the morning, and it was into one of these that Jim pushed the plush box containing the diamonds and covered it over with ashes. He moved along down the alley so that he would not be near the cans when the police closed in, thus attracting attention to them. It was then that he noticed the open cellar window.

With an agility he had not believed possible he squeezed his way through this narrow opening and dropped down into a coal bin. He lay still, praying that the coals would stop their rattling avalanche before the policemen drew abreast of the window. He could hear them now, talking excitedly. They hurried on past the window to the street where they were joined by the others. Here a council of war was held, the men from the street swearing that Jim had not come out. Ives returned down the alley and Jim could hear him giving orders for every house and basement to be searched. Inspector Ives was a thorough man.

An hour of painful waiting ensued. At last the most crucial moment arrived when the detectives came into the very cellar where Jim was hiding, buried now under the coal so that unless they shoveled the stuff out of the bin they would not find him. Ives was not in this particular search party or else that very thing might have been done, but once more fate was with him and after an exhaustive search the detectives left him unmolested.

At last Jim pulled himself out of the bin, dirty and tired almost to the breaking point. There was no sound in the alley and with care Jim wriggled his way out through the cellar window and into the open. The only thing to do now was to retrieve the necklace and phone Martin Hewes for advice. It would be impossible to return to his friend’s house, for that would be watched. He started slowly down the alley toward the ash cans when something was suddenly rammed sharply into the small of his back.

“Put up your hands, Garth! Quick!”

The order was given in a hoarse whisper. Slowly, discouraged, Jim raised his hands. There was a clanking of metal and a pair of handcuffs were snapped over his wrists. Slowly he turned to face his captor, and as he saw him in the glimmer of light from that upper window a cry escaped him. The man before him, pistol in hand, was Basil Sheringham.

Chapter XII Trial by Fire

Sheringham’s lips twisted in a characteristic sardonic grin. The light reflected from the green glass in his eye gave him a definitely sinister look.

“Well, Garth, I hadn’t expected a reunion with you so soon,” he said, a faint chuckle in his voice. “When I heard you had been at the party tonight and disappeared at the same time that my friend Cronin made his getaway I guessed that somehow you were onto the play. Where’s the necklace?”

Jim was collecting his equilibrium rapidly. There hadn’t been time for Cronin to recover and report to his master, so that it was apparent that Sheringham was guessing.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sheringham,” he said.

Sheringham sighed. “Ah, well, we can’t discuss it here. Just precede me up the alley, Garth, and don’t make any attempt at a get-away because I’m not in the mood to hold my trigger finger.”

Jim knew that Sheringham was dangerous and he was in no position to argue. He turned and walked slowly out the alley to the street, and Sheringham, walking behind, kept the muzzle of his pistol pressed into the small of Jim’s back. When they reached the street a curtained limousine pulled up at the curb, and Sheringham ushered his prisoner into the back of the car and took the seat beside him. The driver pulled away without waiting for orders. Sheringham leaned back on the cushions and lit a cigarette. He spoke in a bantering tone, but Jim recognized that underneath it was a decidedly menacing note.

“I overheard Inspector Ives’s plans for your capture,” said the man with the green eyeglass, “and I thought I would be present. I wanted to know whether you had managed to get the necklace from Cronin. I’m certain now that you did, else why should you run from the police?”

“I don’t know what it’s all about,” said Jim stolidly.

Sheringham laughed unpleasantly. “You’ll talk, my dear fellow. I’m not in the mood to let you stand in my way to-night. Did you kill Cronin?”

“Who’s Cronin?” asked Jim Garth blankly.

The drive was a short one and when the car stopped before a large private house on lower Park Avenue, Sheringham got out, and with the revolver hidden in the folds of his overcoat, kept Jim covered while he followed. There was nothing to be gained by resistance. The chauffeur opened the door of the house and followed the explorer and his prisoner in. Sheringham dropped his coat and hat in the hall and walked behind Jim into a sort of trophy room where he kept mementoes of the days when he had really been a big game hunter. Jim knew the house well, for in the days of his unfortunate association with Sheringham he had been in it often. The chauffeur came along as well. Sheringham nodded to him.

“Search him, Macfee.”

Roughly and thoroughly Macfee went over Jim’s clothes, but in the end he turned to Sheringham with a shrug.

“Nothing doing, chief.”

Sheringham stared thoughtfully at his prisoner, who was looking down into the flames of the fire which burned hotly on the hearth. He knew something of Garth’s mettle and he wondered to just what lengths it would be necessary to go in order to force him to talk. As he meditated on the best procedure the door to the trophy room opened and Kid Cronin came in. He was a sadly battered and dilapidated looking specimen. The ever present cigarette hung between bruised and puffed lips. His cheek was cut, his clothes torn, and one of his close-set eyes was almost closed. At the sight of Garth an expression of murderous hatred flashed across his face. He reached under his left arm-pit, forgetting for the moment that his gun was missing. Then he pointed at Jim.

“That bird has the necklace, chief.” he said hoarsely.

Sheringham nodded. “I thought as much, Kid.” He smiled. “Still in a complete fog as to what it’s all about, Garth?”

“Complete,” said Jim, blandly.

Sheringham’s fist clenched suddenly, and his lips tightened. “Tie him to that straight-backed chair,” he ordered Macfee and Cronin abruptly.

Jim was pushed roughly into a chair and Macfee went to a closet in the corner, produced a length of rope and lashed Jim so tightly that he couldn’t move. Sheringham moved over to the fire and threw on a white birch log. The firelight cast grotesque shadows across his evil face. Macfee and Cronin lifted the chair in which Jim was tied over to a place on the hearth, directly in front of the fire. Jim turned away, the heat from the flames unpleasantly hot against his face.

“Where,” said Sheringham in a purring voice, “is the necklace?”

Jim shook his head slowly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sheringham, and if I did you ought to know that I wouldn’t tell you. You’re wasting time.”

Cronin and Macfee, standing on either side of Jim’s chair, at a signal from Sheringham tilted it slightly forward toward the fire. Sheringham lit a fresh cigarette. “That fire, Garth, will get warmer and warmer the closer you get to it,” he said. “I think before it becomes necessary to bury your face in the flames you may develop a streak of memory. I’m not going to waste much time, I warn you. Where is the necklace?”

“You won’t go through with this, Sheringham,” said Jim steadily, “because it will do you no good to kill me. You won’t know anything then.”

“Oh, I have no intention of killing you,” said Sheringham. “Of course if you are permanently mutilated or blinded by the flames it will be most tragic, I’m sure. I urge you to avoid it. Where is the necklace?”

“I pass,” said Jim.

Cronin and Macfee tilted the chair closer to the flames. The sweat was running down Jim’s face, and in his heart was horrible fear. Nothing would make him talk, but already his eyebrows and hair were scorched and the heat on his face was almost unbearable. He had no doubt that Sheringham would carry out his threat. He moistened his scorched lips with the tip of his tongue.

“I don’t know how you got onto the game to-night, Garth,” said Sheringham, calmly, “but it was unfortunate for you that you did. I think you will wish to God that you had never heard of me unless you tell me at once what you’ve done with that necklace.”

“No soap, Sheringham.”

Again the chair was tilted forward. The flames were only an inch away from his eyes now. Jim clenched his teeth and prayed quietly for courage to endure whatever happened with no outward show of what he felt. Better not to give them that satisfaction.

“This is the last time, Garth,” said Sheringham deliberately. “What have you done with the necklace?”

“Don’t you think,” said a mild voice from the doorway behind them, “that this has gone far enough?”

The chair was dropped back on its legs. Sheringham, Macfee and Cronin turned quickly. Jim twisted his head painfully to see who had saved him for the moment. Standing in the doorway, a benevolent twinkle in his gentle blue eyes, was Martin Hewes. Jim groaned. The fat man was apparently unarmed.

Chapter XIII Martin Hewes’ Little Bottle

Sheringham whipped the gun out of his pocket and covered the little detective with it. “So,” he said, “the light begins to break! You are behind this, eh, Hewes? Is it possible that you speak Arabic?”

“I list it,” said Martin Hewes, walking calmly into the room despite the menacing revolver, “under my accomplishments.”

“Stand where you are,” Sheringham rapped, “and put your hands as high in the direction of the ceiling as you can.”

Hewes stood still and slowly raised his hands above his head. Sheringham laughed. “You are a fool, Hewes. You’ve just walked into a trap yourself. Neither of you will leave this house until I know where that necklace is. If I can’t make that young idiot talk perhaps you will be easier! Especially when you see what I’ve got in store for him.”

“There seems to be some slight misapprehension as to just who is in control of this situation,” said Martin Hewes calmly. “Apparently, my dear Sheringham, you have not noticed the little glass bottle I am holding in my right hand.”

The others looked, and Martin Hewes wiggled a little bottle he was holding between his fingertips for them to see. “You see,” continued Hewes, “it just happens that this little bottle contains enough high explosive to blow this house and every one in it into the East River. I’m not such a fool, Sheringham, as to think that if we told you where the necklace is you’d let us out alive, so I don’t see that there’s any compromise. Unless you untie Garth and let us out of here in about one minute I shall cook everybody’s goose to a lovely brown turn.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” said Sheringham.

“I can just see the set-up,” continued Martin Hewes. “After we tell you where the necklace is you shoot us in cold blood and tell the police we were house-breakers. No, Sheringham, I much prefer to blow us all up in grand style than to die so insignificantly. Quick; untie Garth before my hand gets paralyzed from holding it up over my head.”

Sheringham hesitated. Martin Hewes was just enough of a quixotic fool to carry out the threat he was making. It was, in short, a Mexican stand-off. After all he had Mr. Singh’s money and he had done his best to get the necklace. That little bottle in Hewes’s hand made him nervous. Nitro-glycerine or some such stuff, in all probability.

“Untie him,” he ordered Cronin and Macfee.

The two released Jim with alacrity. They had heard of Martin Hewes and they knew that behind his mild exterior he was a man of his word. Jim got up from the chair stiffly and moved over beside Hewes.

“Just stand behind me, Jim,” said Martin Hewes. “Then if Sheringham’s trigger finger gets nervous he’ll hit me... and if he hits me I will of course be unable to hold on to this bottle any longer... and when I can no longer hold on to it... poof!”

Jim stepped behind him, smiling grimly. The mild, little fat man was all he had believed him to be when he joined forces with him. Very slowly they backed out of the room. Martin Hewes deliberately closed the door, and locked it.

“I’m leaving the key on the outside,” he called to Sheringham. “Pleasant dreams.”

They hurried out onto the street. A taxi pulled up beside them and Hewes explained that he had it waiting. They got in and Jim leaned back against the seat with a sigh. “That,” he said, “was an unpleasantly close shave.”

Martin Hewes chuckled. “I would not have delayed so long, my dear fellow, but I had the devil’s own time finding the money.”

Jim looked puzzled. “The money?”

Hewes nodded. “Mr. Singh’s four hundred and fifty thousand dollars.” He patted his breast pocket. “Every cent of it!”

“Oh, my aunt!” Jim laughed. “Martin, you’re worth your weight in gold.”

“I am, literally, at the moment,” said Hewes. “By the way, where is the necklace?”

“In an ash can,” said Jim, still laughing. “We’d better hurry before the ash man comes on his rounds.”

“We seem,” said Martin Hewes, “to have done rather well.” He was juggling the little glass bottle back and forth from one hand to the other.

“If you don’t mind,” said Jim, “my nerves have stood enough strain tonight. Just put that bottle somewhere that you’re not apt to drop it.”

“This?” Martin Hewes looked surprised. “Did you fall for that too, Jim? Why, there’s nothing in here but good Croton reservoir water. It is true that I had a gun in my hip pocket. But a gun, while it might have killed one or even two of them, would hardly have cowed that gang enough for our purposes. It was necessary to bluff them entirely, or be prepared to try a fight to our mutual deaths. I naturally preferred to bluff — an accomplishment of mine which I have sometimes, I flatter myself, raised to a high art. It worked, as it happens — for which I am really quite thankful.”