Meet The Baron

Grayson held on to the oilskin bag, and looked at the big man, into those piercing hazel eyes. For some reason his back went cold. He had made a big mistake in thinking the other was easy meat, but he still wanted those jewels.

“Listen,” he said, “twelve hundred, level. You’ll never find anyone else to give you more, son, and, remember, I take all the risks while smothering the stuff. Now, what about it ?”

The big man seemed to hesitate. Then he thrust his gloved hands into his pockets and nodded.

“Cash right away,” he said, “in small notes.”

“I’ll have to get ‘em,” said Grayson.

“I’ll wait,” said his caller.

Three hours later Mannering strolled into the Leadenhall Street branch of the City and Western Bank and deposited four hundred pounds. The cashier nodded respectfully, secretly admiring the lean, strong face of the famous John Mannering. From there Mannering went to the National

Bank and deposited a similar amount, finishing up with adding three hundred and fifty pounds to his account at the Piccadilly branch of the South-eastern.

“I think,” he soliloquised as he strolled towards the Ritz afterwards, “that I deserve the other fifty for pin-money. Grayson will be useful in future, but the less I see him the better I’ll like it. Furrrh!”

The pressure of the rubber pads he had placed in his cheeks that afternoon — which explained the “impediment” — and the ridge where his cunningly adapted false front-teeth had barked against his gums still seemed present in his mouth. The teeth consisted of thin rubber, stretched over the surface, and the discomfort was worth it, he knew. Eyes or no eyes, Dicker Grayson would not have recognised him if he had tried for a month.

“Anyhow,” he told himself with satisfaction, “that’s one urgent problem settled.”

It was just after four o’clock when he reached his flat, and he opened the door without the slightest premonition of trouble. There was, after all, no reason why he should expect it. He lit a cigarette, and then glanced round.

In that moment he knew that he had been visited.

He had no time for thinking before the faintest of movements in the bathroom caught his ears. His eyes narrowed a fraction, and his lips tightened, but he went round the room despite the knowledge that the intruder was still there.

A drawer of his writing-desk was partly open, and the position of the settee had been altered. On the carpet there was a small sheaf of bills, until recently resting in the drawer; other small things confirmed the object of the visitation. He was being burgled; and his thoughts flew immediately to Septimus Lee.

His reaction to this new and unsuspected danger was cool. In the past few months he seemed to have achieved a state of nerves as close to rock-like as was humanly possible. The problem of the moment was the only thing that concerned him; everything else was driven from his mind.

His flat had been raided, and the raider was still there; his luck was holding. The probability was that Septimus Lee — or Levy Schmidt — had connected the robbery at Streatham, and was investigating.

Mannering was sorely tempted to go immediately to the desk and explore the false bottom of one of its drawers — the drawer where the Rosa pearls were hidden. He overcame the temptation, and walked instead to the window, opening it an inch before lighting a cigarette. Then he stripped off his jacket and turned his shirt-sleeves up to the elbows, as if he was going to wash his hands. Not for a moment did he give the impression that he was on the alert.

His face was expressionless as he walked to the bathroom door. He knew that he was being watched, or waited for. A moment’s reflection told him that the raider was probably behind the door, waiting for his entry. He grinned suddenly, and pushed the door back — hard!

There was an ouch! of pain, an oath, the sound of a heavy body hitting against the wall. The door was flung to again, but he steadied it with his foot and rushed into the bathroom, ready for trouble, but it wasn’t likely to come. A thickset man was reeling against the wall, holding his nose, a nose that streamed rich red blood.

“Now don’t do that,” said Mannering chidingly. “Best thing for nose-bleeding is to hold your head back. Or try a door-key.”

The man swore viciously and swung a clumsy right towards Mannering’s chin. Mannering slipped it without any trouble, and clipped his man beneath the jaw twice in rapid succession. The other gasped and swayed away.

“Which should teach you,” said Mannering cheerfully, “that the reward for ingratitude is what you don’t expect. Now, my friend, duck your head into that basin for a minute.”

He grabbed the man’s arm and led him to the washing-basin, ducked his head below the level of the taps, and turned the cold-water tap full on. The man gasped and struggled, but Mannering’s grip was tight and painful. The water turned a muddy brown, but a second basinful was only slightly discoloured.

“Now,” said Mannering, still cheerfully, and surveying the other’s dripping head and shoulders contemplatively, “dry yourself. Next time I’ll hit you.”

There was a light in his eyes and a glad song in his heart as the other obeyed, quickly enough and without further resistance. “The luck,” Mannering told himself, “is running my way so much that I’m beginning to wonder whether it is luck — or destiny.”

“And now tell me all about it,” he said aloud.

The man’s lips twitched. He was an ill-favoured ruffian, old, the ex-pug type at its worst, but there was no fight left in him. His nose, where the full force of the door had caught him, was swollen, red, and angry, and there was a bruise on his chin corresponding with the break on Mannering’s knuckles.

The latter took a bottle of iodine from the medicine-chest and dabbed his grazed skin. He offered the bottle to the silent and sullen intruder, but his only reward was a snarl.

Mannering’s eyes hardened, although his voice was still gentle.

“You and I,” he said, “aren’t going to get on very well unless you mend your ways, my friend. You’ve got a nice new suit — try to live up to it.”

The man glanced down automatically towards his newly creased trousers. Mannering laughed, but there was a note in his voice that seemed to strike cold. It was no longer gentle.

“Now — spill it!” he snapped.

The man’s eyes met his, wavered, and finally turned away; he looked at the carpet, his feet shuffling.

“I ain’t saying nuthin’,” he grunted.

“No?” asked Mannering softly.

“No!” snarled the bruiser; “and if I git ‘arf a chance . . .” He stopped suddenly as Mannering moved, his lips twisted in a smile; the others eyes glinted with a sudden fear. “Where are you goin’, mister?”

To call the police,” said Mannering affably. “Perhaps you’ll know whether I should get in direct touch with Scotland Yard or . . .”

“You’re kiddin’!”

Mannering paused, with his hand on the telephone.

“Now, why,” he demanded, “should I be kidding? Try and remember the “g”, George.”

The man eyed him and the telephone with a fast-increasing fear. His hands were moving nervously, and his tongue slid along his thick lips. He was on tenterhooks, and Mannering was enjoying the situation.

“I — the boss said . . .” The bruiser started to speak, and then broke off uncertainly.

“Ah!” murmured Mannering. In his ear the telephone was burring; he replaced the receiver softly. His hand moved from the telephone, and the other’s eyes showed relief. “So someone sent you ? And I was thinking that you’d thought it all out in your own noodle. I’m disappointed, my friend.”

The man glared, goaded almost to a point of desperation.

“Never mind the funny stuff,” the bruiser snarled, momentarily forgetful of his fear.

“You honour me,” said Mannering politely.

“If I ever git my ‘ands rarnd . . .”

Mannering lifted the receiver off the hook again, and out of the corner of his eye he saw the man swallow hard, saw his tongue slide along his lip. The cracksman grinned as he dialled “O” and a moment later heard the voice of the Inquiries operator. She was likely to be irritated before he had finished, he realised, but she would merely put down yet another subscriber as unreasonable.

“Give me . . .” began Mannering for the other man’s benefit.

“For Gawd’s sake!” cried the bruiser. He seemed to realise for the first time that Mannering was serious, and his face was livid, his hands trembling.

“I beg your pardon,” said Mannering to the operator, “my friend doesn’t want the call alter all.” He replaced the receiver, and sauntered towards the other, who was standing by the fire-place. He grinned at him for a moment. Then: “Well, George, who sent you?”

“You know right enough,” grunted the bruiser.

Mannering laughed, and shook his head in well-feigned bewilderment.

“Is this a game?” he inquired. “You praise my humour, and now you tell me I can read your thoughts. I think . . .”

He broke off deliberately, for there was doubt in the other’s eyes.

“Straight, mister, don’t you know?”

“As man to man, no,” said Mannering. “All I know is that I sometimes keep a little packet of stones here, and I guess that your amiable boss thought he would try to rid me of one of them. Luck sent me when you were here.”

“And you ain’t got ‘em?”

“Got what?”

“The Rosas.”

“The Ros . . . By all the Jews in Jerusalem! I’ll wring that little sweep’s neck!” Mannering looked genuinely angry, and the pug’s eyes no longer held uncertainty; he believed what Mannering wanted him to believe. “So Lee sent you,” Mannering went on, “did he, because those ruddy stones were collared the other night? Where is Lee?”

“At — at Streatham.”

“What part, you idiot? The cricket pitch or the common?”

“Mister!” The crook’s eyes held appeal now, and his voice was thick with fear, instead of anger. “Don’t tell ‘im I told yer — don’t tell ‘im about the Rosas, don’t, mister . . .”

Mannering hesitated, and it seemed to his victim that he was cooling down. Actually he was enjoying himself.

“And why,” he demanded coldly, “should I do anything to save you from a nasty ten minutes with Septimus Lee ?”

The crook said nothing. Mannering eyed him for a moment in silence. Then he tossed his cigarette-case, which the other caught easily enough, despite his surprise.

“Or don’t you smoke?” asked Mannering.

“Well, I don’t mind, boss. . . .” The man was confused, unable to make head or tail of this sudden geniality.

“Nice of you. Now, George” — Mannering went closer to his man and looked at him steadily — “I want the truth. Do you know what that is ?”

“I — kin make a guess, mister.” Obviously the bruiser was bewildered, but he was genuinely thankful for the cigarette, which he stuck between his lips. Mannering gravely offered him a lighter.

“Excellent,” he said, although whether he was referring to the cigarette or the other’s promise to try to find the truth was not obvious. “Now I know why you called, but I still want to know what you’ve taken.”

“But I ain’t . . .”

“Don’t forget that guess, George!”

The man swallowed hard at the wrong moment. Tobacco-smoke and oxygen mixed badly, and he choked, going red in the face and bending half-double.

“You are in the wars,” murmured Mannering sympathetically.

He waited for the fit of coughing to pass, and then repeated his question. After a moment’s hesitation the pug took a package from his pocket and handed it to his captor. The latter unwrapped two slim books, and whistled when he saw them. They were the last things he had expected.

“And he told you to take my bank pass-books, did he?” His voice was hard again.

“Yus.”

“And you looked at them?”

“I ain’t, mister, I ain’t, I swear. I wouldn’t understand them things if I did. I . . .”

“Ain’t,” said Mannering. He scowled. “You have.”

“But I . . .”

“I know. You ain’t. But you have, George. Just think a minute now. You looked at them, and one had four figures and the other four or five. You’re not sure which. You just glanced at them when I came in. Isn’t that so ?”

The pug’s eyes glistened.

“I — I git you, mister.”

“You’d better. Tell Mr Septimus Lee that: one book four figures, the other four or five. If you don’t — and I shall have little difficulty in finding whether you do or not — if you don’t, George, I shall whisper to Septimus the single word “Rosa”. You still get me?”

“I swear, mister . . .”

“So you don’t go to Sunday School, George ? Well, well. Now run along, will you? I want to think.”

If he spoke the truth, however, he derived little pleasure from his thoughts. He had convinced himself that the best thing to do was to let the burglar go, but as he pondered over the affair he realised that Lee was clever indeed. The Jew had not expected to get the pearls back, but he had tried to satisfy himself about the state of Mannering’s bank-balance.

Mannering was still flushed with his victory over the Jew, but he realised that the other was dangerous, more dangerous perhaps than the police. The one thing to do, he told himself, was to visit Lee; probably nothing else would be so convincing. He would stick to his promise: he would not tell Lee that the pug had mentioned the Rosas; but there was nothing to prevent him from putting two and two together after recognising the man as Lee’s chauffeur.

CHAPTER TEN

MANNERING SEES THE FUNNY SIDE

“I OWE YOU AN APOLOGY, MR MANNERING. I OFFER IT.”

“I owe you,” grunted John Mannering, “a beating up, brother to the one I handed out to that darned chauffeur of yours. Yes, I saw him outside as I came in. His nose is very sore, and I think you . . .”

You are not going to ask me to believe,” said Septimus Lee suavely, “that you will offer physical violence to a man so much older than yourself, Mr Mannering? I repeat, I offer you my apology. If you think deeply you will realise that it was a very natural thing for me to suspect . . .”

“Not unless you were a . . .”

Mannering broke off, and coloured. He did it well and a peculiar little smile hovered round Septimus Lee’s thin lips.

“You weren’t going to say “crook”, Mr Mannering? Such an awkward word, and — well, your interest in the Rosa pearls would have admitted a very strange construction, wouldn’t it? From the police, I mean, or even your friends.”

Mannering rubbed his chin in apparent agitation.

“Ye-es,” he admitted. He frowned. “All the same, I’ll make sure it’s the last business I ever do with you, Lee.”

“To my eternal regret,” murmured Lee.

Mannering glared at him for a moment, and then turned away, opening the door before the clerk could arrive. Septimus Lee smiled and sighed; his conviction, as Mannering went out, was that he had made a mistake about the man.

“And that,” Mannering told himself, “will keep Mr Lee off the grass for a little while. But he’s a crafty old devil. I’ll have to be careful.”

He did his best to forget the interview, and it was not long before he was thinking of a certain recent acquaintance. He smiled a little, and decided to pay a visit immediately.

Mr (late Herr) Karl Seltzer was a middle-aged, bullet-headed, placid, and kindly German, who specialised in the teaching of languages. In many ways Seltzer was unique. To hear him talk in English, French, German, Russian, or a dozen different languages, was a revelation. He sounded like a different man. Not only was the accent perfect, but he was able to adapt his voice to the very tones of the races whose language he was speaking.

Mannering had heard of him casually, and, realising that it was essential to be able to control — and if necessary change — his voice on occasions, he had started a course of lessons. The inflection was a matter of practice, and Seltzer was happy to find so adept a pupil; what he would have thought if he had known why Mannering was so anxious to be able to control the timbre and tone of his voice, Mannering preferred not to ask himself.

The German’s square face brightened as Mannering entered his office in Wardour Street, for Mannering was amiable as well as intelligent.

“A pleasure to see you, Mr Mannering,” he greeted.

“And not so bad to see you,” smiled Mannering. “I’ve just popped in for ten minutes,” he added, “to learn to be a Frenchman.”

“To learn the voice of a Frenchman,” corrected the tutor. “It would be a very difficult matter, Mr Mannering, to make you look anything but English.”

“That’s something,” Mannering murmured, but he grinned to himself. Seltzer would go a long way before delivering so effective a back-hander.

After twenty minutes Mannering left the office and surprised himself by asking for cigarettes in fluent French. The girl at the kiosk looked at him bemusedly and demanded, “Ai?”

“I beg your pardon,” said Mannering, with a smile that made her think of him on and off for the rest of the day. “Fifty Virginia Fives, please.”

He paid for the cigarettes, smiled again, and walked on, thinking of the effectiveness of Seltzer’s lessons. The possibility that he might spoil his ability to act quickly in an emergency by developing technique too much did not worry him a great deal. The occasion for using two or three entirely different-sounding voices did not come frequently, it was true, but it was an angle of his new profession that he found fascinating. He wondered how many years would pass before he was really confident of himself in every way.

Then he put the thought on one side and dwelt pleasantly on the next few hours. He was meeting Lorna at the Elan, and he had been looking forward to it all day. He saw her frequently — almost too frequently for his peace of mind — and there had been no meeting yet that he had not enjoyed thoroughly. He believed she could say the same.

He walked slowly towards the hotel, knowing that he was in good time. He felt at peace with the world. A warm sun was shining, but London was not too hot. The inevitable streaming crowds passed him, coming from heaven knew where. He wondered what they would think if they knew who was passing.

He reached the Elan, and forgot the subject, for Lorna followed almost on his heels.

“Am I late or are you early?” she asked, as they shook hands.

“We’re both marvels of punctuality,” said Mannering. “Shall we eat here, or do you know of a better manger?”

“Here, I’m afraid. I must be home by half-past two.”

“Duty calling — or parents,” chuckled Mannering.

As she peered at the menu he studied her thick, well-marked brows, the delicacy of her skin, the upward curve of her lips. Not for the first time he wondered why she so often was quiet almost to sullenness, why the expression in her fine eyes was so often mutinous. She seemed to bear a grudge against life, although there were moments when she forgot it, and when he forgot everything but the fact that they were together.

A week never passed that he did not see her; usually they met three or four times. The verbal fencing of the first meeting had gone. They spoke little to each other, but both enjoyed the long silences of real companionship. The ghost of Marie Overndon was dimming.

“Still keeping busy?” he asked, as they waited.

“Plenty to do,” she said. “I’m still waiting to paint you.”

“I still prefer photographs,” Mannering laughed.

“I think I’ll have the clear soup,” said Lorna obscurely.

Mannering looked about him during the meal. The Elan, at that time, was reaching the peak of its fame. Twice in as many months foreign royalties had graced it with their presence, and the crowd of moneyed hopefuls, hangers-on, and dilettanti grew larger week by week. Although it had the largest exclusive-dining-floor in London only a table here and there was unoccupied, and two Cabinet Ministers were present.

“What’s attracting you ?” Lorna asked suddenly.

Mannering smiled, and motioned to a far corner.

“I was looking at the Countess,” he said. “She’s telling someone about a brooch . . .”

“Emma? Is she here?” Lorna Fauntley looked round, and smiled as she saw the Dowager Countess of Kenton talking animatedly with three companions at a table near the orchestra.

“With the Americans,” Lorna added, a moment later.

“Newcomers ?”

“H’m-h’m. I believe they’ve already been asked to meet the fascinating Mr Mannering.”

Mannering chuckled. His companion saw the flash of his white teeth, the fascinating — that was the right word! — gleam in his eyes. A cloud passed through hers, lingering for a few moments.

Mannering affected not to notice it.

“When and where?” he asked.

“Langford Terrace,” said Lorna. “Do you know, I think the Fauntley stock has gone up several points since it put a collar round you.”

“How sweetly you express it!” said Mannering.

Lorna laughed, but there was bitterness in her eyes and in her expression. Mannering did not pretend not to notice it j this time only a fool could have failed.

“Lorna,” he said quietly. “H’m-h’m?”

“Do you think, one day soon, we could talk of marriage?”

There was silence for a moment. Her eyes filled with something which was closely akin to fear. Her voice lacked its usual steadiness as she spoke.

“Please,” she said, “please don’t, ever. I’m not the marrying kind, John. Forget it, will you?”

Mannering eyed her reflectively.

He knew that he would not have agreed if his reputed wealth had been real; lie was beginning to realise that Lorna Fauntley, so self-reliant, rebellious, competent, graceful withal, and beautiful with that dark, stormy beauty which had intrigued him when he had first met her, now obsessed him. There was mystery in her smouldering eyes, and challenge. She seemed to suffer, and Mannering, with his knowledge of the months which had followed his visit to Overndon Manor, believed that he understood the cause of that suffering.

But he nodded slowly; they spoke of other things.

It was on the following day that Mannering looked at himself in a mirror, the dressing-table mirror in his bedroom at the Elan Hotel.

“You’re a prize ass, J. M.” he said quietly. (The habit of talking to himself had commenced soon after his first excursion into the territory of other people’s property, and he indulged in it more and more as time went on.) “A gold-medallist in fools. You went into this because you made an ass of yourself over a woman; you can’t want to get out of it because of another. Oh, I know she’s different; I know the thing’s taboo between us; I know . . . Stop it, J. M.! You can’t get out. Or if you do, you’re scuppered. Do you get that ? Scuppered, or as near as makes no difference. One day, if you make enough, yes . . .”

He broke off suddenly, and started as a tap came on the door of the outer room.

He looked at himself in the mirror again. His face had paled a little, and his lips were very close together. He was jumpy. The tap on the door had scared him momentarily. Odd how his nerves were a long way from steady — outside his job.

He lit a cigarette as he walked into the outer room and called, “Come in.” The door opened, more slowly than usual. Mannering felt his blood racing; there were times when he dreaded unexpected visitors, and fancied Bristow, for instance, putting awkward questions. Now . . .

“Damn!” he muttered again, and then exploded: “Jimmy, you smothering son of a . . .”

“You leave my ancestry alone,” said Jimmy Randall cheerfully. He was a well-built man, fleshier than Mannering, but not fat; his face was pleasantly proportioned, although few would have called him handsome. But the lazy grin on his lips and in his eyes endeared him to most people.

“Just why,” inquired Mannering, with some warmth, “did you come in like that?”

Randall cocked his head and frowned.

“Hump! You’re not well, J. M. That was a joke.”

“A joke?”

“Don’t Wodehouse me,” retorted Randall; “and for the love of Mike give me a cigarette.”

Mannering offered his case, and extended his lighter gravely. He realised that Randall was in humorous mood, and Jimmy Randall on such occasions was impossible and thick-skinned. Randall sent a stream of smoke towards the ceiling, and then grinned, howbeit with a certain nervousness.

“I’ll?” asked Mannering sympathetically.

Randall nodded, and then shook his head. That there was something worrying him Mannering could see, and he felt uneasy. This was one of the sides of his new life that he found worrying — the constant fear that someone — friend or foe didn’t matter — had guessed or learned of his activities.

“No,” said Randall at last. “I was — I was wondering, J. M., whether you’d like to come down to Somerset for a week or two.”

“That must be why you cracked that joke just now,” said Mannering soberly. He frowned a Little. “What is worrying you ?” he demanded.

Randall laughed, as if relieved at the thought that the other had hall guessed.

“Well, I — it’s some time now since Toby and I tried to . . .”

“Set my feet on the strait and narrow path. Look here” — Mannering seemed genuinely apprehensive — “is this becoming a life’s habit?”

“Well,” said Randall, easing his collar, “not exactly. What I’m really trying to get out — but you’re such a funny cuss I don’t know how to put it — is that an old fla — friend of yours is due in town at the end of the week. And . . .”

“An old flame,” mused Mannering. “Muni, Madaline, Alice

Randall shook his head, and Mannering scowled, uncertain whether this was a further display of the other’s humour. The idea seeped into his mind slowly, and the smile gradually disappeared. He hardly realised that his body had gone rigid, and that his face was set very grimly. Then he laughed — a forced laugh without a trace of humour.

“You mean — Marie Overndon ?”

“Yes,” said Randall, eyeing his friend closely. Mannering was smiling easily enough; after that first moment he seemed to have complete control over himself, and Randall breathed more freely.

“Everything else apart,” he said, “I thought I’d better tell you. Every time she’s been in town lately you’ve been away, but now . . .”

“Mere chance that I’ve missed her,” said Mannering. “But what’s the real trouble?”

Randall shrugged his shoulders, and Mannering knew that there was something more than the fact of Marie Overndon’s visit to London.

“She’s getting married,” Randall blurted out at last, and he coloured furiously.

Mannering widened his eyes and laughed, fully under control now.

“The devil she is! And the man?”

“One of Lady Kenton’s new Americans.”

“Speed !” Mannering laughed, and lit another cigarette. “Money and . . .” Randall grinned, reassured now. “Anyhow, if you’d like to go down to Somerset for a week or two, old boy, use me. I mean, the Kentons and the Fauntleys are pretty thick, and you’ll never be able to side-step the wedding and what-not So . . .”

“Now, that wedding,” said Mannering, cheerfully and hopefully, “should be something special, with Lady Mary on the one side, the Dowager on the other, and the almighty dollar overlooking all. It ought to be terrific, Jimmy !”

“But I thought,” said Randall, “that you . . .”

“Would wilt under the blow.” Mannering’s smile told nothing. “I might have; I won’t now.”

“You’re a funny animal,” said Jimmy Randall judicially. “I can’t make you out lately.”

“It’s my complex,” said Mannering comfortingly, “and your digestion. Have you seen Toby lately?”

“Yes, and then again no,” said Randall. “I went along to see him this morning, but I was beaten by a short head by some police fellow. Bloke named Bristow.”

“Bristow?” Mannering echoed the word, and the room seemed misty. “I seem to know the name . . .” He grinned, making an effort that he would not have believed himself capable of a few weeks before. Bristow and Plender together — good God! “Of course, the Kenton brooch fellow. Have you heard about that, Jimmy . . .”

“Has anybody in London escaped it?” groaned Randall. Mannering sat and smoked for twenty minutes alter his friend’s departure, and there was only one thought in his mind. He voiced it to himself slowly.

“Now, why is Bristow visiting Toby?” he demanded. “There can’t be any connection, of course, but . . .”

He stuck at that “but”. There was no reason for imagining Bristow’s visit to the lawyer was not a coincidence, but at that time Mannering’s immersion into the cold water of his game was comparatively new; frequently it made him shiver. He waited at the hotel for half an hour, almost expecting the telephone-bell to ring or Bristow and Plender to enter the apartment. It was sheer funk, he admitted to himself The robbery at Streatham, the jewels he had sold to Grayson, the affair of Bristow at the pawnshop, all seemed to carry the very letters of his name. He had. been concerned in them. It was absurd to think that Bristow and the others had been hoodwinked, madness to think that the name Baron deceived them.

“For God’s sake,” he muttered suddenly, “get on top of yourself! If you must do something telephone Toby, talk to him, get it over . . .”

For the third time that afternoon he looked at himself in the mirror, and now he saw the film of sweat on his forehead. He smiled suddenly, and the mirror grinned back at him sardonically.

“Your biggest trouble,” he said, “is going to be keeping yourself in hand, J. M.”

He felt steadier as he acted on his decision, left the hotel, and taxied to the Chancery Lane offices of Toby Plender. Plender was in, cheerful and more Punch-like than ever.

“I suppose you couldn’t get mixed up in a scandal of some kind, could you?” he inquired, as they shook hands. “It would look good. Solicitors to Mr John Mannering — Plender, Son, and Plender. A little notoriety helps even sober lawyers.”

“I’m so hectically idle these days that I couldn’t fit it in,” Mannering said. “And, anyhow, I sacked my solicitor a long time ago.”

Plender smiled at the thrust. His eyes bored into Mannering — or so Mannering thought.

“Did you, then ?” he said, and shrugged his shoulders. “By the way . . .”

For some reason Mannering’s mouth was dry, and his face, although Plender noticed nothing, was very drawn.

“I had a visit from a would-be friend of yours this morning,” Plender finished.

Mannering stared. He tried to make the stare look intelligent, but something was hammering inside his mind, an insistent warning. It had come as a shock, even though he told himself he had half-expected it. But why was Toby so friendly ?

“A would-be what ?” he managed to ask at last.

“Friend. At least, acquaintance. Do you know Old Bill at all?”

“Old Bill? . . .”

“Bristow,” said Plender, pushing cigarettes across his desk. “Obviously you don’t.”

“You mean the policeman ?” Mannering was surprised by the evenness of his voice. “The poor devil who’s handling the Kenton brooch job ?”

“The same,” chuckled Plender.

Mannering’s mind cleared suddenly. If Toby Plender knew anything he wouldn’t be talking like this, and that smile wouldn’t be in his eyes. Something had happened out of the ordinary, but it wasn’t anything which connected h m, Mannering, with the recent robberies; the relief made him feel almost light-headed, but he spoke casually enough.

“What’s he after?” he asked.

Plender chuckled again.

“An amateur detective,” he said. “He’s noticed that you and one or two others have always been present — nearly always, anyhow — when a job’s been done. Do you know what a “job” is?”

“I’ve an idea,” smiled Mannering. The truth was gradually dawning, the amazing, incredible truth.

“Well,” went on Plender, “Bristow’s got an idea that one of the servants is the culprit. He can’t follow the Fauntley crowd round the country — they do shift a bit. J. M. — and he wondered whether I thought you would care to keep an eye open.”

“Not me!” gasped Mannering.

Plender chuckled, and his chin nearly met his nose.

“Yes, he’s serious. He asked me — knowing that I know you well — whether I thought you’d jib at the idea. Apparently it’s entirely his own, without any official sanction, and he’s not sure whether you’ll take the suggestion nicely or whether you’re another Lady Kenton

“Eh?” asked Mannering bemusedly.

“In a manner of speaking,” said Plender. “Well — curse you, J. M.!” He broke off, and grinned, for Mannering was red in the face. His body was quivering, and he was pressing his hands against his sides, hard. For a full three minutes he sat back in his chair, heaving; it was one of those absurd, infectious laughs that stopped for a split second and then went on again. Plender grinned, chuckled, and started to laugh with his friend. The absurdity of it made his laugh convulsive.

“Oh — my — Lord!” gasped Mannering, as the convulsions subsided. “I’m sorry — Toby — but I just — saw the funny side of it! Oh — my — Lord!”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

MARIE OVERNDON’S WEDDING

“YOU QUITE APPRECIATE, MR MANNERING,” SAID DETECTIVE-Inspector William Bristow, “that it’s entirely an idea of my own. I hardly like to approach you, but the thefts are getting more frequent. The presence of regular men might act as a deterrent; I’d much rather catch the thieves red-handed, though. They won’t for a moment suspect you of working with the police.”

“They ?” queried John Mannering.

“He’s smart,” thought Bristow to himself. Aloud: “Yes, there may be more than one, I fancy, but I’ll admit I’m completely in the dark.” He chuckled, not entirely with humour. “The Press calls it “baffled”, and that isn’t far wrong.”

Mannering, sitting in the small office of the detective at Scotland Yard, lit a cigarette thoughtfully and flicked the match out of the open window. His expression was serious; mentally he was going through similar convulsions to those which had seized him in Toby Plender’s office two hours before. He had called at Scotland Yard, to discover that Bristow was only too pleased by the eagerness with which he proffered his help, and it was too early for him fully to appreciate the joke.

“It is a bit of a poser,” he admitted. “To tell you the truth. Inspector, I’ve been tempted to try my hand at solving it before, but I didn’t want to tread on any official corns.”

“I can relieve you of that worry,” said Bristow, feeling very cheerful. He had heard a great deal of John Mannering, and he was thinking that the rumours had not been exaggerated. Mannering was a distinguished man and an intelligent one. By saying that he had been tempted to try his own hand at solving the mystery of the thefts he had put the detective at his ease immediately. It would not be a case of doing a service for Bristow — and Bristow disliked being under an obligation to any man — it would be a matter of equal interests; by giving Mannering semi-official authority to make inquiries Bristow had pleased Mannering as much as Mannering had pleased him.

Bristow felt very satisfied with himself.

He was as worried as he had ever been by the continual thefts, for he was no nearer a solution of the mystery than he had been weeks before, and the idea of getting Mannering’s help had struck him as a brain-wave. Mannering was rich; Mannering was sound. Plender, one of the most respected and reputable solicitors, vouched for him. Bristow would no more have dreamed of suspecting Mannering of being the thief than he would have dreamed of suspecting that the Dowager Lady Kenton had stolen her own bauble.

“Yes,” repeated the detective, “you can do just what you like, Mr Mannering — within reason, that is — and I can assure you that you will get all the help I can give you.”

Mannering nodded thoughtfully, forcing back an absurd desire to guffaw.

“You’re absolutely at a loss?” he asked.

Bristow made no bones about it.

“Absolutely,” he confirmed. “I’ve tackled the servants, and all of them seem all right. I’ve been inclined to doubt whether it’s always the outside job that it seems to be, but everything certainly points that way.”

Mannering pursed his lips.

“Supposing we run over some of the — er — jobs?” he suggested. “I could see your angle, and perhaps work better. I might as well do it thoroughly,” he added, with a smile, “if I’m going to do it at all.”

Old Bill was more pleased than ever. Mannering was intelligent enough to realise that the police angle was important; obviously he had no objection to learning, and he was certainly putting his best into the job. The detective warmed to the other man.

And Mannering warmed to the detective.

He had always heard that old Bill Bristow was popular, and he had been surprised to learn that the men who had been in prison for periods ranging from a month to seven years often had a good word for the sprucely dressed Inspector. He could understand why. Bristow did his job humanely; he treated a rogue as a man, and was always friendly.

Mannering was feeling sorry for Bristow too. It was the richest thing that the Baron could have conceived, and he enjoyed the next hour more than any he had spent for a long time. This meeting and arrangement, he knew, would give him the one thing he lacked — confidence when he was with other people connected with the robberies as Mannering and not Baron.

“First,” Bristow said, “you had best know we’re dubbing our man “the Baron”.”

Mannering frowned and asked the obvious “Why?”

He learned of the pawn-ticket and the things Bristow had discovered about the Baron’s activities; and he learned that Superintendent Lynch had first stopped talking of Baron, and added the “the”; for this Mannering was particularly grateful.

For an hour he went over with the policeman the various thefts that had taken place in houses visited by the Fauntley circle. He discovered just how much Bristow had done to find the thief. He learned the usual formalities, the regular system; and he could see where the routine work had been bound to fail to surmount the difficulties of the problem.

It was an illuminating conference. Mannering felt, as they finished and leaned back in their chairs, that he would be able to outwit Bristow in a dozen different ways. It was as perfect a joke as he had ever met, and the only thing which spoiled it was the fact that he was forced to keep it to himself.

Old Bill accepted a cigarette as he stopped talking.

“So you see,” he said, as two streams of smoke went towards the ceiling, “that you’ve a pretty stiff job on, Mr Mannering. Whenever possible you want to be near the lighting-switch.”

“I can manage,” said Mannering, with a smile.

“And yet be unobserved,” said Bristow.

“I could try,” murmured Mannering.

An unassuming fellow, thought Bristow.

“Is there any — er — place where you think there might be trouble in the near future?” Mannering put the question idly.

Bristow scowled at that.

“I’m not sure,” he said. “Of course, there’s the Overndon wedding . . .”

“H’m,” murmured Mannering.

“I will say one thing about the Americans,” said Bristow, “and that’s that they’re thorough. Er — you know about the affair?”

Mannering nodded. He had discovered, since Jimmy Randall’s visit that afternoon, that Marie Overndon was marrying Frank Wagnall, of the Brooklyn Wagnalls. Wagnall, with his parents and with several friends, was in London for the season — and a little longer than the season — and the high spot o; their visit now was the marriage. Mannering did not know the Wagnalls, but he had heard that they were reputed to be very rich.

What bitterness he had felt towards Marie had completely gone, although the effect of that month at Overndon Manor remained in part, of course. It had completely changed him, and it had started him in this mad game of chance. In many ways he was glad. There was something exhilarating in it, a zest he had never before experienced. The very fact of sitting in Bristow’s office discussing crimes which he himself had committed was more stimulating than any spirit.

But he did feel that Marie Overndon’s wedding would give him an excellent opportunity for a haul larger than anything he had made, excepting for the Rosa pearls; and there would be more than a little malicious pleasure in it.

He stopped reflecting as Bristow went on.

“Very thorough, like most Americans. This man Wagnall — the father, not the son — has asked us for a guard, and he’s using Dorman’s Agency too. The presents will be nearly as safe as the Grown Jewels.”

“Nearly?” questioned Mannering, easing himself in his chair,

Bristow scowled, and rubbed his chin.

“I’m not happy about the Baron,” he said. “He’s slick. We’ve got to admit that.”

Mannering nodded, and had difficulty in repressing the “thank you” that came to his lips.

“There’s one thing,” said Bristow more cheerfully, “which suggests that he won’t try anything at the wedding. He’s never tried anything big.”

“Yet,” said Mannering, and thought suddenly of Lorna Fauntley.

Bristow’s scowl returned.

“That’s what I’m worried about,” he admitted. “I’m afraid he will, one day.”

Mannering decided that it was wise to hedge away from that angle of the affair, and he lost no time.

“What makes you think there might be trouble at the Overndon show?” he demanded. “It’s not the only wedding; the Chunnley affair and the Forsters. . . .”

“It’s the publicity,” said Bristow. “You’ll find the Overndon wedding at the top of every social column. The others are also-rans. And some of the gifts . . .”

“Asking for trouble, are they?” murmured Mannering sympathetically.

“Yes,” said Bristow, “but, as I say, I’ve got to admit that they’re taking every possible precaution. Er-you’ll be there, of course ?”

“It can be arranged,” said Mannering.

“I’d be awfully glad if you will,” said Bristow.

Mannering nodded, and stood up. They shook hands, before a uniformed man showed Mannering out of the office, led him along the passages of the Yard, and guided him eventually into Parliament Street. The sergeant treated him with considerable respect, for friends of Detective-Inspector William Bristow were men of importance at Scotland Yard.

Mannering gathered that impression, and told himself that he mattered in more ways than one. He wondered, not for the first time, what Bristow would look like if ever he discovered the truth.

At that moment Mannering wasn’t worried about the possibility of discovery. He felt safer than the Bank of England as he called a taxi and made his way to the Elan to celebrate the occasion, he told himself cheerfully. He was on top of the world that day.

It was not difficult to ensure an invitation from the Overndons for the wedding, as he had guessed.

Mannering had discovered that Lady Mary and Marie were staying at Colonel George Belton’s town house in Park Square. When in London Belton’s visits to his club were made with clockwork regularity, and on the morning following the talk with Bristow Mannering walked to the Square, expecting to see the Colonel. He met his man — the first time they had seen each other since the affair at Overndon Manor — and for the moment the Colonel stood still, staring, and obviously at a loss. Mannering’s smile put him at his ease.

They shook hands warmly.

“Very pleasant to see you again,” said the Colonel, whose moustache was whiter than ever and whose complexion was, if anything, a trifle more rosy. “Lady Mary’d be glad to  see you, John. Why not. . .”

It was typical of the soldier, thought Mannering with a smile, to do his best to put his foot in it. But as the younger man wanted the foot just where it was he nodded.

“How’s everybody?” he asked, as they turned towards the house.

“Excellent, excellent,” said the Colonel. “Marie — harr — umph — is out of town for a couple of days. Er” — the older man swallowed hard — “you know, of course, about . . .”

“Marie,” said Mannering with a laugh. “Yes — that’s why I’m so interested.”

They chatted for some minutes in the house before Lady Mary came in. She looked as sharp as ever, and for her bluntness Mannering had nothing but admiration.

“I was afraid,” she said after the mutual greeting, “you were going to be cinema-esque about that affair, and go off after big game or the chorus. It’s satisfying to find you so individual, John.”

Mannering laughed easily. Lady Mary, he noticed, still wore the frocks thai good Queen Victoria had thought chic, still looked severe, arrogant, and bad-tempered; her voice was still rather low, her words uttered slowly, and all the time there was a twinkle in her fine grey eyes.

“All habits get old-fashioned,” he said cheerfully. “Let’s forget it, shall we?”

The others agreed, and Mannering spent a pleasant hour.

He was preparing to go when another caller arrived, and he met the man who — although he could not guess it then — was going to loom very large in his future adventures.

“Hallo, Gerry!” greeted the Colonel. “Ha, Mannering, you haven’t met — no? Well — Gerry Long from America, Boston. Gerry — John Mannering. . . .”

Long was tall, lean-hipped, wide-shouldered, and pleasant-faced. Like many Americans, he looked nearer twenty-one than twenty-seven, an impression fostered by his corn-coloured hair and his very light skin. He had a free-and-easy attitude, and an easier laugh; Mannering liked him instantly.

“I’ve been told,” said Long cheerfully, “that no man knows England — London especially — as well as you, Mannering.”

“You’ve been told wrong,” smiled the other.

Colonel Belton haw-hawed.

“Don’t you believe it, Gerry, don’t believe it. The young limb’s been painting London red for — for . . .”

“Centuries,” suggested Lady Mary sweetly.

“Nonsense!” snapped the Colonel, who was still easily baited by Lady Mary. He saw the gleam in her eyes and grinned. “You never leave me alone, Mary, you . . .”

“This is quite like old tlmes,” said Mannering, with real warmth.

“You’ve a reputation,” persisted Belton, as though establishing the fact beyond all shadow of doubt, “and you can’t deny it, Mannering. Let me see — aren’t you dabbling in stones these days ?”

Gerry Long looked interested, Mannering thought, as he nodded.

“A little; but not a great deal, mind you.”

He received more than he had bargained for during the next hour. (Jerry Long was interested as a collector in stones, and he played his hobby with all the fervour of youth. It was a difficult but interesting hour, and Mannering’s comparatively small knowledge of gems was tested to the utmost. Happily for Mannering the American did most of the talking, and seemed in no way suspicious that the other was an amateur. Mannering learned a great deal that he had not known before, and he told himself that it would be useful in the future.

One of his most serious difficulties had been the telling of genuine jewels from imitation. It was a task that frequently puzzled even the experts, but by cultivating Gerry Long, who had the American thoroughness with detail, he could learn while seeming to pass opinions.

His quickly-begun friendship with Gerry Long had other advantages that were not immediately obvious.

Long was reputedly wealthier than the Wagnalls, and, indeed, he had control of an immense fortune left by a trust-manipulating father. If anything had been needed to convince the interested hangers-on of Society that John Mannering was one of the moneyed few, it was supplied by his association with the young American.

Mannering was more convinced than ever of his lucky star. He liked Long was drawn by the American’s quick enthusiasm, by his determination — which was almost grim — to make the best of a six months” sojourn in England. And he decided, very quickly, that Long was one of the few people he would not rob.

“It’s almost as if I still had a conscience,” Mannering told himself in front of the mirror at the Elan some weeks later. “Well, to-morrow we shall see. . . .”

The morrow was the day of days for Marie Overndon and Frank Wagnall, of America. Gerry Long was to be best-man. Lorna Fauntley, rather surprisingly, was to be one of seven bridesmaids, chiefly through the influence of the Dowager Countess of Kenton.

Bristow’s mention of publicity was more than justified, and the Overndon wedding was without doubt one of the outstanding events of the year. John Mannering was to be one of many honoured guests. He used the word “honoured” when talking to himself, and there was a rather grim smile at the corners of his mouth.

Marie Overndon looked very lovely.

She was dressed in white, and as Mannering saw her walking from the altar he remembered vividly the preciousness of that month at the Manor. He remembered too the half-promises and his belief in her. But he viewed it all with the air of a cynic. He knew that beneath her serene beauty there was a brittle hardness; he reminded himself that if he had been rich, instead of — comparatively — poor, he himself and not Frank Wagnall would have been walking with her to the strain: that breathed o’er Eden.

Marie was entirely self-possessed. She saw him, he knew, but looked past him. Was there the slightest suggestion of a smile on her lips, or was his imagination playing him tricks?

Mannering looked at the man.

Wagnall had many points in common with Gerry Long. He was tall, fair-haired, lithe, and passably good-looking; he carried his clothes easily, and he looked as pleased with life as most people thought he should be. He also looked young.

Mannering, smiling slightly, watched them disappear from the church, and then told himself that he would be busy in the very near future. The last echoing notes from the great organ seemed to keep his thoughts company.

CHAPTER TWELVE

TWO SETS OF PEARLS

COLONEL GEORGE BELTON HAD OFFERED HIS HOUSE TO THE Overndons for the wedding, and he had helped the Wagnalls to make a good job of it. The old place looked positively lively where, a few months before, it had been comparatively deserted. The servants, many imported for the occasion, were resplendent in livery, and they knew how to smile. To Mannering there seemed as many menservants as there were guests, and he knew that there were over a thousand guests.

It was what the Wagnall. called a “little” crowd, and what Marie Overndon termed “just a few of my closer friends”. It was a success. Everyone seemed happy, no one was too hilarious, and the calmness of the bride, exquisite as only youth and Molyneux could make her, and very lovely in her own right, created admiration that few dared try to put into words. There were the usual speeches, the usual toasts, the usual jokes, and a refreshing contribution from Gerry Long, who, when called upon for his best-man’s oration, coloured furiously, cleared his throat, raised his glass, and said, “Here’s how!” Mannering warmed to Long; the man was completely unaffected.

The library had been given up to the gifts, and Mannering was more interested in it than in anything else.

He looked round it, soon after the bride and groom had left for Paris and thence to the South. The room was admirably situated, he knew. For one thing, there were no windows, but two glass skylights set slantwise in the ceiling afforded ample light.

There was only one door, which led into the hall, and that was guarded day and night by a regular plain-clothes man who had been pointed out to Mannering by Bristow, and a stocky little man, far too polite to be a guest, who was actually from Dorman’s Detective Agency.

There were other policemen in the house too, and a guard outside. The chances of a burglary were literally nil, but the possibility of an inside job was there, however, and no chances were being taken by the Wagnalls. But. . .

Mannering had his plan worked out.

He had examined the gifts thoroughly, and found that very few of them were practicable objects for a robbery. There were three things, however, which the Baron wanted, although he was going to be satisfied if he contrived to get one of them.

The Wagnall diamonds, a necklace of rare beauty, were a present from the groom’s lather to the bride. In the open market they would have been worth thirty thousand pounds. In the Baron’s market they were worth about five or six thousand, and they were a prize worth gaining, although they would be difficult to sell.

The Wagnall necklace was placed in the centre of the long table and surrounded by other gifts, as though accepting their homage. At the far ends two other gifts of precious stones held places of honour. The Rennel sapphires — bought by Frank Wagnall for his wife from under the very purse of Lord Fauntley, who had been deliberating on their purchase for months — were nearest the door, and therefore the most likely prize. At the other end was the pearl-necklace that Lady Kenton had presented. Lady Kenton had taken the Wagnalls under her wing from their first day in London, and she had been constrained to make an imposing show.

She had succeeded, for the pearls had been as much admired as any of the gifts, and she almost haunted the library to hear the world commend her.

When Mannering drifted in after the reception, he found Lady Kenton with Gerry Long and two or three other acquaintances. The Dowager was exclaiming in delight at this gift and that gift, but all she said led up to her pearls, and she longed for comment. Gerry Long saw it, and obliged. Lady Kenton’s gratification was such that she voted the Americans the most courteous race on earth. Mannering looked at the pearls for three full minutes, and then said, in a voice of awe: “That is the most perfect graduation I’ve seen.”

Lady Kenton immediately relieved America of the crown of courtesy and gave it to England. Mannering and Long smiled at each other.

And then Lady Kenton took a step forward, intent on examining a pair of gold-backed brushes presented by a distinguished gentleman from America. She stubbed her foot against a table-leg, or a chair, or the carpet — she was never sure which — she was too startled — and after a single gasp she began to hop on one foot, pressing her lips together to prevent herself from crying out in pain. Mannering and Long leapt to her rescue.

Neither of them could explain afterwards how it happened, but Lady Kenton’s leg was swept from under her, and she went sprawling across the table. The cry she uttered brought the two detectives from outside flying into the room. Two men actually on the spot jumped up in alarm. Lady Kenton was still clawing at the table; Mannering and Long were doing their best to help and to restore her outraged dignity.

Twenty or thirty of the precious girts to the now happily married couple were spread about the floor, and the table, so orderly a few minutes before, was in contusion. The plain-clothes men were completely bewildered. The little private detective from Dorman’s Agency was hopping from one foot to the other in an effort to count everything at once; but he failed, and Mannering was smiling contentedly to himself.

Lady Kenton had stumbled across the table some six inches away from the pearls she had presented to Mane. It was the moment for which Mannering had been waiting. He had slipped them from the table and into his pocket while he had appeared to be concerning himself only with rescuing her. Not for a moment had the expression on his face altered. No one had seen him; no one would have guessed that in those few seconds the haul had been made. The ease of it almost made him laugh aloud.

The Dowager’s body had hidden the little manoeuvre from everyone else in the room, and as at last he managed to steady her he felt like hugging her in sheer jubilation. Instead: “I’m terribly sorry,” he said “I wouldn’t. . .”

“It was as much my fault as yours, protested Long.

Lady Kenton was firmly convinced that it had been neither of them. She was breathing rather heavily, and surveying the mess about her. The gold-backed hair-brushes were at her feet, next to a set of carvers and a cut-glass bowl, which, happily, was not damaged.

“I slipped,” she said, regaining her self-control and breathing more freely. “I really can’t have you taking the blame. . . .”

Lorna Fauntley, one of many attracted by the Dowager’s cry of alarm, entered the room. A look from Mannering told her that he was anxious to get the Countess out of the way. Lorna managed it, without any fuss. The excitement waned when it was discovered that there had been a slight accident, and no burglary, so far as was known.

It was Mannering who made the suggestion to Bristow’s man.

“You’d better check the presents, and make sure everything’s here,” he suggested, and the man grimaced, but nodded in agreement.

“I don’t suppose anything will be missing, sir, but if anything does happen it’d be safest. There have been several people in and out.”

“That’s just it,” said Mannering. He offered the other a cigarette, and smiled to himself as his hand inside his pocket brushed against the pearls. “Do you need any help?”

The Yard man was beginning to wonder whether the other was not a colleague. Then he remembered Mannering’s reputation, and decided against it.

“No, thanks,” he said, refusing both the help and the cigarette; “we’ll manage all right. Be best to shut the room for half an hour, though. Would you mind . . .”

“I’ll see Colonel Belton,” promised Mannering.

The Colonel, a little worried at first, was so pleased at Mannering’s assurance that it was just a precautionary measure that he insisted on locking the door of the library himself. Mannering strolled with him towards the reception-room. The gaiety of the earlier afternoon was dimming a little, although the younger spirits were still laughing and talking together. Lady Mary Overndon was yawning. The Wagnalls were thinking of getting away.

Frank Wagnall Senior, a tall, white-haired man who had made a fortune from motor cars, contrasted remarkably with his wife. He was thin, pale-faced, and tired-looking, while Daisy Wagnall was inclined to be fat, genial, rosy-faced, and possessed of surprising reserves of energy. Mannering found himself surprised that she had a son of Frank’s age.

But Mannering had little time to be astonished, for he was anxious for the party to break up quickly. He judged that the checking of the gifts would take three-quarters of an hour, and already ten minutes had passed. Before the discovery of the missing pearls was made he wanted at least a dozen of the guests to be away from the house. If that happened the police could not make a proper check, and he was anxious that they should not have the chance.

He was with Lady Mary when he stifled a yawn and then smiled apologetically.

“For a young man,” she said laughingly, “you can’t stand the pace very well, John.”

“It’s my usual good habits,” said Mannering, with a lazy smile. “You seem to be standing up to it well enough.”

Lady Mary’s smile was turned suddenly into a yawn, and they both laughed.

“To tell you the truth,” said Lady Mary, laughing again, “I’m missing my afternoon nap. I’m so tired I could fall asleep any minute.”

“I’ve strong arms,” said Mannering.

“Don’t be a fool,” said Lady Mary. “But let’s get back. If I stay here for another five minutes I swear I’ll faint.”

“I doubt if you’ve ever fainted in your life,” said Mannering.

They moved towards the Wagnalls and Colonel Belton, who was making an old Guard’s effort not to look as bored as he felt. Daisy Wagnall laughed.

“He’s brave, but I’m not, Frankie. Say — might we hint at going?”

“Do; I’ll be sweet and take it,” said Lady Mary. “I’m sure hall” of us are absolutely tired out.”

“Weddings — or the after-effects — are such a strain,” said Daisy Wagnall.

“Darned lot of unnecessary fuss and bother,” opined Colonel Belton, who had taken more pleasure than anyone in the preparations for the event.

“Don’t say,” said Mrs Wagnall, with refreshing directness, “that you believe in free love. Colonel? I’ve always told Frankie that. . .”

The Colonel suddenly realised the construction she had put on his remark, and his face was redder than Mannering had ever seen it. Lady Mary laughed gently, and took the other woman by the arm. The little party broke up, and several others followed it. Within half an hour of the excitement in the library the necessary dozen were away from Park Square.

Mannering was standing in the hall with Lorna when Colonel Belton came up. The Colonel’s face was purple now, and it was obvious that something was the matter.

But Mannering affected to notice nothing, and his smile was as cheerful as ever; he had schooled himself for the announcement that was coming.

“We’re just off,” he said, “but we’d like . . .”

He stopped, no longer able to ignore Belton’s obvious distress, and there was concern in Lorna’s eyes. Mannering spoke for her as well as himself.

“What’s the trouble, Colonel ?”

“I’ve had the shook of my life,” said Belton, breathing hard. “Er — could you spare me a minute? I won’t keep him long. Miss Fauntley.”

Lorna nodded, and Mannering went a few yards away with the Colonel. He was still schooling himself to make the necessary reaction and to show surprise, and the delay was unnerving. But no amount of schooling could have prepared him for the words that came.

“It’s about young Long,” said Belton.

Mannering’s eyes narrowed, but it was the only evidence of surprise he showed; so far, of course, there was no reason for it. He waited, on the alert.

“Ye-es,” said Belton. who seemed to have a great deal of difficulty in controlling his voice. “Gerry Long has — er . . . Hang it, Mannering, the pearls that Lady Kenton gave to Marie . . . They’ve gone. Long’s been arrested.”

‘Gerry Long?” The thing came with a suddenness that made Mannering gasp, but at least he had reason enough for the stupefaction in his eyes as he stared at Belton, hardly able to believe his ears. “Arrested — but that’s damned silly. On what grounds, Colonel ?”

George Beaton looked very grim indeed.

“The only grounds I’d believe in,” he said. “He had the pearls in his pocket, Mannering, in his pocket!”

Mannering stared blankly at the soldier; the thing was impossible, he told himself. He had the pearls. Gerry Long could not possibly have them. Yet — the police would not have acted, Belton would not have been so sure, unless it was true — which was absurd.

“I really can’t believe it,” he said slowly. Then he stopped and offered cigarettes, and the Colonel accepted one thankfully.

“I’ll get Miss Fauntley to go along with her people,” Mannering said a moment later, and at any other time Colonel Belton would have noticed the strange hardness in his companion’s voice. “I won’t keep you a moment. Colonel.”

He reached the girl quickly and explained that he was wanted. Lorna nodded when he suggested that she should go with the others.

“Something serious?” she asked, as she saw his grimace.

For a moment Mannering thought that she had asked the question anxiously. He brushed the idea on one side; her dark eyes were laughing at him now.

“It might be worse,” lie said, with an effort.

He saw Lorna into the car, and then turned back towards the Colonel, who was talking to the older Wagnall. The stocky little private detective came towards them as Mannering drew up.

“They would like to see you, Colonel Belton,” he said importantly.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” said Belton testily. You, Wagnall? Mannering?”

“There’s some absurd mistake,” said Mannering, in an effort to restore something of the good spirits that seemed to have left the Colonel completely. The effort fell flat, as he had half-expected; in some ways he was not sorry, for he was still utterly bewildered. The pearls which had been on the table were in his pocket; he could feel them now.

“Absolutely caught red-handed,” muttered the Colonel.

“But Gerry Long!” grunted Frank Wagnall. “I just can’t believe it, Colonel. Why, I’ve known the boy ail his life. It’s some silly practical joke; it must be.”

No one responded; no one felt like speaking.

The four men reached the library, and the private detective tapped on the door, which was opened by the Yard man to whom Mannering had been speaking earlier in the evening. He looked pleased with himself, and greeted Mannering cheerfully, but in an undertone.

“Rather a funny thing, eh, sir? Lucky you suggested checking up on the goods.”

Mannering grunted non-committally, and stared at Gerry Long. There was something about Long’s boyish face at the moment that made Mannering desperately sorry for him. Gerry looked as if he had had the biggest shock of his life. There was a smile on his face, but it was a set, almost stupid smile.

On a small table in front of him were the pearls.

For the fifth time in as many minutes Mannering felt the string in his own pocket. They were there all right, yet, if so, there were two lots of the same pearls, which was absurd. He checked the laugh that sprang to his lips, and scowled. This whole affair was bordering on the ridiculous, but it was also perilously close to a nightmare. Mannering hated the desperation in Long’s eyes.

Wagnall broke the silence that threatened to develop.

“This is a silly business, Gerry,” he said, and Mannering was glad that he sounded friendly enough. “What’s happened ? You must have some kind of explanation. Let’s have it, and clear the thing up.”

Long wearily pushed his hand through his light hair.

“I haven’t,” he said rather helplessly. “Only that I didn’t touch the pearls on the table.”

He broke off with a shrug of resignation, and for the life of him Mannering could not guess why. If ever a man looked guilty the young American did at that moment; yet . . .

“Then what the devil’s the meaning of these ?” began Wagnall, and then relapsed into silence. All the men present looked at one another awkwardly, and it was Mannering who moved first. He picked up the necklace and held it close to his eyes for a moment; then he rolled the stones in his fingers thoughtfully. He had guessed what they were, even though he still could not understand how Long had come by them. Bui at least, he told himself, he could ease the tension.

“They’re fakes,” he said quietly.

In the silence that followed a pin dropping would have made a clatter. Only Mannering was fully under control, and his lips were twitching. The next man to recover himself was the Yard detective.

“Fakes ?” His voice cracked. “Duds! But, hang it, Mr Mannering, the real stones are missing!”

“Possibly they had dummies made for the show,” said Mannering easily.

Wagnall and the Colonel shook their heads decisively.

“Never! It might have caused a scandal,” Wagnall assured him.

“All the same, these are dummies — culture-pearls at their best,” said Mannering, throwing the pearls into the air and catching them. “I’ll wager my opinion against anyone you care to bring, Mr Wagnall.”

He looked inquisitively at the American, who seemed

completely bewildered.

“But — but why the dummies?” Wagnall was staring at Gerry Long, who was still looking uncertain, and creating an impression that he knew something, that there was at least some truth in this accusation. “Tarnation, Gerry, say something! You didn’t come by these things by accident Where’d you get them?”

Wagnall’s voice had hardened, and his aggressive tone seemed to be the stimulant that Long wanted. The younger man’s eyes flashed, and he squared his shoulders, as though preparing for a physical effort.

“I don’t know where I got them,” he said slowly. “They were in my pocket; they must have been put there. . .”

The man from Dorman’s Agency laughed across the words.

“A fine story! With all respect to you, Mr Wagnall, it’s as plain as the nose on my face. Mr Long took the original pearls, hoping to slip the dummies in their place later.”

“When I’m needing your opinion,” said Wagnall coldly, “I’ll advise you.”

The man from Dorman’s dropped back a pace. Every expression went from his face, saving a mask-like smile.

“Very good, Mr Wagnall.”

“And that,” thought Mannering, “is a fair specimen of the private detective.” He tried to remember the name of the Yard man, who was still inspecting the pearls, looking as though he was thoroughly pleased with himself — a remarkable thing, now that the situation was fogged instead of clear.

Tring — Sergeant Tring, Mannering remembered, and he was glad to have even so small a thing to hold on to in this nightmare development.

Sergeant Jacob Tring, or Tanker, was thoroughly enjoying himself. The pearls were undoubtedly missing, the obvious suspect was Long, a friend of Wagnall’s, and the whole affair presented complications that would have made the average policeman savage; Tanker was accordingly happy.

“I’m thinking,” he said, after noting with malicious pleasure that the Dorman Agency man had been rapped over the knuckles, “that Mr Mannering’s correct, Mr Wagnall. These are dummies all right.”

The American’s eyes glittered.

“Surely,” he snapped, “you’ve reached a most important decision, officer? Perhaps you’ll tell me now what you propose to do to find the real pearls ?”

Tanker was used to outbursts of all kinds, and he took them with a kind of gloomy joy.

“Yes,” he said, and he said it with relish, “I propose to send for help, and make a thorough search, sir. I’ve telephoned for the Inspector.”

“Bristow?” snapped Wagnall.

“Yes, sir,” said Tanker.

Colonel Belton, who had been standing by and showing remarkable restraint, took a step forward, as though the limit had been passed.

“But it’s impossible, impossible! We can’t search — these — these people.”

“The law’s the law, sir,” said Tanker, still with relish.

Belton cleared his throat and glowered. Mannering knew that he was thinking of the celebrities still in the house, of the commotion and sensation a general search would cause. He felt sorry for the Colonel at that moment, because Belton was a man who believed in the thing being the thing, and whose sense of obligation to his guests was very strong. By no stretch of the imagination could this be blamed on to him, but he took it as a personal responsibility, ignoring the fact that the police barely troubled to consult him.

“It’s unthinkable,” he muttered; “it’s — it’s not done J”

Apparently Wagnall did not agree.

“Why?” he said laconically. “What other choice have we?”

There was a pause; conflicting emotions in the room were very strong. The only man of whom Mannering was not sure was Gerry Long. Gerry was leaning against the table, smiling a little, and now thoroughly at ease. Where a few minutes before he had looked guilty and afraid of consequences, he now created the impression that he hadn’t a care in the world. Belton was very red in the face, worried and annoyed. Wagnall was making the best of a bad job, and taking the thing well. Sergeant Tanker Tring and the other police-constable seemed to be looking forward to their task with considerable pleasure, while Mason, the agency man, was also pleased — maliciously.

Mannering was disappointed in Sergeant Tring.

The obvious thing, if a general search was needed, was to make sure that no one in the house was allowed to leave.

The fact that the damage was done in this direction should have made the policeman realise at once the futility of his suggestion.

He had underestimated Tring.

The Yard man believed, reasonably enough, that Long had arranged to slip the false pearls into the place of the originals and to hide or pass on to an associate the genuine string. It was the obvious solution to the mystery, and if the associate was in the house a search would reveal him — or her. On the other hand, Tring knew “that the guests had already started to leave. He doubted whether Long, who had not been in the reception-room, knew that, and, by proposing a general search, hoped to trap the young American into an admission of sorts.

Long refused the bait, but he broke the silence.

“I’m sorry that you don’t feel you can take my word for it,” he said. “But I’m telling you that the first time I saw those pearls” — he pointed to the string in Tring’s hand — “was when they were taken from my pocket. The only time.”

“Nons . . .” started Bel ton, and thought better of it.

“Is that true, Gerry ?” asked Wagnall evenly.

Gerry Long flushed a little, but his voice was steady.

“I’m saying it is,” he said.

Wagnall took a deep breath. Mannering, watching him, could easily understand why the man had risen to considerable heights in the commercial world. He had a way with him that created the impression that his word was the obvious law, and no one could have taken the theft more coolly.

“That’s good enough for me,” he said.

“But not for me, I’m afraid,” said Tring respectfully.

Wagnall looked at the sergeant as though he was nonexistent.

“I’ll talk with the Inspector,” he said.

Tring coloured, and muttered under his breath. Mannering, now that he felt that there was little or no likelihood of trouble arising for Gerry Long, felt easier in his mind, and more able to appreciate the humours of the situation.

“Meanwhile — the search?” he suggested.

Tring’s respect for him suffered a reverse, but the sergeant was used to the reactions of the untrained mind, and certainly he did not appreciate the depth of Mannering’s remarks.

“Now we think of it,” said the sergeant quietly, “it won’t be much good, gentlemen. Half the guests are away by now.”

Mannering whistled, and his surprise seemed perfectly real.

“The devil ! So they are!”

Colonel George Belton looked his relief, but had wits enough left not to speak of it. Frank Wagnall shrugged his shoulders, and Gerry Long seemed to realise that the storm had blown over for him. He was smiling in real amusement now.

It was in this atmosphere that Detective-Inspector William Bristow found himself when he arrived in response to Tring’s telephone-call. The detective heard the story, briefly outlined by Tring. The accident to Lady Kenton — how he hated the sound of that woman’s name! — the check-up on the gifts, suggested by Mannering, the discovery that the pearls were missing, the finding of the lakes on Gerry Long a few minutes later. Tring was very brisk and official throughout his recital.

“What made you think Long had them?” Bristow demanded pertinently.

Tanker shrugged his shoulders.

“He happened to be just outside, sir, when I opened the door. “Trouble?” he asked. “Pearls gone,” ses I, and he moved his hand towards his pocket, sir. I just slipped mine in after he’d stopped thinking about it and found ‘em.”

It was a little unorthodox, Bristow thought, but the end had justified the means, and he took the situation in hand immediately. He left Tring and the other Yard man to watch the library, asked Mason to guard the door against the unlikely eventuality of a further raid, and suggested to the Colonel that they should have a quiet talk.

Ten minutes after the detective had arrived all five men were sitting in the Colonel’s study, one of the few rooms in the house which had not been delivered up to the celebrations.

The Colonel, much more cheerful now that the possibility of a scandal had disappeared, rang for whisky. Mannering watched the reactions of Gerry Long very carefully, and he was more puzzled than ever.

He told himself that Long had been eager for that stimulant. The American knew something. What was it ?

They didn’t find out that evening. Bristow asked a dozen catch-questions, but Long stuck to his story. The dummy necklace, he maintained, must have been slipped into his pocket. It was possible, of course, that it had been inserted after Lady Kenton’s fall, but it might have been before that. From his knowledge of precious stones he was inclined to believe that the pearls he had commented upon to Lady Kenton had been genuine, but the light had been poor, and he had not touched them; he couldn’t be certain.

“You’re sure you didn’t touch them?” asked Bristow.

“Ask Mannering,” said Long, with a quick smile.

Mannering smiled and nodded.

“That’s beyond doubt,” he said. “Neither of them touched the pearls — nor did I, for that matter. We were too anxious to rescue Lady Kenton.”

Bristow managed a smile, but his expression was sour.

“Well, gentlemen,” he said, “we’ve no real proof that the pearls were stolen during that little episode. They might have disappeared any time during the day. It looks,” he added thoughtfully, “as if someone exchanged the real pearls for dummies, and afterwards slipped the dummies into Mr. Long’s pocket.”

“Thanks,” drawled Gerry.

“But why remove the dummies at all ?” demanded Mannering.

Bristow shrugged his shoulders.

“I just can’t say,” he said. “I will do everything I can, Mr Wagnall, to recover the pearls, but I can promise nothing. It’s been cleverly done — very cleverly.”

Mannering smiled a little, but his satisfaction at the success of the haul was marred by the discovery of the dummies. Someone else had had their eyes on the pearls, and he would have liked to know who it was; but there was one thing that helped him: the trail was so hopelessly confused that no one was likely to get near the genuine string; certainly he had nothing of which to complain.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

A SUSPECT

MANNERING WAS NOT SURPRISED ON THE FOLLOWING MORNING to find Gerry Long waiting for him in the lounge of the Elan. The American looked cheerful enough, but inwardly, Mannering thought, he was very worried. It was not long before he broached the affair of the previous afternoon, and Mannering knew that the other had been thinking about it a great deal.

“It’s all right, so far as it goes,” Long said, as the two men walked towards the Junior Carlton, “but I’m damned sure that Belton’s suspicious of me, Mannering. And I don’t quite know what to make of that detective. It’s not good enough.”

“You mean,” said Mannering thoughtfully, “that if you could find who really took the necklace you’d be able to clear yourself ?”

“That’s about the size of it,” admitted Long.

“How are you going to set about it?” asked Mannering.

The American shrugged his shoulders.

“How can I ?” he demanded. “If your police can’t . . .”

“You could employ a private detective,” suggested Mannering.

Long laughed, without much humour.

“Another specimen like that stuffed dummy Mason?”

“Well,” said Mannering with a short laugh, “the only other thing you can do is to hope that the Yard finds the thing. It isn’t as if you had any idea who took them.”

Long looked very grim; Mannering watched him and wondered at the set expression on his face, but he was not prepared for the bombshell that followed.

“But I have,” Long said.

Just for a moment Mannering’s face turned colour. They were walking along the Mall, and Mannering had been enjoying the walk and the conversation. He was sorry for Gerry Long, and he proposed making sure as soon as it was possible that the American suffered no consequences from the suspicion that had fallen on him. Apart from that little matter he had felt thoroughly happy and at peace with the world. Success was coming easily, and he was still unsuspected — or at least so He had thought.

But Long had an idea who’d taken the pearls!

To cover his momentary confusion Mannering coughed. He straightened up with a smile that cost him a great effort.

“Sorry,” he said. “Er — so you have an idea, have you? Well . . .”

“I’ve no objection to telling you,” said Long, and Mannering’s heart stopped thumping. “It seems absurd, but . . .”

“Who are you getting at?” demanded Mannering, intrigued, yet sure that Long’s suspicion was not very close to the mark.

The other’s words made him gasp. They came quickly, as though the American was afraid of ridicule, but there was no doubting their sincerity.

“Lady Kenton,” said Gerry Long.

Lady Kenton! For a moment Mannering felt beyond the power of speech. He stared at the American, and only the grimness of the other’s eyes and the obvious sincerity of the words stopped him from laughing.

“But why ?” he demanded helplessly.

“It’s pretty clear,” said Long, rather more nasal than he was usually, “that the old dame’s fall and the disappearance of the pearls coincided . . .”

“Not necessarily,” said Mannering quickly.

“But they sure did,” persisted Long. “Look — I know I didn’t take them. You know you didn’t. Who else? She was the only one in the room, apart from the policeman . . .”

“What about Mason, the agency man ?” asked Mannering quickly.

“I’ve thought of him,” said Long. “He wasn’t near the table. In fact, I think he was actually outside the door just then.”

Mannering nodded.

“So it was you, I, or Lady Kenton,” said Long. “We know it wasn’t either of us . . .”

“So it must cancel out to her ladyship,” murmured Mannering.

He was on the alert now, for Long was being very persistent on the “it wasn’t either of us” note. Was it possible that the American did suspect him, and was playing him subtly ?

“That’s as I see it,” said Long.

Was he being sincere, or was he hinting? Mannering would have given a great deal to have known that, but he could only wait until Long had given him a further lead.

“Well,” he said, after a short pause, “that’s all right from our point of view. But the police will suspect you as much as Lady Kenton, if they suspect any of us.”

“You don’t have to tell me what they think about me,” said Long.

There was such bitterness in the words that Mannering looked at the other sharply. In that moment he realised that Gerry Long, for all his apparent ease of manner, for all his carelessness, was taking the affair to heart. The American felt the suspicion keenly. Just for a moment he looked desperate, and the fact came as something of a shock to Mannering.

He had not known the other many weeks, but he had told himself that Gerry Long was the last man in the world to worry much about being under suspicion. He told himself, too, that the young American’s financial position was such that it made that suspicion absurd. But the fact remained that Gerry Long was suffering keenly, and Mannering was worried. He changed his mind about going to the club.

“Let’s get along to my flat,” he suggested. “We can talk this out, Gerry.”

Long agreed. He did not speak during the walk to the flat, and the impression of desperation that Mannering had gathered on the previous night and which he had seen that morning was heightened. There was something on Gerry Long’s mind that was worrying him a great deal more than seemed justifiable.

An hour later Mannering told himself that the American left the flat in a more cheerful frame of mind than when he had reached it. But Mannering was still worried. Long had discussed the theft thoroughly, but he had given Mannering no clue to the reason for his anxiety; yet that anxiety was very real, Mannering was sure.

“And all,” murmured the cracksman to himself, “for Lady Kenton’s pearls.”

There was a sardonic smile on his lips as he unlocked the small desk against the wall and took the pearls from their hiding-place.

His words to Lady Kenton on the previous night had not been entirely empty. The string was beautifully graduated, worth every penny of five thousand pounds, and he wondered at the Dowager’s extravagance. It had been an exceptional present, and there seemed no real reason for it. Certainly he was half wishing now that she had chosen something more modest.

He slipped it back into the hiding-place, lit his cigarette, prepared himself a small lunch, and then went to see Bristow. He had intended to call at the Yard in any case, but his talk with Gerry Long had made him precipitate the visit. He was worried about Long, and it was possible that he could clear the situation after a talk with Bristow.

Bristow was his usual cheerful self, and Sergeant Tring, looking rather pleased with life, touched his forehead and hoped that Mannering wasn’t feeling tired after the previous day’s exertions.

“No,” said Mannering, “and I’ve never seen anyone exert himself less than you do. Why didn’t you order the doors to be shut?”

“Too late when we discovered the stuff missing,” said Tring briefly.

When the sergeant had gone, closing the door quietly behind him, the detective offered cigarettes, and smiled grimly.

“We didn’t have much luck on our first job together,” he said, as Mannering struck a match.

Mannering laughed, a little uncertainly.

“You seem confoundedly happy about it,” he countered.

Bristow shrugged. Mannering gained another insight into the character of the man whom he was rapidly beginning to like and to admire.

“There isn’t much use in getting all het-up,” said the detective. “It doesn’t help us, nor anyone else. Besides, we always get our man in the long run.”

“Always ?” Mannering’s brows went up.

“Ninety-nine times in a hundred, anyhow,” said Bristow cheerfully.

“That suggests,” Mannering said slowly, “that you believe last night’s job was another one from your man — the Baron?”

Bristow nodded, and the other noticed the glint of admiration in the detective’s eyes. Bristow was so used to finding herself dealing with men of very moderate intellect that it was a pleasure to talk with someone who grasped the essentials quickly.

“I mean just that,” he said. “I think Baron — or the Baron; call him what you like — did the job. The dummies were slipped into Long’s pocket to make him seem . . .”

“Guilty?” asked Mannering.

“Well, to give that impression at first sight,” said Bristow. “You don’t have to look far before you realise Long was there for the other man to hang a hat on. While Tring and the others were worrying about the American, off goes the real thief.”

“A servant or a guest?”

Bristow rubbed his chin. He looked at Mannering thought-fully, as though wondering just how far he could trust his amateur helper. Apparently his decision was favourable.

“Well,” he said, “I’m not really sure, of course. But there’s one guest who’s being watched very carefully, Mannering, and whose bank-balance might not be quite so high as we think.”

Mannering felt just the same fear as he had when he had been with Gerry Long. This time he managed to control himself, and he did not change colour; but he took another cigarette from his case and stuck it between his lips, glad of the cover it gave. It was disconcerting to be faced with a statement like that, and he did not enjoy it. His heart was beating fast, and several seconds passed before he spoke.

“Yes ?” he said, and he was surprised that his voice sounded natural.

“Yes,” said Bristow heavily. “It seems fantastic, of course, but have you noticed, Mannering, that Lady Kenton has been present at every robbery ?”

“Lady Kenton ?”

Mannering stared at his man, completely dumbfounded; there was no need at all for the simulation of surprise; Long, then Bristow, with the same fantastic notion!

“Look at it through plain glasses,” said Bristow, a little disgruntled by Mannering’s obvious astonishment, “and you can see what I mean, can’t you? There was that paltry brooch. She worried the life out of me about the thing, and it doesn’t need a very long stretch of imagination to believe that she did it to keep me worrying about her as a victim. And she has been at every robbery.”

Mannering took a deep breath, and forced himself to make the obvious rejoinder.

“So have I,” he said.

Bristow grinned.

“Yes,” he admitted, “I’m not forgetting you, but I’m hoping for the best. Seriously, though, why did she fall on that table last night? Did you see anything in the way for her to stumble over?”

Mannering shook his head. There was more relish in these conversations with the detective than in anything else he could remember, and he was beginning to enjoy himself thoroughly.

“There you are,” said Bristow triumphantly. “She says that she doesn’t know what caused her to slip, but she knows that something was in her way. Well — it’s a tall story.”

Mannering remembered, very vividly, how he had stretched his foot for the Countess to fall over.

“It is,” he admitted. “But, damn it, Bristow — the Dowager Countess of Kenton . . .”

“Why not?” demanded Bristow, with vigour. “There’s another thing, Mannering. That necklace, according to reports, was worth about five thousand pounds. Now, Lady Kenton hardly knew Marie Overndon. True, she knew the Wagnalls in America; but a five-thousand-pound wedding-gift!”

“That had occurred to me,” said Mannering, very serious-

“It shouts suspicion,” said Bristow grimly, “and that’s one reason why I’m wary of it. I don’t like things shouting at me. They call the wrong tune too often.”

“There’s one thing,” said Mannering thoughtfully. “The first robbery the Baron was concerned in was of her own brooch, wasn’t it? And it included a bang over the head for the housekeeper. I can imagine Lady Kenton doing all kinds of things, but not that.”

“It might have given her the idea,” said Bristow. He was obviously pleased with the theory, and it would take a lot to shake him from it. Mannering felt that things could not have gone better. Lady Kenton wasn’t in the slightest danger, for her reputation and her behaviour would stand the strictest examination. And while Bristow was barking up the wrong tree Mannering felt that he would be able to do a great many things.

Of course, Bristow would be forced away from the suspicion soon. He would realise from the reports he had heard that the Baron’s activities — for instance, the lessons in lock-picking — were beyond the scope of the Dowager; but, while Bristow was chasing his hare, well and good.

But Mannering was still concerned about Gerry Long.

“The only reason Long can have for worrying,” said Bristow, when Mannering mentioned the fact, “is a knowledge of the job. If he’s not guilty . . .”

“And you don’t think he is?” Mannering asked.

“No,” said Bristow. Then he added more warily: “That is, I’ve my doubts, but if he is seriously concerned about the affair it’s funny.”

Mannering broke in, with some warmth.

“He wouldn’t be the first man to be worried by an accusation which was unjust, would he?”

“No-o,” admitted Bristow. He lit a cigarette and watched the smoke curling towards the ceiling. “When all’s said and done, Mannering, the business is darned complicated. We are stopped because we don’t know whether the real pearls or the dummies were on that table all day. It’s quite possible that the actual theft took place before the wedding, and the little affair yesterday isn’t connected with it.”

“Then bust goes your case against Lady Kenton.”

“I haven’t got a case against Lady Kenton,” said Bristow bluntly. “I’ve just got an idea that she might be more than she seems, and it will be worth your while to watch her. Er — that is, if you’re still anxious to carry on.”

Mannering laughed, to the Inspector’s obvious pleasure.

“I’m enjoying it,” he said, “although I’m annoyed about the pearls. I suppose” — his eyes were fixed on Bristow curiously — “there’s no doubt but that there were genuine pearls. I mean, if only dummies were given — and Gerry Long had the dummies . . .”

Bristow shook his head and smiled.

“That won’t wash,” he said. “We’re not altogether mugs here, Mannering. We’ve had that purchase checked up. Lady Kenton actually bought the pearls and paid for them by cheque. She had them delivered by special messenger, and they reached the Park Square house the day before yesterday. They cost four thousand seven hundred and fifty pounds, and they were supplied by Daulby and Co., of Piccadilly.”

Mannering chuckled with genuine humour.

“A complete history, eh? That certainly disposes of my hunch. So we’re faced with the fact that the real pearls disappeared between yesterday morning and yesterday afternoon. The incident when I was there with Lady Kenton might mean something or might not.”

“That’s it,” said Bristow, with a worried smile. “It’s a ticklish job, I’ll admit. I can’t really make head-or-tail of it. Your friend Long makes another complication, and I can’t get it out of my head that he’s in it, somewhere.”

“I wish we could clean it up, if only to clear him,” said Mannering.

“I’ve got different motives, but I’d give a lot to catch our man,” said Bristow. “Well — excuse me a minute, will you ?”

The telephone-bell rang out as he spoke. Mannering nodded and studied the ceiling, hearing Bristow’s snapped words into the mouthpiece, but not gathering the drift of them.

He knew, however, that the message had concerned the affair of the pearls, for Bristow turned round and was frowning as he replaced the receiver. Again that ridiculous feeling of panic swept through Mannering. Was it possible that he had been suspected all the time, and that the pearls had been found in the service-flat? The police weren’t fools. . . .

Bristow’s first words relieved him on that score, but worried him on another unexpectedly.

“It rather looks,” admitted the detective, “as though we had our man, first time; or, at least, Tanker did . . .”

“Tanker?” Mannering spoke more to gain time than for any other reason. So they were back at Gerry Long.

Bristow smiled frostily.

“Sergeant Tring, or Tanker,” he explained. “But the point is, Mannering, that Long has apparently done this kind of thing before . . .”

For the second time Mannering stared at the detective as if he was seeing a ghost. The statement seemed ridiculous, but Bristow had made it in all seriousness. Gerry Long had done this kind of thing before! God! Where would this end?

“This is getting beyond me,” he admitted, after a pause. He lit a cigarette from the butt of his first, trying to picture Long in the role of a cracksman. Damn it, the idea was absurd!

Bristow pressed his lips together.

“The position’s clarified now,” he said. “You know Long’s a collector of precious stones?”

“We’ve often compared notes,” said Mannering.

“He doesn’t seem to mind much how he collects them,” said Bristow grimly. “We sent to New York for a report as soon as we heard of the trouble last night. They radioed back at once. Long has twice been mixed up in a scandal of this nature, and twice he’s been able to buy his way out of trouble.”

“Buy his way?” muttered Mannering.

“It can be done,” said Bristow. “Over here they’d plead that he suffered from kleptomania and . . . Well, being in his position, he might get off with a warning. Over there they’ve another way out. Anyhow, Long’s committed similar crimes on two separate occasions, and it’s pretty obvious what’s happened this time.”

“Yes,” murmured Mannering. He felt very hot and very uncertain. The complications were beginning to worry him. Whatever else happened, Long must not be victimised for this robbery.

“He slipped the genuine pearls away,” said Bristow, “but didn’t have a chance to put the dummies in their place. He had ample time, afterwards, to dispose of the genuine pearls and . . .”

Mannering shook his head, and Bristow stopped, very vividly aware of the other s aggressive tone.

“No,” said Mannering. “I’m sorry, Bristow, but I just don’t believe that Long took those pearls. If any man’s innocent Long is.”

“Then why is he worried?” snapped Bristow. “And what of the previous affairs in America?”

Mannering shrugged his shoulders.

“They fit in together,” he said. “Long feels that he is under suspicion. Remembering these other jobs, he’s worried, because he realises they’ll be connected. That’s reasonable, isn’t it?”

“It’s possible,” admitted Bristow. His eyes narrowed, and he was silent for several minutes. “You seem very friendly with Long,” he added at last, but the tone of his voice robbed the words of any offence.

Mannering smiled, and nodded his agreement.

“H’m,” said Bristow, a little heavily. “Well — I don’t need to ask you not to mention this American message to him.”

“What are you going to do?” asked Mannering evasively.

“See Long again.”

“When?”

“At once,” said Bristow, eyeing his companion uncertainly, and searching for the reasons for the questions.

Mannering’s smile was enigmatical.

“Let me tackle him,” he said. “You — or your men — can be listening in the next room. You’ll get the genuine story — if Long’s had anything to do with it.”

Bristow looked doubtful still.

“You think I’ll warn him?” Mannering laughed.

Bristow coloured a little at the thrust.

“I wouldn’t put it beyond you,” he admitted. “I’ll do that, though, if you like. But why?”

“It’ll be rough on him if he bangs right into you,” said Mannering. “He’s worried already. I’d like to let him down as easily as possible.”

Bristow laughed, but without much humour.

“Have it your own way,” he said. “Where are you thinking of talking with him?”

“My flat?” suggested Mannering.

“I’ll get there just after six,” said the detective, looking at his watch. “It’s just turned sour now. That should give you plenty of time.”

Mannering nodded, well satisfied with the concession, and shook hands with his companion.

But although his smile when he left the Yard was as wide as it had been when he had entered, he was inwardly feeling the strain. He had known that something serious had been at the back of Gerry Long’s mind that morning. Now he knew just what it was. The old scandals in which the other had been involved were bound to be revealed, and the young American had realised it.

But Mannering was not concerned with that. Long didn’t know it, but Mannering was the one man in the world who would not care about his crimes. Mannering’s concern was to make quite sure that no suspicion of guilt in this case rested on Long. If it came to the point he would return the pearls.

“But that,” he muttered to himself as he entered his flat, “wouldn’t clear Gerry. It would be assumed that he’d been scared by the police and that he was trying to squeeze out of it. It would do more harm than good. And that means . . .”

He broke off, whistling to himself. He could see only one way to clear Gerry Long. It was dangerous, perhaps, but there would be a zest about it. . . .

Mannering stopped whistling, and smiled to himself. The lights dancing in his eyes would have mystified anyone who knew him. There was devilment, amusement, challenge. He knew, very suddenly, what he would do, and how he would do it.

For the next half-hour there was no sound in the flat but the scraping of a pen across paper and an occasional chuckle from Mannering as he wrote. Twice he screwed up and burned his efforts. The third pleased him more. He sealed it and addressed it. Then he hurried from the flat to a garage where he parked his car, drove from Piccadilly towards Victoria, and posted the letter at an ordinary pillar-box.

The glint in his eyes was a little harder, perhaps, than it had been; but the challenge was still there.

From a telephone-kiosk at Victoria Station he called Gerry Long, who was still staying with Colonel Belton. Gerry was in, and agreed to visit the service-flat just after six. From the tone of the other’s voice Mannering knew that the American was still anxious.

Mannering smiled to himself, satisfied that he had done all he could to ease the situation. But it was still awkward, and he was not altogether happy.

Only the fact that he knew that Long could not make any admission about the robbery had persuaded him to arrange the interview with the police within hearing-distance. Bristow and his men could not hear a thing that could cause Gerry trouble. On the other hand, if Mannering handled the interview well they might easily be convinced that the American knew nothing about the robbery.

The big stumbling-block was the existence of the dummy pearls.

Gerry Long had possessed those dummies, and the police would want to know the reason. Mannering was inclined to think that he knew it, and he worked it out in his mind.

The American was stone-mad; their conversations had proved that. The sight of precious stones, especially a rare piece that could not be bought, had seemed to make Gerry Long brood. In a man so young and so normal in every other respect it was strange; but Mannering had discovered enough in the past few years to prepare him for eccentricities in the most unlikely people. According to Mannering’s reckoning, Gerry Long had bought the dummies, and had planned to exchange them for the real stones. It was a trick that anyone smart at sleight-of-hand could have contrived without much trouble.

Mannering chuckled to himself suddenly, and the weight of his depression lifted. He wondered what Gerry Long had thought when he had found the pearls missing; and he was inclined to believe that the American really suspected Lady Kenton. Detective-Inspector Bristow certainly did, but the real humour of the situation would come only if the Dowager discovered it.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

MANNERING IS TOO LATE

“SO YOU’VE HEARD OF THAT, HAVE YOU?” SAID GERRY LONG.

He looked haggard and worn. The effort which he had made until that morning to keep cheerful despite the difficulty of his position had been exhausted. He was scared of the possibility of arrest and conviction on the count of the pearls, and to Mannering there was something pitiful in Gerry’s constant smoking of cigarettes; in his hands, which were never still; and in his nervous gestures. Twenty-four hours before the American had been one of the most self-possessed young men in London. Now he was very close to a nervous wreck.

“I’ve heard of them,” said Mannering quietly.

They were sitting opposite each other in the Englishman’s living-room. In the bathroom and the bedroom, Mannering knew, were Bristow and the sergeant with the curious name of Tanker — at that time Mannering did not know why the sergeant was so called, but certainly it was suitable — and he was hoping that they would get enough to convince themselves, even then, of Long’s innocence.

“And — the police ?” Gerry’s eyes were haggard.

“They’re bound to have heard it,” said Mannering, still quietly. He stretched his legs out, and looked evenly at the younger man. “Well, it’s up to you, Gerry. I suppose you have been telling the truth ?”

There was no offence in the words, and there was no bitterness or resentment in Long’s voice as he answered: “I have. I didn’t touch the pearls.”

Mannering nodded.

“Then you’ve nothing to worry about, surely? They can’t prove you did take them if you didn’t. It’s rather nasty, I know, but . . .”

“It’s more than that,” broke in Long bitterly. “I may as well be honest, Mannering. I tried the funny stuff twice before, and I was lucky to get away with it. I can’t explain why . . .”

“Don’t try,” said Mannering quietly.

Long’s expression showed his gratitude, but he did not speak of it.

“You can imagine,” he said, “that life wasn’t all honey afterwards. I made a fool of myself , and suffered for it. Now it’ll start again. You can guess this won’t be kept over here. Even if nothing happens officially the rumours will fly. You’d never believe how fast they travel . . .”

“What it amounts to,” said Mannering, with a deliberate challenge in his words, “is that you’re afraid to go back to New York unless you can disprove the suggestion ?”

There was a flash of spirit in Gerry’s reply.

“I’m afraid of nothing, he said quickly. “If I’ve got to face it I will. But — there’s a girl, Mannering.”

Mannering was very still for a moment, filled with a flood of understanding.

He had been puzzled by Gerry Long’s manner right from the start. Long did not create the impression that he was lacking in pluck, and his attitude over the pearl-robbery had been mystifying, to say the least of it. But if there was a girl . . .

“I see,” murmured Mannering, and the smile in his eyes was of sympathy, and not of amusement. He went on: “Well, you can only keep on denying your part, young fellow. Stick to the truth. It’ll see you through.”

Gerry nodded, without much conviction.

“I’ll try that,” he said quietly. “But there’s one thing I can’t do.”

Mannering looked his curiosity.

“I can’t explain away that dummy necklace,” said the American. “It must have been slipped into my pocket, but in view of all the circumstances the yarn looks pretty thin.”

Mannering nodded, and his smile was still encouraging.

“I shouldn’t worry,” he said. “The police will probably want to see you again. Stick to your story; you’ll be all right.”

Neither of them spoke for a moment. Then Long held out his hand impulsively.

“You’re a great guy,” he said, very simply.

Mannering suddenly remembered the wedding-reception.

“Here’s how!” he said, and for the first time that day Gerry Long laughed as though he meant it.

“That’s that,” said Mannering as Detective-Inspector Bristow and Sergeant Jacob (Tanker) Tring, having come from their hiding-places, awaited him. Gerry Long had gone, in a more cheerful frame of mind, Mannering believed, and the latter was satisfied that the talk had done some good. “If you care to believe Long had anything to do with it, you’re welcome. I don’t.”

Bristow fingered his moustache.

“It sounded genuine enough,” he admitted cautiously. “I’ll have a talk with him myself later in the evening.”

Mannering saw his visitors off, and went back into the room. Gerry Long had left twenty minutes before, and Mannering had strolled towards Piccadilly with the American, buying an evening paper on the way back. He had glanced at the front-page, and had seen what he wanted to see, but he did not show it to Bristow.

Despite the secrecy with which Colonel George Belton and the Wagnalls had handled the affair, the story of the robbery had leaked out. Mannering imagined that Mason, the stocky little private detective, had something to do with it. Mason had been angered by the way in which he had been treated on the previous day, and was of the type to want to get his own back.

The paper had exaggerated, of course. The five-thousand-pound necklace had grown into twenty thousand pounds” worth of jewels, and the story was as vague as it could possibly be. But the fact remained that publicity had been given to it, and, worse still, there was a list of the guests at the wedding on a centre-page. Gerry Long figured on that list.

Mannering felt restless. He was worried about Long, more than he had been before. The fact that there was a girl in the background complicated the affair. Men did strange things when they were in love, and Gerry Long was certainly in a state of very high nervous tension. In a few hours, Mannering knew he other man would have nothing to worry about, but those tew hours were the dangerous ones.

At half-past seven he telephoned Scotland Yard, to learn from Bristow that he had just seen Long at Belton’s house.

“I’m glad it’s over,” said Mannering. “How did he seem?”

“Worried out of his life,” said Bristow bluntly.

Mannering grunted, and rang off after a word or two more; he was in no mood tor a long conversation.

From his flat to Park Square was little more than half a mile, but something warned him to hurry for that journey. He hopped into a taxi, and waited impatiently for the short run to finish. He had a ten-shilling note ready for the driver, and did not wait to see the expression of surprise on that worthy’s face when he received ten times the normal tare. A queer urge inside Mannering made him hurry up the steps.

A trim maidservant answered the door. She greeted him with a pleasant smile, and told him that he would find Mr Long in his room. The Colonel and Mr Wagnall were out.

“I’ll go up,” said Mannering.

His feeling of impending disaster was very strong at that moment. He had difficulty in preventing himself from running up the stairs, and when he eventually reached the door of the American’s room he grasped the handle and pushed hard.

The door was locked.

Mannering went very still for a moment. Then he reached a decision quickly, drew back across the wide passage, and hurled himself at the door. He might be making a fool of himself, but he would risk that.

The lock burst from its fastenings at the third attempt. Mannering went flying into the room, and a single glance told him that his fears had been justified. He caught a glimpse of Gerry Long, standing near the window, and he saw the gun in Long’s right hand. For a split second Long hesitated, turning startled eyes towards the door. Then he raised the gun to his forehead. . . .

Mannering had gone sprawling across the floor, carried half-way into the room by the impetus of his effort. Somehow — afterwards he could never remember how — he contrived to twist his head so that he could see Gerry. The

American’s face, deathly white and thrown, into ghastly relief by the grey darkness of the gun, was like that of a ghost.

Mannering’s heart was pounding madly.

He knew that if he tried to get to his feet and rush the other he would be too late. A second lay between Gerry Long and eternity — and if Gerry died Mannering would never forget why.

“God!” he moaned, and it was a supplication.

He fastened his hand round the leg of a stiff-backed chair near him. He was still moving along the floor as his fingers found their hold, and he hardly knew how he rallied strength enough to lift the chair off the ground and throw it towards Long. As if in a nightmare he saw the chair going, saw the American dodge it instinctively, heard it thud against the wall and hit Long on the rebound; then, fast upon it, heard the report of the gun!

The explosion echoed through the room, sharp and ominous. Still on the floor, Mannering saw very clearly the wisp of smoke from the gun, the mark on Gerry’s forehead; he saw the other’s eyes close, saw his body begin to sag, heard the gun clattering, and then watched, fascinated, as Gerry slumped downward.

Mannering’s forehead was covered with sweat as he started to clamber to his feet. He was staring at Gerry Long’s motionless figure, and he felt afraid. . . .

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

SENSATION

THE SHOCK OF THE SHOOTING NUMBED MANNERING’s MIND, but it was only for a moment. His brain cleared very quickly. He heard the sudden commotion below-stairs, a servant’s voice raised in alarm, and, very clearly, Lady Mary Overndon’s voice telling the girl not to make a fool of herself.

“Thank God!” muttered Mannering, for he knew that Lady Mary would use her head if no one else could.

He was on his feet in a trice, and hurried to the door. The noise of footsteps coming up the stairs grew louder. As he reached the passage he saw Lady Mary approaching, very grim and very determined.

She stopped in surprise when she saw him.

“John — you! I didn’t know you were here.”

“Just arrived,” said Mannering. His face was grim and his voice hard. “A spot of bother, Lady Mary. Keep the servants quiet, will you, and send for a doctor who can be trusted to hold his tongue.”

“Gerry?” said Lady Mary quietly.

Mannering nodded.

“He’s not. . .” There was a glimmer of real alarm in the old woman’s eyes.

“No,” said Mannering, “or it wouldn’t matter what doctor you sent for. I must get back.”

He turned, pushing the door to as Lady Mary moved away; and then for the first time he really looked at Gerry Long. He had told Lady Mary that the other wasn’t dead. For his own part he wasn’t sure. He had spoken on impulse, with the wish father to the thought. . . .

Now he looked down at Gerry Long, and saw that usually cheerful face robbed of its colour, saw the ugly wound in the forehead, and the blood coming from it. Very quickly, but moving deliberately, Mannering knelt down and raised the other’s head. With his left hand he felt for the pulse . . . .

It was beating very faintly.

The relief which surged through Mannering was almost overpowering, but he realised that the danger was not past, and that fact sobered him. The chair, he knew, had made Gerry move, and the bullet had gone slantwise across the forehead, instead of through the temple; but even if the wound was not fatal complications might prove so.

Complications! Mannering uttered a mirthless little laugh. The complications that had followed the affair of , Marie Overndon’s pearls were beyond words, and they were still multiplying. But, damn it, he mustn’t think of them now!

He hurried into the bathroom, took a bowl of tepid water, a sponge, and a towel into the bedroom, and started to wash the wound. It was not a pleasant job, but in the circumstances Mannering could not be squeamish.

With another sigh of relief he saw that the wound was not very deep. The bullet had scored the bone at one point, but as far as he could see had not broken it. Gerry was still breathing fairly regularly, and the Englishman did not ad-minister a restorative. He considered it wiser to wait for the doctor, who would be able to advise the safest course.

Lady Mary had obviously exerted all her influence to get the doctor into the house quickly, for Mannering had only just finished bathing the wound when someone tapped softly at the door. He hurried across the room as Lady Mary called out: “I’m here, John.”

He opened the door, to see Lady Mary waiting with a tall grey-faced man he had seen somewhere before. The doctor hurried into the room as Mannering pointed towards the wounded man.

“Is he . . .” began Lady Mary again.

“He’ll be all right,” said Mannering, and he managed a smile that was not wholly forced. His relief at the escape the younger man had had was very real, and he dared hardly think of the effect Long’s death would have had on him. He felt sick as he realised that the theft of the Overndon pearls had nearly resulted in the American’s suicide.

“You’re sure?” asked Lady Mary, and Mannering saw that she was looking very old and very weary.

“Quite sure,” he said, pulling a chair towards her. “But sit down.”

She smiled at him as she obeyed gladly enough.

“I often wish,” she said, “you’d married into the family, John.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” countered Mannering.

As he spoke he was thinking that if he had done, if Marie Overndon had reacted differently when he had told her that he had been worth a thousand a year, neither more nor less, this wouldn’t have happened. But it might have been worse, thank God! That was the thought that echoed time and time again through his mind.

“Who’s the doctor?” he asked.

“Saunders,” said Lady Mary. “As reliable as they’re made, my dear. There won’t be any gossip about it, that’s certain . . .”

She broke off as Saunders turned round from his patient.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he said, with a quick smile. “Slight concussion, Lady Mary, and the wound, but nothing to worry about.” He looked at Mannering somewhat oddly. “There’s a rather nasty bruise on his shoulder,” he added.

Mannering did not speak, but he shrugged his shoulders.

The bruise, he knew, had been caused by the chair — and how he blessed it!

The doctor smiled a little, but made no comment.

“I’ll get him to bed,” said Lady Mary, as if she were speaking of a child. “Could you find me a nurse, doctor?”

Saunders promised that he would, and went off quickly.

When Mannering left Gerry’s room half an hour later the American was still unconscious, but his breathing was better. It was certain that he would regain consciousness very soon. A nurse, sent round by Saunders, had taken charge, and Mannering was not sorry to have a rest. He felt utterly weary and spent from the reaction.

Lady Mary watched him pouring out a stiff peg of whisky, and she suggested surprisingly — for she rarely touched spirits — that she should have a tot herself. Lady Mary was continually saying and doing things that were unexpected, and the manner of her request made him smile.

She sipped the drink gingerly, but pronounced it welcome. Then she smiled at him.

“What made you come along?” she demanded.

Mannering managed to laugh.

“I’d seen Gerry earlier this afternoon,” he said, “and I’d heard that the police were going to question him. It struck me that he was in a pretty bad way, and I felt anxious.”

“Blast those bloody pearls!” said Lady Mary very suddenly.

Mannering was so completely taken aback that he could only stare. Lady Mary gave a rather grim little chuckle.

“It’s surprising,” she said, “what some of us old ones are capable of, young man. I said it, and I meant it. Those pearls started the trouble, and if Emma Kenton had had more sense than to spend five thousand silly pounds on a paltry necklace this wouldn’t have happened.”

“But there were other things there,” protested Mannering.

“Don’t try and make me logical,” snapped Lady Mary. She smiled, robbing her words of any offence. “And don’t forget, young man, that she’s talked for weeks about these pearls. Anyone has had ample opportunity to get dummies made . . .”

“You seem to know the whole story,” said Mannering easily. Inwardly he was remarking on the publicity that Lady Kenton had given to the pearls. If Bristow wanted something else to heighten his suspicions of the Dowager here it was.

“I made George talk,” said Lady Mary, with a faint smile. “He’s a dear, is George, but he couldn’t keep a secret from anyone with two eyes in his head. It’s a nasty business, but it won’t hurt Marie, and it might do Emma a bit of good.”

Lady Kenton, thought Mannering, wasn’t very popular. He lit a cigarette, and a few moments later refused Lady Mary’s offer to stay for a day or two.

“I’ll wait until the Colonel gets back,” he said, “in case you’re feeling jumpy . . .”

“Jumpy?” snapped Lady Mary. “What have I got to feel jumpy about? Don’t talk nonsense, John! But I’d like you to stay.”

Mannering smiled to himself at her change of front. The next half-hour passed quickly, but he was glad when Belton and Wagnall returned, and when their congratulations on his rescue were over. The only remark which interested him, from those two gentlemen, was Wagnall’s: “But I wish I knew why he had those dummies, all the same.”

So did Mannering. He felt uneasy about the dummy pearls, and he puzzled over them for some time.

And then he reminded himself of the jolt the police would get on the following morning, and he smiled.

Gretham Street, Chelsea, where Detective-Inspector Bristow lived with his wife and family, looked very much the same that morning — the morning following Gerry Long’s unsuccessful attempt to commit suicide — as it did on every other morning. The other thirty-seven housewives dispatched their husbands to their daily tasks, and only the Bristow household continued to slumber.

Bristow had been working very late on the previous night, and he had persuaded his wife to forget the alarm-clock. It was nearly half-past eight when the detective turned over in bed, gazed dreamily out of the window, saw his wife sleeping very soundly, smiled, pressed his lips against her hair without disturbing her, and then crept very gently out of bed.

He was a very happy man in his home-life, and nothing pleased him more than to get his wife an early cup of tea without first waking her. He enjoyed himself so much that morning that he had taken the tea upstairs and enjoined his daughter to wake up — his two sons, at that time, were holidaying in North Wales — before looking at the paper.

When he did look he just stared. He saw nothing but the printed blur. He could hardly believe his eyes. Things like this didn’t happen. They couldn’t!

But this had.

Bristow lit a cigarette with a hand which trembled in spite of his efforts to control it, and not until he had drawn at it several times did he trust himself to read farther than the headlines. For the headlines — due to the fact that news was scarce and that there had been no real sensation for several weeks — were sprawled right across the front-page in heavy black letters:

THIEF CHALLENGES SCOTLAND YARD WHO IS THE BARON?

The Baron! Bristow muttered the name to himself a dozen times. The Baron! The name that had been on his tongue for months past, the elusive and, until that morning, secretive and comparatively unknown name of the thief who had started with the Dowager Countess of Kenton’s brooch and who had continued with a dozen or more thefts, completely hoodwinking the police every time, was now in black and white in front of him.

The Baron . . .

Bristow swore as he had rarely sworn in his life.

As he read the story he scowled. He was still inclined to think that he was dreaming, that this thing couldn’t be true, but the facts were there in front of him.

Centred beneath the headlines was a letter, printed in bold type, and obviously written very carefully. Before it was a statement that the Morning Star had the story on the best authority.

I have been working against the police for some months, without the slightest cause for worry. At the house of Colonel George Belton I took the pearl-necklace that has since caused so much publicity and speculation. My method was simple, which may explain the ease with which the burglary was accomplished. But simplicity begets monotony. It occurs to me that this letter may stir the police to greater efforts to apprehend.

THE BARON

Detective-Inspector William Bristow read this delightful effort three times. Finally he began to mutter. And then — it should be remembered that Old Bill always had a habit of doing the unexpected — he began to laugh.

He laughed until Mrs Bristow began to wonder whether he had finished going off his head — she felt sure that that early-morning tea had been the first stage — and she stumbled downstairs, clutching her dressing-gown about her, followed closely by Joan, their daughter. The sight of the Inspector, pyjama-clad, ruffled, and a little sleepy-eyed, but roaring with laughter, would have struck any policeman at the Yard as uproariously funny, but it made his family a little apprehensive.

“Bill,” said Mrs Bristow firmly, “stop it! You’ll have the whole street think you’re off your head.”

Bristow made a great effort to control himself.

“Street?” he gasped. “Only the street ? What about the rest of the town, m’dear? Look at that. Look at it!”

Mrs Bristow looked, and her comely face straightened into hard lines. She was very touchy on anything which affected the reputation of the police, but she knew her husband.

“You’re a hard nut,” she said, not without pride. “It would make me — mad!”

“It’ll make him mad before it’s finished,” said Old Bill obscurely. “How soon can you make breakfast, m’dear ? I’ll have to get to the Yard quickly. Lynch will be getting a mouthful ready after this, to say nothing of the Commissioner.”

“I can’t understand why you laughed,” admitted Mrs Bristow, as she investigated the larder.

“Can’t you?” asked Old Bill, pouring water from the kettle into his shaving-mug. “It’s simple, Anne. I laughed because it’s funny. The funniest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Superintendent Lynch, as large, placid, and red-faced as ever, was inclined to agree when, three-quarters of an hour later, Bristow reached the Yard. But Lynch wasn’t happy.

“Everyone doesn’t think with us, Bill. The A.C . . .”

It was nearly eleven o’clock, and Lynch had been at the Yard for some time. When the Assistant-Commissioner was brought into the conversation which Bristow had started with the Superintendent, Bristow knew that his worst fears were confirmed.

“He’s started on it already, has he ?” he asked. “What does he say?”

“Very stiff and very formal,” said Lynch cheerfully. “That man hasn’t smiled since he took over, two years ago.”

“Not even at this ?” asked the Inspector.

“Least of all at this,” said Lynch. “And, to make it worse, one of our own men — Wrightson — caused the trouble.”

Bristow frowned, without understanding.

“But the Baron . . .” he began.

“The Baron did have the decency to write to us,” said Lynch heavily. “Wrightson — he’s never liked you, Bill-opened the letter, and, like a damned fool, let the Morning Star man see it. If it had gone to the papers direct it would have been chucked in the waste-paper-basket, but, coming straight from the horse’s mouth . . . Anyhow,” Lynch broke off, with a shrug, “it’s no use worrying over spilt milk.”

“No,” said Bristow grimly, “but I’ll give Wrightson something to worry about one day.”

Lynch shrugged his shoulders, although he could sympathise with the Inspector. Between Bristow and Wrightson — one of the new school on whose toes Old Bill had trodden several times for breaches of police-regulations — there was no love lost, and although it was impossible to suggest that Wrightson had deliberately let the letter get into the Press, Bristow was prepared to believe that that had happened.

Bristow forced himself away from thoughts of the other Inspector, however, and returned to the pressing subject.

“So the A.G. is really nasty?”

Lynch shrugged his heavy shoulders again.

“He says, and we can’t argue, that we’ve been too slack over the Baron, and that if we don’t get our man within the week we’ll be the laughing-stock of London.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” admitted Bristow, a little glumly. “But I would be more surprised if we did it. He’ll be very careful for the next few weeks.”

“You sound as cheerful as Tanker,” said Lynch.

“You know these jobs as well as I do,” said Bristow.

The Superintendent pulled a face at the comment.

“All right,” he said. “Do all you can. Er — that man Mannering. He’s helping you ?”

Bristow flushed a little. “How’d you know?”

“I’ve seen you talking to him,” said Lynch, “and I’ve assumed you weren’t questioning him, so . . . Anyhow, he’s the type who might be useful.”

“He’s got his head screwed on properly,” said Bristow slowly. “He didn’t make any bones about saying young Long wasn’t in the pearls job, and it certainly looks as if he’s right.”

“Unless Long’s the Baron,” suggested Lynch, folding his arms across his great waistcoat.

“No luck,” said Bristow. “The first half-dozen Baron jobs started back in March and April. Long’s only been in England since early May. We can rule him out on that count. But . . .”

The Inspector hesitated. Lynch waited patiently, partly because he was a patient man, and partly because he knew that Bristow was arguing with himself. The big Superintendent was a student of men, and he knew just how to get the best out of his own.

“But,” went on Bristow at last, “there’s one other possibility. Mannering doesn’t think much of it.”

“Who have you got in mind ?” asked Lynch.

“The Dowager Lady Kenton,” said Bristow, eyeing his Superintendent evenly. “I know it sounds against ail reason, but . . .”

“I’ll see what I can find out about her bank-balance,” said Lynch placidly. “It still beats me why she paid five thousand pounds for that wedding-present.”

Bristow was surprised — not for the first time, by a long way — at the comprehensiveness of Lynch’s grasp of his job. And he began to think very seriously of that rather short-tempered but not unpopular lady the Dowager. She was not really unpopular, that is, in any place but the Yard, where her name was very nearly poison.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

LORNA OFFERS A BARGAIN

EMMA KENTON HAD READ OF THE ROBBERY IN AN EVENING paper, and she claimed that it was Fate that had made her send out for one when usually she preferred all her news in the morning. She had been too overcome to make any protest to the police or anyone else at first, and she had taken a strong sleeping-draught, hoping to awaken next morning fresh for the fray. She was a persistent woman, as Bristow could have testified, and at times she could be militant; she felt the loss of the pearls very keenly.

The morning paper — she took the Morning Star — brought the story of the Baron’s letter to the Yard.

Lady Kenton stared at it for fully five minutes; then, as though in a daze, she reached for the telephone and called for Lady Fauntley, feeling the need of someone to talk to.

Both Hugo Fauntley and his wife were out of town, but Lorna was in.

“My dear,” gasped Lady Kenton, “I just can’t — it’s too much — I don’t really know — how . . .”

“But it needn’t worry you,” said Lorna soothingly, realising what the trouble was. “It’s Marie’s loss, not yours.”

“It’s the principle of the thing,” mourned Lady Kenton. “Lorna dear, could you pop in for half an hour? It’s all so upsetting, and your mother . . .”

“I’ll come,” said Lorna.

“Good girl,” said Lady Kenton.

At the other end of the line Lord Fauntley’s very strong-willed daughter sat looking bleakly ahead of her. Many people who knew her would have said that she was in a “black” mood, which meant that she would probably retire to the Chelsea studio for days on end, and paint or mope.

She did nothing of the kind this morning.

After replacing the receiver she rang for her maid, and half an hour later was ready for the visit to Lady Kenton. She was not looking forward to it, but it presented one possible way out of a difficulty — and an unforeseen difficulty. Lorna laughed, a high-pitched, rather defiant laugh. She looked overpoweringly beautiful at that moment, but her eyes, dark, probing, restless, held uneasiness.

“If Mr Mannering should call,” she told her maid, “I expect to be back for lunch.”

“Very good, ma’am.”

Lorna left the Langford Terrace house and walked briskly to Regent’s Park, where she found Lady Kenton — whose home was one of the most imposing in that district — distracted almost to tears.

“It’s such a deliberate affront,” complained Lady Kenton for the fourth time in ten minutes. “I always did know that foolish policeman wasn’t any good, but this is too much. It’s the last word, my dear.”

“You can’t very well blame the policeman,” said Lorna, with a quick smile. “He’s probably feeling as badly about this as you. Or worse.”

“Worse! I should think that he feels the smallest thing on — on — I should think he feels insignificant. If I see him again I’ll let him know . . . Oh, bother die girl! What is it, Morgan?”

My lady’s maid was used to the differing tempers of her mistress, and kept a straight face as she entered the room and announced Inspector Bristow.

Lorna also contrived not to smile while Lady Kenton swallowed hard, straightened the shawl she insisted on wearing in the privacy of her home, and said, “Send him up.”

Lorna could see the light of battle in the older woman’s eyes; she was amused, but not so much as she would have been if she could have forgotten the fact that she wanted something desperately from Lady Kenton. She was anxious to humour Emma, but her sympathies in the coming interview would be with the Inspector, who would doubtless get through a trying half-hour with admirable patience.

The Inspector looked sprucer than ever. His shoes were polished until they were almost blue, his suit was perfectly cut, his tie, socks, and shirt matched well, and his trim moustache, yellowed in the centre with the smoke of his interminable cigarettes, was freshly cropped.

He bowed to the two ladies so punctiliously that the older woman was slightly appeased, and he addressed himself to Emma Kenton. The smile on his lips was exactly right.

“I very much dislike bothering you, m’lady, but there are one or two points . . .”

Lady Kenton’s brow was dark, and the question she had been preparing from the moment that Bristow had been announced seemed to burst from her.

“Why wasn’t I told, Inspector?”

Bristow obviously expected something of the sort, and he answered quickly.

“You mean about the robbery, m’lady?”

“What else could I mean?” demanded Lady Kenton. “It’s outrageous, Inspector, outrageous! I should have been told immediately — immediately!”

“I don’t quite see,” said Bristow gently, “how it was necessary to worry you before, m’lady.”

Lorna silently applauded him, and her regard for his diplomacy rose considerably. Bristow, as Mannering could have told her, was a likeable man.

“But why . . .” began Lady Kenton.

Bristow interrupted, without apparent intent to stop her.

“I understand it was a gift from you to Mrs Wagnall,” he said, and Lorna had a slight shock; it was the first time she had heard Marie Overndon given her new tide. “And as it was that lady’s property, it was not a matter I could very well report to you, m’lady.”

Lady Kenton looked at him doubtfully. Her chief complaint was that she had not been consulted the moment the robbery had been discovered, and now Bristow had disarmed her completely. But she would not give in without a fight.

“My interest was obvious,” she said coldly.

The next move was plainly Bristow’s, and he handled it deftly.

“Of course,” he said, “and I am hoping you will be able to help me a great deal. It’s just possible,” he added before the Dowager could interrupt, “that the robbery took place while — or immediately after — you were in the room with the presents, m’lady. There are one or two questions . . .”

“Questions?” snapped Lady Kenton.

“That I would appreciate your answering,” said the Inspector, gently but firmly.

Looking at the other woman, Lorna told herself that Emma was getting old. The Dowager looked careworn and a little faded at that moment. The questions threatened to bother her.

The Inspector was wondering whether it was possible that this little old woman could be the Baron. He was also beginning to tell himself that it wasn’t, and he doubted even whether he had ever seriously thought so.

“Just what happened when you slipped against the table?” he asked.

Lady Kenton clasped her hands together, and her expression was acid.

“Surely you’ve heard all that could be said about that?”

“It’s necessary,” said Bristow, “to check up on every statement, m’lady. A slight difference between two separate statements might mean a great deal. You appreciate that, I am sure.”

Her ladyship nodded now, as if to suggest that she fully understood the reason for the Inspector’s call, but didn’t consider it a sufficient one.

“I slipped,” she said.

“Against what?”

“The table, of course.”

Bristow accepted the words patiently.

“What made you slip?” he asked next.

“I don’t know,” said her ladyship. “I just slipped.”

“But it isn’t likely that you fell over without striking something first,” said Bristow.

“I stubbed my foot on the table-leg,” said Lady Kenton, bristling.

The Inspector rubbed his chin, and Lorna thought that he was beginning to feel exasperated.

“That was what I understood,” he said, “but I don’t quite see how it was possible, Lady Kenton. We have examined the table, and there was nothing projecting from it to cause you to stumble. It is a period piece, supported by a centre leg only,”

“It might have been the carpet,” said Lady Kenton, annoyed beyond measure at discovering that the policeman knew a period piece when he saw one.

“It’s parquet flooring,” said the Inspector, “and it was not carpeted that day,”

Her ladyship glared at him.

“Are you suggesting that I’m lying?” she demanded, and her voice sounded very strident in the small room.

Bristow’s doubts came back with a rush. His manner grew more placating than ever, but he was on the alert for the slightest slip she might make.

“Nothing of the kind,” he assured her quickly. “It is just possible that you slipped on the polished floor, m’lady.”

“It is,” snapped Lady Kenton.

“Yet you remember stubbing your foot against something,” persisted Bristow.

“Distinctly,”

“It wasn’t the carpet or a table-leg,” said the Inspector very carefully. “Can you remember . . .”

“It might have been Gerry Long’s foot,” said Lady Kenton, “or Mr Mannering’s. I really don’t think that it’s important, Inspector, and if you don’t mind . . .”

The Inspector accepted his dismissal without a protest.

He knew that Lady Kenton had the ear of a number of prominent politicians, and he did not desire to be rebuked for zeal in that quarter. If events developed to give him a substantial charge against her ladyship it would be a different matter.

But as he went into the street he was very doubtful whether he would ever have such a charge to make. It didn’t seem feasible that the frail, bad-tempered old woman could have organised a robbery of that nature; it seemed less likely that she could have sent that letter to the Yard. He did wonder, however, whether she was thinking of shielding someone else. That would explain a great deal.

As he hurried towards Scotland Yard in a taxi he felt more worried than he had been all day. The effect of that challenge in the Morning Star was exasperating him. The disapproval of the A.G. was unpleasant.

“I’ll get him,” muttered the Inspector — of the Baron — suddenly. I’ll get him !”

“I’ve a good mmd,” said Lady Kenton viciously, as the door closed behind the spruce figure of the detective, “to complain to Nigel about him. Asking me questions like that . . .”

“He obviously didn’t like the job,” suggested Lorna.

Lady Kenton looked placated, and managed a wintry smile.

“I really don’t know how I should have got on without you, Lorna dear. I’m sure I should have lost my temper, or something silly like that, and the next thing I should have known would be to find myself in a police cell. I’m sure something dreadful like that will happen one day.”

Lorna chuckled.

“That man would do anything,” said Lady Kenton, roused immediately. “I’m convinced he came here to try and trap me into making some admission. I can’t bear the man. He was almost rude to me several times when I was inquiring about my brooch, and I have never seen it since.”

Lorna sighed to herself. She had hoped that the brooch topic would not crop up, for once Emma got on to that and the inefficiency of the police she was non-stop; and the younger woman felt that her patience was at a low ebb that morning.

Lady Kenton really wearied of the subject for once, however, and after one or two almost habitual remarks deserted it.

Over a cup of coffee she inquired about Lorna’s painting. It was a subject the younger woman had wanted to introduce, but policemen and pearls had side-tracked anything but a crude approach. The opportunity made her feel more cheerful.

“I’m not selling a great deal,” she said slowly.

“Selling?” Lady Kenton looked at her sharply. “You don’t have to sell, do you? You do it for pleasure. Selling . . .”

“Of course I sell,” said Lorna. “I’m an artist, my dear, not an amateur. It isn’t the money that counts, but my ability to earn it is the test. . .”

Lady Kenton interrupted her with characteristic contrariness as she poured out another cup of coffee.

“It does count, Lorna, and don’t make the mistake that it doesn’t. Money matters. Your father will always tell you that, I’m sure.”

Lorna laughed, and regarded her cup.

“I know,” she said. “I refused an offer for a picture six months ago, and I’ve never heard the last of it from Dad.”

“Why did you refuse it?” demanded Lady Kenton.

The offer wasn’t big enough,” said Lorna. “It’s worth four hundred at least, and I was offered only two-fifty,”

“When you reach my age,” said her ladyship thoughtfully, “you will realise it’s never wise to refuse money. Tell me about the picture, my dear,”

Lorna smiled, and described it at some length. She was very nearly sure that Lady Emma Kenton had fallen to the bait, and that before the day was out the picture would be her property, and that Lorna would hold the Kenton cheque for three hundred pounds. Lady Kenton could never resist a bargain.

And Lorna Faundey badly needed three hundred pounds.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A CLOSE SHAVE

THE LETTER THAT MANNERING HAD SENT TO THE YARD HAD achieved its object, thanks to the carelessness of Wrightson and the wide-awake Morning Star man. It had cleared Gerry Long of suspicion in the robbery, but Mannering found that it was a question of robbing Peter to pay Paul.

Inspector Bristow was undoubtedly worried about his failure on the job. His anxiety cancelled Mannering’s anticipated pleasure in a conversation with the policeman soon after Bristow had left Regent’s Park and Lady Kenton. It was impossible to revel in another man’s discomfort, and Mannering began to wish that he had never been approached by Bristow. He liked the Inspector, and he disliked the idea of stabbing the man in the back.

Before he left the Yard, however, he was more cheerful.

Superintendent Lynch, who was fond of saying that he had eyes at the back of his head, came into the office, nodded cheerfully to Bristow, shook hands with Mannering, and introduced himself.

“Been talking with the A.C.,” he told the Inspector. “I’m coming on the Baron job with you, Bill. I’ve told him that I think it’s a bigger problem than he fancies, and he’s in a better temper than he was yesterday.”

Bristow’s face cleared. Lynch looked placidly at Mannering.

“We have a dog’s life sometimes,” he said. “It’s all right when we’re going smoothly, but when Old Bill makes a slip or I come a cropper we get a proper shaking-up. But it all blows over. What’s your theory about the Baron, Mr Mannering?”

For a fraction of a second Mannering was afraid that he had given something away, but Lynch was reaching across the desk to help himself to one of Bristow’s cigarettes, and the moment’s respite saved Mannering from making a faux pas.

“I haven’t one,” he said, coolly enough.

“That’s an advantage,” said Lynch, looking at him through a haze of smoke. “I’m glad you’re helping, anyhow.”

They chatted for five minutes, but nothing of importance was mentioned. Mannering left the Yard, smiling cheerfully to himself. He went to Park Square, chatted for ten minutes with Gerry Long, who had recovered as well as had been expected, and who was sitting up in bed. Gerry was sorry for himself, and mad with himself. Mannering told him to forget it.

“It’s so darned silly,” said Long, “that I can’t think of any way of thanking you, Mannering,”

“The chance may crop up,” smiled the other.

He went to his flat, took the Overndon pearls from their hiding-place soon afterwards, and went to Aldgate. On the way — he travelled by taxi — he altered his appearance sufficiently to make reasonably sure that no casual acquaintance would recognise him. At a small barber’s shop in a turning off the High Street he waited for a bald-headed, jolly-faced man to waddle into the back-parlour which he had entered.

“Morning, Mr Mayle,” The bald-headed man wheezed the greeting cheerfully. He was tremendously fat, a fact emphasised by a pair of slacks let out at the waist with a material different in colour and quality, an Oxford shirt without buttons, opening to reveal an expanse of soft, dimply flesh, and a pair of carpet-slippers.

“Same as usual for you, sir?”

Mannering nodded, and smiled.

The fat man grinned, revealing teeth that were surprisingly white and strong. Mannering waited for him patiently, knowing that Harry Pearce could not be hurried. The barber did many things besides cutting hair and shaving week-old stubble. Mannering had been introduced to him by Flick Leverson, that philosophical fence who was now in gaol. Harry supplied all kinds of make-up, and even helped to apply it. He asked no questions, relied on the generosity of his customers for payment, and was not averse to doing a job for nothing. In that strange world of small thieves and petty rogues a man might be penniless one day and rich the next; Harry knew that his credit would rarely be stretched to breaking-point.

He knew Mannering — a Mannering disguised well enough to deceive the casual eye, or the eye of a man who did not know him in regular life — as Mr Mayle, and he appeared to accept the name for gospel. He supplied him with the rubber cheek-pads and the teeth-covering with which Mannering helped to turn himself into the swarthy, full-faced man who visited Dicker Grayson occasionally for the sale of stolen goods. Mannering had discovered that disguise was not so difficult as he had imagined, and the main essential was to act up to the facial alterations.

It was middle afternoon when Mannering reached the wharf in which Grayson worked. That pink-and-white doll of a man was genial and friendly. He knew that he could get good stuff from the other, and when he reached a fair price he knew that there would be no unnecessary haggling. They had now handled several jobs together to their mutual advantage.

Mannering adopted his usual methods.

He grunted in response to Grayson’s “How are you?”, slipped his rubber container from his pocket, upturned it, and let the Overndon pearls stream on to the desk, all without a change of expression.

Grayson’s smile disappeared. His eyes were very hard as he stared at the prize.

“Where’d you get those ?” he demanded in his disconcertingly deep voice.

“That’s neither here nor there,” growled Mannering. “How much ?”

Grayson fingered the pearls. The dim light of the great warehouse prevented him from seeing their true lustre, but he was a keen judge, and he knew what he was handling.

“The Overndons,” he murmured, and for once his voice was very soft.

The sense that had served Mannering well so often came to the fore again. There were times when he had to show spirit and worry Grayson. This was one of them.

He leapt from his chair with an oath. His eyes were blazing, and his lips turned back over his dirty-looking teeth; he seemed at that moment a typical seaman used to rough-houses and prepared to start one now.

“Gut that!” he snarled. “Stick to yer business, Grayson, and don’t try the funny stuff, see, or . . .”

His large, gloved hands clenched, and the pink-and-white man flinched away, but with words and a smile equally conciliatory. He knew that he had broken an unwritten law.

“That’s all right, that’s all right,” he said suavely. “I shouldn’t have asked, I know, but these things have had rather a lot of — er — publicity, haven’t they?”

“That’s as may be,” growled Mannering. “All I want from you’s a price. Name it,”

He was enjoying himself. There was a spice of danger in his meetings with Grayson that he liked; and there was need for him to be on his guard all the time. It enabled him to get used to the acting necessary for his part as the Baron, and he realised the more practice he had the better.

Grayson muttered something under his breath. Then: “They’re dangerous things to handle, very dangerous, my friend,”

“You can smother ‘em till the fuss is over.”

Grayson’s eyes were expressionless.

“So can you,” he said.

Mannering grunted again, and stretched his hand across the table. He knew how to handle Dicker Grayson, and he knew too that he must never let the other man best him.

“Sure,” he said. “So can I. And find another smasher, mister. Let me take ‘em,”

Grayson covered the pearls with his plump pink hands.

“There’s no need to act like that,” he said placatingly. “Don’t forget I take all the risks, son. Five hundred,”

Mannering knew this game by heart.

“Three thousand,” he grunted.

“I’m not a millionaire,” Grayson snapped; then he smiled suddenly, as though he realised that this fencing was useless. “We know each other too well to play, son. I’ll give you twelve hundred,”

Mannering nodded. He seemed disinterested now he had a reasonable offer. One of the things Grayson liked about him was his clean-cut acceptance or refusal of a figure.

“Small notes,” Mannering stipulated.

“I’ll get ‘em,” promised Grayson.

It took the receiver twenty minutes to get the notes. Mannering was used to waiting, and he occupied his time by looking out of the window across the stretch of muddy water that carries the shipping of the world. The Thames and its banks were alive. Through the closed windows came the raucous sound of men’s voices, the blaring of sirens, the clanking of chains, the chug-chug of a giant crane, the continual thump of bales of merchandise being dropped into hatches or barges. There was something fascinating about it, and Mannering forgot that he was acting a part

Something entirely unexpected brought him back to the realisation of it.

He was gradually accustoming himself to the need for constant wariness. It was the unexpected, the emergency which was created in a flash, that was more likely to cause him trouble than anything else. And an emergency came now.

He saw Grayson hurrying into the warehouse yard, and half-turned towards the centre of the room. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the man who followed Grayson . . . .

Mannering’s eyes narrowed, and his heart beat fast.

It was Tanker — Sergeant Jacob Tring — Bristow’s right-hand man!

There was no doubt about it, Mannering knew. Tanker was dressed in civilian clothes, and he carried them well for a policeman, but his stolid features and rather gloomy expression were unmistakable.

Did Grayson know ? There had been nothing on the face of the fence as he had hurried towards the warehouse to suggest that he had known that he was being followed, but Grayson was a wary bird. He would probably realise the danger, and act accordingly.

Mannering realised it very bitterly; this would happen now.

It looked as if the police were going to question Grayson. The life of a fence was a precarious one, he knew, and if the slightest rumour against him reached the ears of the police he would be raided without delay.

Was Tanker starting a raid? Or was he merely on an errand of inquiry?

It was one of the worst three minutes that Mannering had ever had. He kept looking out of the window, keeping well back in order to make as sure as possible that he was not seen. But what he saw himself made his blood race and his eyes feel hot.

The police-sergeant was not alone!

Three other men, well dressed when compared with the other inhabitants of the wharves, moved slowly towards the warehouse in which Mannering was waiting. The big man saw Grayson disappear, and then watched the plain-clothes men converge on the door. He was thinking all the time of the Overndon pearls; their discovery by the police would finish him.

Mannering turned from the window quickly, but he had hardly reached the table when Grayson burst in. The fence knew all right, even though his expression was cool. He was breathing fast, and he slammed the door behind him.

“Move away!” he snapped, and Mannering obeyed.

Grayson, moving with astonishing speed, pressed a small protuberance in the surface of his desk. It looked no more than a knot of wood, but as his podgy fingers pressed on it a narrow slot was revealed in the side-panel. Grayson stuffed the pearls into it quickly, and released the pressure. The slot closed up, and in spite of his anxiety Mannering was intrigued by its neatness. The cunningness of that hiding-place was increased by the fact that no one could have seen that the desk was anything but solid wood unless they knew of the button-control.

He had little time for thinking, however.

The other seemed to have forgotten him, and hurried across the room, pulled open the door of a small Chubb safe, bundled the packet of notes which he had brought back into it, and slammed the door to.

“Get into that chair,” he snapped. “You’re after a job, understand? The police . . .”

Mannering nodded, and dropped into the seat that was opposite Grayson. The latter slipped into his chair, spread his hands on the desk in front of him, and smiled thinly. Mannering told himself that he had never seen a man act so swiftly and so surely. His opinion of the receiver went up by leaps and bounds.

“So you’ve been waiting for me, eh?” said Grayson, his deep voice filling the office. “Well, I don’t know if I’ve got anything in your line, mate. I . . . Come in,”

He broke off, looking towards the door. It opened, after the merest apology of a knock, and Sergeant Tanker Tring moved into the room, a gloomy smile on his face, his hands deep in his pockets.

“Well ?” Grayson looked puzzled, and Mannering clenched his teeth.

“Don’t waste my time like that,” protested Tanker, a little forlornly. “You know me, Mr Grayson. . . .”

Grayson’s eyes narrowed. And then he smiled. It was beautifully done, and Mannering felt his panic leaving him.

“Tring,” he said, “the policeman. I thought I’d seen you before,”

“I’ll have to dye my hair red,” said Tanker, “and then you’ll be sure,” He seemed completely at his ease as he sat on the corner of the desk, less than a yard from Mannering. He looked down on that big-muscled man with interest.

Mannering’s nerves were stretched to breaking-point. He knew that the slightest slip might give him away, and he was afraid of what would happen if Tanker looked at his eyes too closely. The eyes couldn’t be disguised: they were the danger-spot.

The policeman shrugged his shoulders, as though dis-appointed.

“What’s your name ?” he demanded.

Mannering knew that there was only one attitude he could adopt to be in keeping with his appearance, and never in his life had he been so grateful to Mr Karl Seltzer’s voice-training.

“What the “ell’s that got ter do with you?” he growled.

For a moment his eyes met Tanker’s, but there was no gleam of recognition in the policeman’s. Tanker grinned, and shrugged his shoulders.

“No offence,” he said, “but don’t come it, mate,” He turned to Grayson, who was leaning back in his chair and smiling. “Sorry to disturb you, Mr Grayson” — there was a wealth of sarcasm in that opening — “but I’ve got to look round,”

“Look round ?” Grayson’s eyes widened. “I don’t know . . .”

“No one ever does know what I mean,” said Tanker sadly. “Don’t come it, Mr Grayson. Try and think of a reply to the beak — he might listen.”

Grayson kept his temper admirably, or at least he gave the impression that he was doing so.

“I suppose you mean magistrate ?” he said. “If you think there’s any reason for talking like that, Tring . . .”

Tring looked at him admiringly.

“Would you believe it,” he said, “but someone’s suggested that a gentleman like you might be a fence ? Don’t ask me what that is. I know you’ve never heard it before, so I’ll tell you. It’s a receiver of stolen goods.”

For the first time Grayson seemed rattled and a little apprehensive.

“Don’t talk nonsense,” he snapped. “If you’ve anything to ask me, get it over, Tring. I haven’t time to waste,”

Tm going to have a look round,” said Tring simply.

“Not without permission,” snapped Grayson.

Tring swung his legs and grinned.

“You don’t think I’d be silly enough to come without a warrant, do you?” he asked. “Open up, Grayson — or life’s going to turn awkward for you.”

Grayson gave a helpless little laugh.

“There’s no reason why I should make it awkward if you’ve really got a search-warrant,” he said; “but it’s an infernal impudence, Tring.”

“I wouldn’t pull your leg,” said Tanker.

He took the document from his pocket, and pushed it in front of Grayson’s nose. The latter glanced down it, shrugged, and waved his hands expressively.

“All right,” he said. “Go ahead. But let me tell you, you’ll hear more of this.”

Tanker clapped his hands. The door opened quickly, and two of the men whom Mannering had seen in the yard entered. The sergeant told them to get to it, and they started quickly.

Mannering sat in his chair, bewildered, more than a little afraid. He knew that if the slightest thing happened to suggest that he was John Mannering the game would be up, and he dreaded discovery every moment.

All the same he watched the search, fascinated. The policemen inspected every corner, every possible hiding-place. They searched files that were thick with dust, old boxes, the drawers of the desk, and they even prised up two loose floor-boards. Their reward was nothing.

Tanker’s good-humour prevailed; probably he had expected to draw a blank.

“That leaves just the safe,” he said. “Got the key, Grayson ?”

“It’s not locked,” said Grayson. “I used it just before you came in.”

“Now I wonder why?” asked the policeman thoughtfully.

He slipped off the edge of the desk and went to the safe. The door opened easily, and the bundles of pound-notes — three of them — amounting to twelve hundred pounds, were revealed.

The policeman took them out and tossed them into the air as he walked back to the desk. He sat on it again. . . .

Mannering’s heart seemed to turn over. Tanker was sitting within an inch of the button which would reveal the slot-opening in the desk — and the pearls.

The Baron sat watching, on tenterhooks every minute. Each time Tanker moved a fraction of an inch he was afraid that the slot would be opened by the pressure. A little ring of sweat formed on his forehead and at the back of his neck. He was more afraid than he had ever been in his life.

But he contrived to keep his face straight and his hands still. He looked at the bundles of notes, and his expression suggested such covetousness that Tanker, who looked at him for a moment, laughed.

“Never want what isn’t yours,” he advised jocularly. Then he looked at Grayson, and his expression hardened. “That’s a lot of money to have all at once,” he said.

Grayson’s acting was superb. Not by a flicker of an eye did he reveal the anxiety that he must be feeling about the slot in the desk. There was a smile on his lips as he answered: “I could draw you a cheque for ten times that amount,” he said, “and still have a good balance. That’s wage-money, Tring.”

“You pay big wages,” said Tring doubtfully.

Grayson’s temper sparked at that.

“That’s my business,” he snapped. “Those notes are for wages, I tell you. I brought them from the bank less than twenty minutes ago. You can go and inquire if you want to.”

Tring shook his head, perfectly unperturbed by the outburst.

“No need,” he said. “I saw you go in the bank, and I saw you come out. Why not save trouble, Grayson, and tell me why you wanted this money?”

For a moment it looked as if Grayson would lose his temper completely, but he made a big effort, and controlled it.

“I’ve told you once what it’s for,” he said. “I pay my wages every month . . .”

“Dock-labourers don’t get paid every month,” said Tring.

“Dock-labourers don’t run my ships,” snapped Grayson.

The policeman looked crestfallen, and Mannering realised that the other had overlooked that possibility.

“H’m,” he muttered, “you’ve got ships in, have you?”

“Three,” said Grayson, and his expression said: “And if you don’t believe me go and find out for yourself.”

Tring nodded, sighed, and tossed the bundles of notes to one of his assistants.

Tut “cm back,” he said.

As he threw them he moved a little, and this time he actually covered the button. Mannering could hardly keep his eyes off the danger-spot, and when Tanker shitted an inch away relief went through him. But it was not long-lived, and in the next moment his fears returned tenfold.

That’s that,” snapped Tring, and there was a glint in his eyes. “Now I’m going to search you, Grayson — and your pal.”

Mannering’s eyes narrowed with the shock, but he kept cool. He shifted his chair back, half-rising from it more to hide his own anxiety than anything else.

“Cut that!” he grunted. “You ain’t got no warrant to search me, mister, and I ain’t being searched, see?”

Tring eyed him levelly.

“I’ve a warrant to search this office,” he said, quietly enough, “and you’re in it. You’re a big fellow — but don’t try any tricks, or you’ll spend the night in the lock-up, cooling your heels.”

Mannering glowered, keeping his eyes as narrow as he could, hoping hard that Tring wouldn’t look at them too closely. It was a tense moment. Mannering’s spine was cold, for there was something very threatening about the sergeant.

“Well?” snapped Tring.

“Better let ‘em,” advised Grayson quickly.

Mannering shrugged his shoulders and grunted. For the first time in his life he was searched. He was hard put to it to keep steady, and the seconds dragged like minutes, but there was one thing that cheered him. He knew that he was carrying nothing that might connect him with Mannering, and the only thing in his pockets of interest to Tring was the rubber container in which he had carried the pearls.

There was an ironic twist on his lips as Tring held the bag up and peered into it. An hour before he would have seen one of the things he was desperately anxious to find, and the career of the Baron would have come to an abrupt end. Now . . .

“What’s this?” Tring asked, looking at the big man’s blackened teeth. “A tooth-brush container?”

Mannering’s lips curled savagely.

“Clever, ain’t yer?” he muttered.

Tring shrugged, and dropped the bag on to the table, where half a dozen oddments were heaped. Mannering’s pockets had been completely emptied, and he had never been more thankful in his life that he had taken another man’s advice. Flick Leverson had told him never to carry Brown’s stuff in his pockets when he was pretending to be Smith. The philosophical fence’s experience was very full.

Tring grunted suddenly, easing the tension.

“Let him have it back,” he said. “Now you, Grayson.”

The reward was the same after Grayson had submitted — nothing. Tring shrugged his shoulders, but now his dis-appointment was obvious.

“Have you quite finished ?” asked Grayson softly.

Tring nodded.

“Well,” said the pink-and-white man, “let me advise you, Tring, to behave a little differently in the future. If you ever come into this office and forget to call me “mister”, if you come here pretending that you know I’m crooked, treating me and my visitors as if we were old lags, I’ll have you run out of the Force. There’s things you can do and things you can’t. You’ve overstepped the mark. Don’t do it again.”

There was a complete silence in the room for a moment, while Sergeant Tring’s face turned a deep red.

“All right,” he said at last, and beckoned to his men. “But I’ll bear that little speech in mind, Grayson.”

Grayson watched the three detectives go out of the room, and on Mannering’s face there was a grin of real triumph. But even as the door closed Grayson lifted his hand warningly. Mannering was puzzled, but knew the reason a moment later.

“That’s the first time I’ve ever been insulted like that,” boomed Grayson, “and I’m damned if I’m going to take it. Who is Tring, anyhow, the impertinent upstart? I’ll see that he wishes he hadn’t. . .”

“I’d like to get my ‘ands rarnd ‘is throat,” muttered Mannering, playing up quickly, “the mucky . . .”

He broke off as the door opened suddenly. Sergeant Tring entered the office, looking very apologetic, but grinning a little.

“I left my note-book,” he said, picking it up from the desk. “Thanks. Good-bye.”

The door closed on him again, and Grayson swore. Mannering went to the window and looked out. Not until the detectives were walking across the yard below did either of them speak.

“That was close,” Mannering muttered.

Grayson nodded, but he was smiling.

“They think they’re smart, those fellows, but they don’t know everything.” He tapped the slot in the desk, which was still concealed, and his smile widened. “He was sitting right on it, and didn’t think of running the desk over for a button. Policemen . . .”

The fence stopped, with a shrug.

“Anyway, we got away with it. But you’d better not take the cash out with you, in case they’re watching. I’ll post it. Where shall I send it to?”

Mannering hesitated, half-afraid that there was a catch; but he had to admit the wisdom of the manoeuvre, and he nodded.

“Mayle,” he said. “Strand G.P.O.”

Grayson nodded, and rubbed his plump hands together, well satisfied with life.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

PROFIT AND LOSS

MANNERING KNEW, LATER IN THE DAY, THAT HE HAD MADE a mistake. He had told Grayson to send the money to the Strand post office, and he saw that it would have been wiser to have had it sent to Aldgate, where he could have collected it while in his Mayle disguise without trouble. As it was, he was faced with the need of sending a messenger or braving the journey from Aldgate, where Harry Pearce gave him his disguise, during the daytime, for there was the possibility that Grayson’s curiosity would encourage the fence to watch the post office. Mayle, not Mannering, must call there.

He did not fancy sending a messenger to collect twelve hundred pounds. The only thing was to do it himself.

“There’s one thing,” he told himself, as he regarded his face in the mirror and smiled the villainous smile which the cleverly made false teeth created — teeth which fitted over his real ones like a thin rubber cover, “no one who knows Mannering will want to know me.”

Nevertheless he was on tenterhooks the next morning

when he journeyed from Aldgate by bus and walked along the Strand towards the post office. The chance of meeting acquaintances was considerable. Toby Plender might be there, Jimmy Randall frequently visited a fine-art shop near the post office, and a dozen of his friends had business or pleasure in the neighbourhood. It was another test, another thing to make him realise his own limitations.

He was sorely tempted to keep looking about him, to keep a watch for anyone whom he knew, but he resisted the temptation. He slouched along, looking at his feet, relieved to see that he was by no means die worst-clad man in the Strand. In fact, he told himself, the standard was very low. He grew more confident, but before he entered the office he had a shock.

A big man was walking a few yards in front of him, a man who seemed vaguely familiar. Mannering tried to place him from the back-view, and was irritated because he could not. And then the big man swung round suddenly, and Mannering was face-to-face with him.

For a moment a pair of keen eyes swept him up and down.

Mannering’s heart seemed to stop as he recognised his man. It was Superintendent Lynch.

That temptation to speak, to acknowledge the other, almost gave him away. He fought it back. The Superintendent showed no signs of recognition, but was muttering to himself and going through his pockets. He had obviously forgotten some papers, and his sudden turn had been caused by the recollection of them.

Mannering had to force himself to walk past the big man. He did so, and then stopped at the first opportunity to look into a shop-window, and, glancing back, saw the Superintendent making his way majestically towards the Law Courts.

A smile that was only partly humour twisted Mannering’s lips as he entered the post-office building. He was beginning to appreciate the perils of his position more. It had seemed a good prospect at first, and the difficulties had appeared to be small. But actually they were immense. It wasn’t safe for him to walk about the streets, and every time he connected with Grayson or one of the other crooks and fences he was forced to know in order to dispose of his stolen jewels, the danger would be acute.

Yet it was worth it. Mannering’s eyes sparkled as he reached the counter and asked for a letter or parcel addressed to “Mayle”.

“Initial?” asked the clerk.

Mannering hesitated, cursing himself. Initial! Why in heaven’s name had he forgotten to quote an initial to Grayson ?

He took a chance, making his mind up quickly.

“J,” he said, “but I don’t think the other man knew it.”

The clerk wasn’t interested, it seemed. He looked into the “M” pigeon-hole, pulled out the package that Mannering’s eager eyes had already seen, and slipped it across the counter. Then he turned away, without a word, before Mannering had taken the packet.

“Surly devil,” thought Mannering.

He was interested chiefly in the parcel, however. He knew that there was a possibility that Grayson had double-crossed him, and until he had actually seen the notes he would not be satisfied that he had received full payment. His fingers trembled a little as he undid the string, and he breathed freely again when he found that Grayson was straight.

But by the time Mannering had returned to Aldgate, removed his disguise, taken leave of Harry Pearce, and then made the minor disguise which changed him from Mr Mayle to John Mannering it was approaching two o’clock. He would have to hurry if he were to reach the banks that afternoon.

He was finding the service-flat in Brook Street very useful. At one time he had viewed it as an unnecessary expense, but he was glad now that he had never tried to economise. The place was central, its service enabled him to dispense with a servant, and he could act there with less risk of interference than if he were in an hotel all the time.

He had actually given up his rooms at the Elan, but the proceeds from the Overndon pearls would enable him to take them again. It was necessary still to show a good front. He had to look rich. Whatever economies he practised must not be at the cost of appearances, unless the situation was desperate.

But he was living at the rate of five thousand a year, and he would have either to cut his expenses or increase his income considerably; so much was certain. He had done well with the smaller stuff, but the robberies that he was officially helping to investigate would have to become less frequent. He needed something bigger. But there was always the difficulty of selling.

Grayson seemed reliable enough, but Mannering doubted whether the fence would be prepared to buy anything at a higher figure than fifteen hundred pounds, while he had no desire to visit the warehouse too often. The old problem of finding an outlet for his jewels was increasingly difficult. He still had the Rosas, worth ten thousand pounds if he could find the right market.

Mannering smiled as he remembered the little duel with Septimus Lee, alias Levy Schmidt, and not for the first time wondered whether the clever Jew had forgotten him, or whether he was still suspect. He was sure that Lee was keeping a very careful watch for the Rosa pearls. If they were sold through any normal channel — normal, that was, from the point of view of the fence — Lee would learn of it.

Meanwhile Mannering was sitting pretty with the Rosas in his possession, but with a bank-balance which, until this twelve hundred pounds had come along, had been perilously low; but now he had enough to satisfy him for a while.

He separated the notes into three packets of four hundred each. Then he took his paying-in books and made the necessary entries. This finished, he glanced at his watch, to find that it was twenty minutes to three. He would have to taxi from one bank to the other if he was to get to them before they closed, and he had no desire to keep the cash in the flat all night.

Then he had a shock: without the slightest warning the door of the flat opened.

Mannering saw it, and went pale. He moved his hands towards the bundles of notes, but he knew that it was useless to try to conceal them; he would be seen. For a split second that seemed like an eternity he waited.

Then he saw who it was, and he laughed. It was the only thing to do.

Lorna Fauntley stood in the doorway, smiling at him, but looking puzzled.

“Greeted with loud hurrahs — or am I ?” she mocked, as she advanced towards him.

Mannering stood up quickly, and took her hand; his eyes were dancing.

“Is that the way you enter a bachelor’s apartment?” he retorted.

“I tried the door, it opened, so I came in,” said Lorna, dropping into a chair. “If you want to keep your guilty secrets from prying eyes you should lock your rooms, John.”

“It’s not worth the risk of missing you,” Mannering riposted.

He had not seen Lorna so frequently of late. The advent of the Wagnalls and Gerry Long and the reopening of his friendship with Lady Mary and Colonel George Belton had occupied him, and Lorna had spent a great deal of time painting. Too much time, he told himself as he looked at her.

He regarded her for several minutes, thoughtfully and without speaking. She returned his gaze, but the smile on her lips was not wholly sincere. She looked tired. Her eyes lacked the lustre they had possessed; that turbulent spirit that had at first intrigued and later enamoured him was subdued. He hardly knew why, but he told himself that she was worried.

“I’m looking a wreck,” said Lorna suddenly.

The disconcerting habit she had of saying the obvious and saying it bluntly was still in her, and Mannering laughed.

“You look as though art has been too hard a master,” he said. “You’re working too much, my dear. You mustn’t.”

Lorna laughed and shook her head; there was a hardness in the sound which made Mannering wary.

“I must,” she said; “but don’t worry about me, John.”

Mannering’s lips curved as he offered her a cigarette and suggested tea. She nodded, and she watched him make it, smiling a little, but without the mischievousness that had characterised her in the early days of their friendship.

“Why must you?” he asked, as he handed her a cup and passed sugar and cream.

The sudden return to the topic seemed to take her off her balance. Her face was very sober as she stirred her tea.

“Why do most people work?” she demanded, almost defiantly.

And then, to Mannering’s complete astonishment, tears welled up in her eyes, and she covered her face in her hands.

“Oh, my dear,” said Mannering. He stepped to her side and gripped her shoulders gently. She said nothing, but after a moment she smiled. There was something pitiful, something tragic, in that smile, and the need for knowing why seemed to Mannering the most urgent thing in the world.

“If there’s anything I can do,” said Mannering very quietly, “you’ve only to say it, Lorna. No need for questions and answers. Just say the word.”

She pressed his fingers, and smiled wanly.

They had finished tea, but for some minutes neither of them had spoken. Mannering was completely at a loss. If there was one thing he had never anticipated this was it. Lorna was essentially strong-willed. He had never seen her show emotion. She had always covered it with that sometimes cynical, sometimes mocking, sometimes uncertain veneer. And now this, taking him completely by surprise.

“There isn’t,” she said. “I’ve made a fool of myself, John, and that’s all there is to it.”

“And so we have to forget it?” suggested Mannering.

Lorna nodded. Mannering smiled, but there was a depth of understanding in his eyes.

“My dear,” he said, “you’re talking nonsense. There was a time when we started to talk of . . .”

“Marriage?” said Lorna as he hesitated, and the word was a whisper.

“Marriage,” he said soberly. “I’ve never mentioned it, because it was an understanding that we shouldn’t. But if we were married you would want me to help. Why don’t you now?”

She forced a smile to her lips.

“There’s no reason why I should,” she said.

“There’s every reason,” said Mannering, and his voice was very low.

Lorna shrugged her shoulders. She looked very forlorn, very tired — and very lovely.

“It’s a very old business,” she said. “I mean, it’s ageless. I’m in need of money. That’s all.”

She spoke listlessly, as though she was speaking without interest. When she stopped she continued to look past Mannering towards the wall.

He was glad that she did.

The complete astonishment which filled him as he heard the word “money” revealed itself on his face. It was gone in a flash, but it had been there, and he felt winded. Lorna, daughter of Lord Fauntley, who had boasted that he was among the ten richest men in England, wanted money.

There was something absurd about it, but Mannering conquered a temptation to laugh. He swallowed hard, and then said quietly: “How much?”

The blankness disappeared from Lorna’s eyes as he spoke. She laughed, and for the first time since she entered the flat she sounded normal, natural.

“That’s just the one question I’d expect you to ask,” she said. And the expression in her eyes made him flush. His voice was level enough, however, and held a hint of laughter.

“It’s the only pertinent one,” he said.

Lorna looked at him very straightly.

“I despise myself,” she said, very clearly and very slowly, “because it’s the one thing I shouldn’t say. But I do need money, John. A thousand pounds, if I can get it. Quickly.”

She stopped, and the silence could almost be felt, broken only by her heavy breathing.

Mannering’s mind was moving rapidly. The single fact registered that she needed the money — one thousand pounds. It wasn’t as large a sum as it sounded; there had been times when he would have laughed at it.

He was tempted to ask questions, but he knew that that was the one thing which he must not do. But the thing tormented him. Why did she need it? Why couldn’t she get it from her father if she did want it!

The answer to the second question was obvious, he told himself. Fauntley would ask why. She couldn’t tell him; so the reason for her need was . . .

Blackmail came to his mind. It came and went quickly. He preferred not to think about it, but he could see that the worry and anxiety in her face spoke of something like that. Blackmail!

He forced his thoughts down; the silence was growing too strained.

“That’s all right,” he said. “When exactly do you need it?”

His words came easily, even if the thoughts which had flashed through his mind after her words had seemed timeless. He was looking at her, and Lorna smiled.

“You’re very much true to type, John,” she said, and then stood up quickly and reached for her gloves. “But we’ve both been talking nonsense. I don’t need die money, and you’re an idiot for thinking that I do. Shall we dine to-night ?”

Mannering smiled, and his fingers closed round her wrists.

“Brave, but not so convincing,” he said very gently. “Try to be honest, my dear, with yourself — and me. It may help us both. Meanwhile . . .”

Her lips trembled, and her eyes were suspiciously bright.

“I shouldn’t have come,” she said.

“You know you should, for it made you talk. We can’t do much for each other, Lorna. You know why. I don’t. But when I can help I’m waiting and willing.”

The tears came into her eyes again. Mannering felt the pressure of her slim body against his. His arms tightened round her shoulders. He looked down on that dark, luxurious hair, and. he felt her sobbing. With his right hand he smoothed her head, and he kept very still.

The smile on his lips was beyond understanding.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

THE QUEEN’S WALK BURGLARY

MANNERING LIT A CIGARETTE, LEANED BACK IN HIS CHAIR, and stared at the ceiling. He was still smiling, but there was a grimness in his smile. The bundles of notes on the desk had disappeared. One small wad was left — two hundred pounds where there had been twelve hundred. It was a difficult situation to smile at, but he had to try.

Lorna had gone. She had gone very quickly, as if afraid that to linger would have been to have lost. Her attitude had puzzled and worried Mannering. She had been unsettled, uncertain, really worried, and as definitely grateful. He had not asked her a single question, and she had volunteered no information. He believed that he was glad, but inwardly he felt a very natural curiosity. Why had she needed the money?

He pushed the question to the back of his mind and moved from his chair. The pass-books which Lee’s emissary had once been so anxious to take revealed a sum of nine hundred pounds, which, with the two hundred on the desk, made a total of eleven hundred. It was enough for the moment, but it meant that he was living hand-to-mouth. He was back where he had been a few days ago.

For the hundredth time he wondered how he could dispose of the Rosa pearls, and for the hundredth time he determined to let them wait for a while; they were too warm yet. The next problem, then, was to find another likely victim, and a haul he could turn into cash quickly.

Mannering grimaced. By now he almost disliked the cold-bloodedness of his life of crime. It was as distasteful in some ways as it was exciting in others. But he would go on now until he had made enough to retire on; so much was certain. He tried to fix a figure, but he realised the uselessness of it. His expenses in a year’s time might be doubled or trebled — unless, of course, he slipped up on a job and spent a few years in gaol. The prospect, instead of making him hesitate, cheered him. There was a zest in danger that made up for everything else.

He ran through the list of his social engagements for the next two weeks. The only events of note would be the Faundey dinner — Lord Fauntley held an annual affair that outshone all rivals in the matter of celebrities and luxuriousness — and the Ramon Ball. The Fauntley affair was out of it; Mannering was still determined not to make any raid on the peer’s strong-room, for the guard would be stronger than ever now.

That left the Ramon Ball.

Carlos Ramon was a South American cattle-owner who had taken by storm that part of London which was primarily money-conscious. The wealth of the Ramons was almost legendary. Carlos himself owned the largest fleet of cattle-boats in South America, and it was said that his herds of cattle rivalled the possessions of the biggest Anglo-American companies. Mannering knew the man slightly, and neither liked nor disliked him.

Carlos Ramon — Senor Carlos, Mannering recalled with a smile — had an imposing presence, a brick-red face, handsome after a fashion, with the inevitable moustache, black, greased, and pointed at the ends, and an extremely pretty wife. His wife was Spanish, without the aloofness usually credited to her race; she was, Mannering knew, perilously near a coquette. He knew, too, that Carlotta’s beauty and Carlos’s money had captured London, and the Ramon Ball, to take place four days after the visit of Lorna Faundey to

Mannering’s flat, was a farewell party; the South Americans were returning to their native land, and London was giving them a send-off; or they were bidding London a warm good-bye.

In any case the assembly would be a positive rodeo of the rich, while most of the women would outdo — or try to outdo — one another with their jewels. The prospect was inviting; there would be hundreds of thousands of pounds” worth there.

Mannering muttered to himself very suddenly as an idea came into his mind.

“You fool!” he said. “Oh, you fool!” And he smiled.

“After going to all that trouble, and suffering as you’re doing,” said Lorna Fauntley sympathetically, “there are two other costumes almost exactly alike. Poor John!”

“At least I’ve the imagination not to come as a harlequin,” said Mannering, not without point.

Lorna laughed lightly.

She had chosen, a little daringly, to dress as a Spanish dancer, and the daring, in the opinion of a few of the plainer revellers, was due to the fact that the hostess was the obvious choice for that costume. Happily Carlotta Ramon had preferred to be a Fragonard shepherdess, and Lorna was conspicuous — and distinguished; Mannering told himself that she was head-and-shoulders above the others.

Mannering’s Charles the Second was triplicated at the New Arts Hall, a fact which Lorna had been deploring. She could not know that Jimmy Randall and Colonel Belton had confided to him their choice of dress, and that he had used that knowledge deliberately.

So he laughed, and scoffed at her.

They danced together before a cavalier claimed his privilege and whirled Lorna away from Mannering. He found himself dancing with a Columbine whose eyes behind her mask suggested nervousness. He put her at her ease, but was glad that she slipped away when the music stopped. He wanted no ties for the moment.

He edged towards an exit, watching the glittering throng that had gathered together to honour the Ramons, trying to make sure that he was unobserved.

Here and there he recognised someone whom he knew, but for the most part the costumes and the masks contrived to hide the identity of the dancers. The little added zest that invariably accompanied London balls when they were inspired by a foreigner was very much in evidence. The music was a little mad; the costumes were frequendy exotic, the laughter unforced, but helped with wines.

Mannering looked at the great decorated clock in the centre of the ceiling and saw that it was eleven o’clock. That left an hour before the masks would be removed and recognition assured. One hour to work in. It was little enough time.

He slipped towards a cloakroom, staring at the floor as he went. Casual acquaintances passed him without recognising him. His luxuriant wig, rouged cheeks, and high cravat afforded excellent disguise, but he was glad when he reached the privacy of a cubicle without hearing his name uttered. He was flushed a little, and his eyes were gleaming.

From the main hall the strains of the music were floating. He smiled as he slipped out of his costume and revealed that of a harlequin beneath. The latter had been comfortable to wear, and no one at the New Arts Hall knew that he had two costumes; nor if they had known would they have guessed why.

He lit a cigarette, donned his mask, and left the cloakroom, carrying his overcoat and his top-hat over his arm. He reached the first exit from the building, glanced out, saw half a dozen commissionaires and attendants, but felt certain that he could get away unhindered and unrecognised.

That rush of excitement which had possessed him several times before on the start of a haul made his heart thump, and he was more impatient than usual.

Looking neither right nor left, he went from the building. In Queen’s Road he beckoned the first passing taxi. He jumped in quickly, shouting an address: “Twenty-seven Crown Street, cabby, and hurry, will you?”

The voice was no more like Mannering’s than Mr Mayle’s was. The driver shrugged at the unnecessary haw-haw, slipped in his clutch, and made quick time. Outside the dark shape of No. 27 Crown Street, W.i, Mannering left the taxi, paid the driver without tipping him extravagantly, and watched the cab disappear into the shadows. Then he turned away.

A strange, almost unnatural silence filled the air.

In the distance the hum of the traffic could be heard, but

Crown Street was quiet and secluded. A long, narrow thoroughfare, it was useless as a short-cut for motor traffic, and at night only the local people and an occasional policeman traversed it.