Meet The Baron

Mannering looked at his watch, to find that it was twenty minutes past eleven.

“He should be here,” he muttered, and from the fact that he was talking aloud realised his own tense excitement. He waited, pricking his ears to catch the wanted sound. It came at last — the heavy tread of the policeman he expected.

Mannering had been in this street three nights in succession. He had discovered the policeman’s usual time, and he knew that between eleven-twenty and eleven-fifty only a casual wayfarer would pass by; once the man had gone he could start his job.

He waited beneath the shadows of a spreading tree. The policeman walked on ponderously, without flashing his lantern. Mannering watched him disappear, and then turned towards the tree, a tight smile on his lips.

He had studied the tree and garden beyond, and the narrow passage beyond that. He had climbed the tree on the previous night, and he knew just how long it would take him to get to the end of the passage. Never again, he told himself, would he start a thing without ample preparation.

The sound of the policeman’s footsteps died away. No other came. Mannering climbed the tree quickly, a task made easier by several knots which stood out from the trunk. From the first branch it was a simple matter to jump over the wall into the garden of 27 Crown Street. He landed lightly, and grinned to himself more freely as he went through that garden.

Every taxi-driver who had taken a fare from the neigh-bourhood of the New Arts Hall would be questioned on the following morning, but no one would suspect that the man who wanted the Crown Street house was connected with a robbery which had taken place at Queen’s Walk, a quarter of a mile away from Crown Street. Actually the garden and the passage took him to Queen’s Walk in thirty seconds, but the policeman who realised it would have to be smart.

The Walk was lit by occasional street-lamps, and the unwinking side-lights of two stationary cars broke through the darkness. Mannering slipped into the doorway of the first house past the passage and slid a pick-lock into the keyhole.

It was an old-fashioned lock, and gave little trouble, for the picking of a lock came easily now. Mannering pushed the door open as the lock clicked back. He went inside quickly, and closed the door. For a moment he waited in the hall, but no sound came. The house seemed empty.

It was, he believed, and he smiled as he recalled the flash of inspiration that had told him that the house, rather than the ballroom, was the best place at which to make an attempt.

Rented by Carlos Ramon for his six months” sojourn in England, the place was deserted for that night, when Ramon and his wife were at the Ball; the servants, Mannering knew, had permission to be out. He had prepared for the possibility of meeting a caretaker, but he doubted whether Ramon would have taken that precaution.

Mannering hurried up the stairs, flashing a small electric torch to guide him. His rubber-soled shoes made no sound on the oak landing as he reached it, and his face was covered with the thin blue mark that he used as much to enable him to merge into a general scheme of darkness as for a disguise.

Silently he went along the landing. The first three doors he passed were unlocked, and he went on, but the third refused to open when he turned the handle.

He stopped, and the pick-lock slid into the keyhole. Two or three dexterous twists made the lock click back. He opened the door very quickly and stepped into the room. The moment was near now.

From two windows he could see a dim light streaming, light from the street-lamps. He hurried to the windows, experimented with the blinds, and discovered with relief that they were of the roller type. He lowered them silently, and then looked round quickly.

There was a slight perfume in the air, and he smiled, needing no telling that Carlotta Ramon had dressed in here a few hours before. He flashed his light on to the dressing-table, and from one of the drawers a few small trinkets rewarded him. He opened each drawer quickly and silently, finding a diamond brooch and an emerald pendant which made his eyes glisten. But he had no time to gloat over his success. He closed the drawers, left the dressing-table, and hurried to the walls, where he hoped to find bigger game. He lifted each picture, finding the safe behind a large oil-painting opposite the door.

He worked on it, quickly, patiently, efficiently.

Now that he was actually at work the excitement had cooled. He knew that he was fighting against time, and he could not afford to fumble. Within ten minutes he must be out of the house, together with the contents of the safe . . .

It clicked open at last.

Mannering’s heart leaped. Not since he had robbed Septimus Lee had he known such exhilaration as he felt at that moment. He put his hand inside the safe quickly, and three black cases, unlocked, yielded necklaces. A wad of small denomination notes followed the jewels into his pocket. A pair of diamond ear-rings and pearl solitaires joined the notes. He could not have found a richer plucking, and his smile was wide.

He was chuckling to himself as he slammed the door of the safe and turned round . . .

And then he stared at the figure in the doorway, absolutely dumbfounded. He had heard no sound, had no idea that he was being watched, but the man was there !

And he was holding a gun in his right hand.

Mannering’s head seemed to whirl as he waited, as he watched the man advancing towards him. He had been wrong, he knew, and he cursed himself for his madness. He should have allowed himself time to look through the house, to make sure that there was no watchman. He should have made sure from the Ramons, if necessary, whether they kept a man; but it was too late now.

The gunman stepped towards him.

It meant — the end.

CHAPTER TWENTY

A PATCH OF BLOOD

THAT MOMENT WAS VERY VIVID TO JOHN MANNERING.

The approaching man, the gun, the slow, almost stealthy movement, as if the other were expecting an attack, and the thumping of his heart against his ribs, remained in his mind for years.

He stood dead-still, staring.

His passiveness seemed to make the other hesitate. He stopped, two yards away from Mannering, and his gun moved threateningly.

“No funny tricks,” he muttered, half to himself. “And now take yer mask off, mister.”

Mannering’s mind was racing as he tried to find a loophole; but he did not move. The other’s voice took on an ugly note.

“If you don’t snap it off I’ll shoot,” he said.

Mannering managed to laugh, little though he was feeling like it. The sound echoed unnaturally through the room, and it sent uncertainty into the other’s mind. The short, stumpy fingers tightened round the handle of the gun.

“I’ve warned you . . .” he started.

Mannering’s heart was going more steadily now. He was doing what he wanted, taking the only possible chance by making the other nervous. The man had the gun, and had reckoned that he could instil fear into Mannering with it. Mannering’s silence unnerved him. The gun wavered. It was one thing to threaten and another actually to pull the trigger.

“Take your mask off!” The man’s voice rose again. “Now, listen to me, my man . . .”

Mannering’s right hand moved towards his mask, a gesture of defeat. He fiddled with it for a moment, while the other watched him closely.

Mannering was judging the distance all the time. Two yards separated them, and he could reach the man if he jumped. It would be touch-and-go whether he succeeded in preventing the gun from going off, but the chance had to be taken. He tensed the muscles of his legs, actually started to take the mask from his face.

“All right,” he muttered dully. “You win. . . .”

On the word “win” he jumped!

That split second seemed an eternity. He heard the man shout, saw the gun move up, thudded his fist into that heavy face, felt the jolt, heard the gasp of pain from the other, and heard the roaring of the revolver!

A sheet of flame flashed in front of his eyes, and he felt a furious burning in his shoulder. But the gun was clattering to the floor, the gunman was staggering back bewildered, and Mannering’s fist was thudding into his face again. Mannering was hitting regularly, almost automatically. One part of his mind was concentrated on the struggle; the other was working on the next problem — how to escape.

That revolver-shot must have been heard outside. If the place was surrounded, if curious residents or a passing policeman heard it, the odds were heavily against him. In any case speed was the essential factor. He hadn’t a moment to lose.

The man was fighting back doggedly all the time. His fist caught Mannering in the stomach. Mannering gasped, and staggered away, guarding himself as best he could. He recovered after a moment, and fought back a fierce rush from his enraged opponent; and then he saw his opportunity. The man had thrown caution to the winds, and for a moment his chin was bare . . .

Mannering put every ounce of his strength into the blow. His fist caught the other’s chin, and the man reared upward, then sagged downward with a little moan. Mannering’s knuckles were torn; the pain in his shoulder was almost unbearable. But the man was unconscious, and the chance had been won.

Mannering looked round quickly, and the pencil of light from his torch stabbed through the gloom. He made sure that he had dropped nothing during the scuffle, refastened his blue mask, and then made for the door.

From outside the house came the thudding of footsteps. As he raced down the stairs noiselessly he saw the glare of a bull’s-eye lantern through the window-panel of the front door. Beyond, very vaguely, he could see the helmet of a policeman. The front-door knocker banged, reverberating through the hall. Mannering swore under his breath. The only outlet was the back way now, and he had no idea of the lay-out of the house. Once again he had not made sufficient preparations.

He took a chance, racing along a passage by the stairs, flinging open a door that led through a room lined with books, through another short passage and into a kitchen. He rushed to the door of the room, and as he did so he could hear the banging at the front of the house and the echo of angry voices.

The back-door was fast. Mannering drew the bolts, almost feverish with anxiety, and there was sweat on his forehead now. He pulled it open at last. . . .

And then, for a moment, he stopped dead-still, and he told himself that the end had come.

A policeman was climbing over the wall at the back of the house, and already the helmet of a second constable was poking above the brick-work. He had been out-manoeuvred; he had not even thought of this. God, what a fool he was!

But his mind worked quickly. Faced with this new problem, he grew very cool and collected. He waited in the shadows of the kitchen, and slipped his hand into his pocket, round the butt of the gas-pistol he always carried. There was no time for half-measures.

The policeman dropped to the ground, stumbled, picked himself up, and hurried towards the door. The second man followed him quickly. Mannering waited until the first was within two yards of him, and then he stepped out of the shadows.

The policeman’s gasp of surprise came clearly, but as quick as a flash he lifted his truncheon. Mannering could see him clearly.

“Better take it quiet,” he warned.

Mannering’s answer was to level his gun. The man’s eyes widened; he dropped back a pace, and his obvious fear made Mannering chuckle to himself. There was a soft hiss of escaping gas, and the policeman uttered a single, strangled cry as the ether took effect, and he slumped down. But the advantage was a brief one, and the second man leaped forward. Mannering had no time to use the gas this time. He clenched his left fist and smashed it into the other’s face.

The policeman reeled backward, his hands to his nose.

Mannering waited for nothing more. He raced to the end of the garden, grunting as he saw the garden-seat which rested against the wall, jumped on it, and swung over the top. The drop to the other side was a nasty one, but he managed to keep his feet as he landed, although the jolt to his wounded shoulder was agonising.

He looked both ways quickly.

To the left he could see two men hurrying towards him, and his lips tightened. To the right there was no one in the small alleyway; that avenue of escape was open.

Mannering swung round, with the men from the left swinging after him. The pain in his shoulder was worse now, and his knuckles were sore, but there was desperation in his mind, and one thought only — he must get away, he must.

He almost sobbed with relief as he reached the end of the alleyway and found himself in a wide thoroughfare. A taxi was crawling along it near him; he jumped forward, heedless of the man’s startled expression, knowing that he cut a strange figure, and that the men behind him were in sight, shouting at the tops of their voices. But their words were indistinguishable, and Mannering still had a chance.

The taxi stopped.

Mannering knew only one way of making sure that there was no hesitation, no loss of time.

“For heaven’s sake,” he gasped, “get me to Scotland Yard!”

The magic name of Police Headquarters proved effective. As Mannering swung into the back of the cab the driver let in his clutch, and the taxi swung along the road.

Mannering, breathing hard, looked through the rear-window. He could just see the two men — ordinary passers-by, he assumed, racing towards the cab, but their effort was useless, and a smile curved his lips as he realised it.

Then, as his heart steadied, he looked at his watch. The exhilaration of the chase and the escape dropped away, and a new and equally urgent problem presented itself.

It was ten to twelve. In ten minutes the masks would be off at the Ramon Ball, and he had to be there in time, whatever happened.

He straightened his hair, stuffed his mask into his pocket, dabbed his lacerated knuckles with his handkerchief, and then looked out of the window. The cab would be passing the New Arts Hall in a few moments; he saw that there was just one chance of getting there without alarming the driver.

Mannering chuckled grimly.

Then, forcing himself to use his right arm, despite the pain of the wound, he opened the off-side door of the cab and climbed on to the running-board. It was touch-and-go now. If the driver happened to look round he would raise an alarm, but they were in a side-street, and no one was passing. Mannering took his gas-pistol from his pocket and tapped the driver’s shoulder gently. The man swung round, gaping, and a cry came from his lips, but Mannering touched the trigger before it was repeated. The gas hissed out, a familiar, friendly sound to Mannering, and the driver slumped forward across the wheel. The taxi, out of control, swerved across the road.

Mannering clung on to the cab with his left hand and reached for the brake with his right. He pulled it up with a jolt almost in the centre of the road, blessing his stars that no other car was in sight.

He left it quickly. Its lights were on, and there was no danger of an accident, he knew. Breathing hard, he hurried through a side-street towards a side-entrance of the New Arts Hall. As he entered the building he held his breath, half-running as he went, but luck was with him. The only attendant who saw him was smoking a surreptitious cigarette, and, fearful of discovery, was more concerned with dousing it than with making inquiries.

Mannering’s heart was in his mouth as he hurried towards the cloakroom. He dared not throw off his coat, for the blood from the wound in his shoulder would show up plainly against the harlequin costume he had on underneath, but by keeping his head bent he evaded recognition. With a sigh of relief he entered his private cubicle.

Then he looked at his watch again and groaned. Three minutes to twelve. Three minutes!

It was almost torture to don the Charles the Second costume, but it had to be done; he daren’t take a chance, and he must have an absolute alibi in case of inquiries.

He swung his white silk scarf round his arm and shoulder, covering the wound, and managed to get the coat over it. Then he donned his wig, and a dab of rouge over his cheeks finished the job. He glanced at himself in the mirror for a moment, and the smile of his lips widened. A sense of jubilation returned; no one would dream of what had happened in the last forty minutes.

The first stroke of twelve was echoing through the building from that gigantic ceiling-clock as Mannering entered the ballroom and merged in with the throng of revellers. As luck would have it he saw Lorna a few yards away, and made towards her.

Jimmy Randall’s cheerful voice came to his ears before he reached the woman.

“My dress is more accurate than yours,” said that worthy cheerfully. “Warm enough, J. M. ?”

“My dress keeps me cool,” grinned Mannering.

He reached Lorna’s side as the girl took off her mask. All around people were laughing, partners for the evening were taking stock of their companions. Carlos and Carlotta Ramon were standing on a dais beneath the clock, looking thoroughly pleased with themselves. Mannering wondered what Ramon would look like when he heard the news of the burglary, but that didn’t matter. The fact that he was sale was the thing.

“So you’ve left that girl in red?” said Lorna laughingly.

Mannering chuckled to himself. He needed no further proof of the wisdom of wearing the same costume as Randall and Colonel Belton. Lorna would be ready to swear, if necessary, that she had seen him in the hall all the evening, and he would want no better witness.

“Of course,” he said lightly.

And then the lights of that great hall seemed to dim, and there was a mist in front of Mannering’s eyes. He heard Lorna’s sharp exclamation of alarm, and felt her arm round him, firm and friendly.

“John — John — what is it?”

The room seemed to be swaying. Mannering held on to his companion for dear life, knowing that he would fall if he didn’t. He gritted his teeth. Every ounce of self-control that he had went into one great effort to regain his balance before others besides Lorna noticed that anything was wrong. He managed to smile, and found his voice.

“I’m — all — right,” he muttered. “A bit hot. Let’s get to the side.”

Lorna nodded, and gave him her arm. His shoulder was numb now, and he hardly realised the pain in it. But he reached a bar, just off the main hall, and took a whisky-and-soda gratefully. It burned through him with new life, and he forced a smile that did little to ease Lorna’s concern.

“I can’t see what you look like,” she said. “That rouge hides everything. You’re sure you’re all right?”

Mannering laughed now, feeling that he could carry on.

“A hundred per cent,” he assured her.

And then he saw the brilliant crimson sash that swung across Lorna’s shoulders. He saw the damp patch on it, and knew that it was blood — his blood. He stared, unable to keep his eyes away.

Lorna saw the red patch on his costume at the same time.

She went very pale, but said nothing as she bent towards him, so that the waiter could not see the shoulder and its ominous patch of blood. Mannering warmed towards her as she smiled.

“We’ll get out as soon as we can,” she said. “Mother’s leaving just after twelve, and so are some of the others. It’ll look natural enough. Get back and change, my dear.”

Mannering smiled at her in a gratitude he could not have expressed in words. She had asked no questions, revealed no excitement, but only anxiety; he knew that without her he must have been lost.

But this was something he must explain.

“My dear man,” said Lorna, a quarter of an hour later, “I’m coming back to your flat with you to patch you up.”

“Not at this hour,” muttered Mannering. He was standing by a taxi, one of a hundred drawn up outside the New Arts Hall. The first streams of home-going revellers were crowding the pavements, mostly older folk, but sprinkled here and there with an occasional younger couple. Mannering, in evening-dress, looked no different from the others, but his arm was throbbing badly now, and he was anxious to get away.

“You haven’t half the sense you get credit for,” said Lorna tersely. She beckoned a taxi and gave his Brook Street address. He smiled as he entered the cab, knowing that he could not dissuade her; he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to.

Less than twenty minutes after he was standing in his bathroom stripped to the waist, and Lorna was examining the wound with a keen, almost professional eye. She was cool, and completely unflurried.

“You’re lucky,” she said. “Or I think you are. It’s not touched the bone.”

“It feels as though it’s broken a dozen,” said Mannering ruefully. “It’ll heal all right.”

“You’ll need a doctor, said Lorna quickly.

Mannering turned towards her. There was a smile on his lips and an expression which she could not understand as he answered.

“That’s ruled right out,” he said.

She stared at him for a moment uncertainly. He could see that she was burning to ask questions, but for the moment he could not bring himself to talk of the night’s adventure. He was racking his brains to find a genuine explanation — or at least one to sound genuine. It seemed impossible. She was very shrewd, he knew; and he judged that she would be able to tell whether he was lying. So tor the time being he said nothing.

“So you don’t want to call a doctor,” she said, half to herself, and her eyes were dark, mysterious, probing. “Well — I can just see the bullet beneath the skin.”

Mannering said nothing.

“And it I try to get it out,” said Lorna, “it’s going to be painful for you and a nasty job for me.”

Mannering hesitated.

“I’ll manage it myself,” he said finally, “really . . .”

Lorna smiled; the shadows went from her eyes as she rested her hand on his arm.

“You’re a complete idiot,” she said. “Will you grit your teeth? I’ll try it.”

Mannering nodded. For a moment his fingers closed round her arm in an answering gesture of trust. She spoke quietly, as though afraid of sentiment.

“It’s lucky I’m not likely to faint at the sight of blood,” she said. “Turn towards the light, my dear . . .”

The next three minutes seemed like days, but Mannering knew that they might have been a great deal worse. Lorna, tight-lipped, probed with a knife at the dark patch she believed to be the bullet. The bullet it was, and very close to the skin. She levered it out, as she would have done a splinter, and then put it on a shelf.

“You’d better get rid of that.”

Mannering nodded, and sat down wearily on the side of the bath. He felt weak and very tired. Still very practical, Lorna bandaged the wound, after bathing it, and he was amazed at the comfort now.

“Get to bed,” she said quietly. “I’ll stay until morning.”

Mannering shook his head quickly as she spoke.

“You can’t,” he said. “It’s asking for trouble.”

“My folk will think I’m at Chelsea,” said Lorna, with a little smile. And then she caught his hands in hers. “John — don’t argue, please. It’s my turn now to help.”

Very slowly the smile returned to Mannering’s lips.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

A KNOCK ON THE DOOR

AT HALF-PAST EIGHT NEXT MORNING LORNA FAUNTLEY stirred in her chair and opened her eyes.

She had wrapped a blanket round her on the previous night, after making sure that Mannering was sleeping soundly, and had dozed fitfully during the small hours. Towards morning she had dropped into a deeper sleep, and she was surprised when she saw the time. The momentary bewilderment at her strange surroundings disappeared. She pushed the blanket away, switched on the electric kettle, which she had filled overnight, and hurried into the bathroom. A quick wash refreshed her, and she was smiling as she set the cups on a tray, collected the milk from outside the front door of the flat, and then tiptoed into Mannering’s room.

He was still sleeping soundly, and she could tell from the colour of his face that he was not suffering unduly from the wound. She knew that he had a constitution strong enough to stand the strain, and the anxiety she had felt concerning his well-being disappeared.

She smiled very softly as she looked at him.

His face was dark against the pillow, and his features seemed more clearly marked than usual. There was something in him which seemed almost part of her.

She smiled a little bitterly at the thought, and her eyes clouded, but they cleared a moment later as Mannering stirred suddenly and opened his eyes. He blinked up, and there was something absurdly funny about his expression as he saw her. She laughed unrestrainedly at his bewilderment.

Memory of the previous night’s affair jumped back into Mannering’s mind. He moved up, then flinched as pain streaked through his shoulder.

“Steady,” said Lorna quickly.

He grinned ruefully, and stretched his left hand towards his waistcoat, where he could find cigarettes.

“It’s a rotten bad habit, smoking first-thing in the morning,” said Lorna.

“There are lots of bad habits,” said Mannering, taking a cigarette and lighting it, one-handed. He looked uncertain of himself. “So you are still here,” he said at last.

Lorna laughed.

“I’m afraid so,” she said. “If you knew what you looked like, my dear, you’d have a shock. But sit there for a while until I make tea.”

When she re-entered the room five minutes later Mannering had pulled a comb through his hair, and was comparatively wide-awake. His uncertainty had disappeared, and he looked completely in control of himself.

He drank the tea gratefully, before saying much. Then: “I suppose,” he said, looking at her quizzically, that I ought to start some explanation ?”

Lorna shook her head. Her lips tightened, and she smiled with her eyes.

“No,” she said. “You asked no questions the other day. I’m asking none now. I just want to say, John . . .”

She paused. Mannering’s eyes were very soft.

“Be careful, my dear,” she added, and her voice trembled.

Mannering managed to laugh a little.

“I’ll try,” he said.

“And now” — she was serious again, and practical; the moments of sentiment passed quickly with her, he knew — “I’ll have another look at your shoulder, and we’ll get some breakfast. That’s if you can eat . . .”

“It’s time you went,” said Mannering. “It would look nasty, Lorna, if anything — anyone . . .”

“It’s too early,” said Lorna decisively. “They’ll think I’m at Chelsea, I tell you.”

“Supposing they ring you, and get no answer?”

“That won’t be any change.” She was tugging at the left arm of his pyjama-jacket. “They’re used to getting no answer when I’m at the studio. Am I going to look at your shoulder, or are you going to be awkward ?”

Mannering gave in, knowing that he would have to eventually.

Lorna pronounced the wound satisfactory. There was no bleeding now, and no sign of complications. She dressed it with liberal boracic and lint, bandaged it effectively, and told him to move carefully.

“Gingerly’s the word,” Mannering chuckled, yet more pleased with her concern than he would have admitted. Then a thought flashed through his mind, and his eyes were suddenly hard.

“What happened to the bullet?” he asked.

“In the bathroom still,” said Lorna.

“We’d better get rid of it,” said Mannering. “And — have you seen the morning papers yet?”

Lorna shook her head slowly.

There were some outside,” she said. “Were they yours?”

“Yes,” he nodded. “I’ll get ‘em in a moment.”

Lorna smiled obscurely and went out. Mannering began to dress, slowly and awkwardly. Without worrying about a collar or tie, he went into the living-room, sniffed at the odour of grilled bacon, smiled at Lorna for a moment, and then went to the door, with his object half forgotten and his mind filled with the memory of her flushed face.

The papers were folded, just outside, and he took them in and opened them quickly, half-expecting what he saw.

The first words seemed to leap out of the print towards him:

ARMED BURGLAR AT MILLIONAIRE’S HOUSE

MR. CARLOS RAMON ROBBED

THE BARON AGAIN?

The newsprint, written sensationally, was no more than a re-hash of the affair at Queen’s Walk. There were points on which he could have enlightened the journalist who had starred the story, but the one thing for which he was looking was granted him.

The man with whom he had fought and the policeman on whom he had used the gas-pistol were not seriously hurt.

Mannering felt relieved and almost light-hearted. He had hardly realised the depth of his anxiety at the possibility that the guard had been badly injured. Thoughtfully he looked at his knuckles, still grazed and broken. Then, his lips curved a little, he went back to the living-room.

Lorna was serving breakfast. She had found her way about the flat easily and quickly, and his eyes were gleaming as he went to her.

“You’ve located the larder,” he said, standing in front of her. She looked very cool and very capable.

“There was an egg there which should have been thrown out three months ago,” said Lorna, “so it wasn’t difficult. Tea or coffee? I’d rather have tea.”

“So would I,” said Mannering.

He left the papers, front-pages uppermost, on the break-fast-table, and then went into his room. When he reappeared she was reading the story of the burglary. The expression on her lace seemed to defy him, although he hardly knew what to expect. The one thing he did know was that she must learn the truth now — all of it.

“Well ?” he said.

He was paler than usual as the word came out, and it took all his self-control to face her. He had never before seriously considered the possibility of Lorna knowing how he was living. The two separate people, John Mannering and the Baron, had seemed very real to him. He had appeared to think differently, according to which guise he was in. It seemed absurd now to realise that they were one and the same, and that Mannering, the John Mannering part of him, would be judged on the activities of the Baron. That moment, staring at her, he had a feeling of unreality, yet a feeling of great strain, as though everything depended on her reaction.

“Well ?” he said again.

Lorna said: “I know, my dear. I’ve known for some time.”

It couldn’t be true.

That sense of unreality was ten times stronger in Mannering at her words. Neither of them had moved, neither of them had spoken, since that single sentence had come from Lorna, spoken very quietly, and with a lurking humour in her dark eyes.

She knew.

Mannering brushed his hand through his hair, and auto-matically sought in his pockets for cigarettes. Not until the first streamer of smoke went towards the ceiling did he speak, and then his voice was harsh and unnatural.

“What are you saying?” he asked. “Trying to make it easier for me? You couldn’t have known.”

Her smile was still deep — mysterious almost.

“Well, I was fairly sure, John. And I’m not trying to make it easier for you, any more than for myself.” She broke off, turning away. “But the breakfast’s getting cold.”

“Let it,” said Mannering. He took a step towards her, and his left hand closed on her shoulder. “It’s time we stopped being mysterious. It’s time we talked — both of us.”

“Is it?” she temporised.

Mannering drew a deep breath. His grip on her shoulder tightened until it hurt, but she gave no sign.

“Lorna,” he said, and his voice quivered. “Please!”

She seemed to draw herself up, and he knew that she was making a big effort. She forced herself to speak at last, and she was smiling a little.

“I was almost sure,” she said, “after the robbery at the strong-room. That night, after I thought it over, I told myself you fitted into the man with the mackintosh, and that if the man had been what he seemed to be he wouldn’t have worried about taking the cases with my own jewels in. Obviously the man would have taken them.”

“But why obviously?”

“Because the cases were out of their usual positions, I realised that when Dad examined all the safes.”

Mannering smiled a little.

“It was a temptation,” he said.

“Not a big one, I think. That made me nearly sure of you. And then, John, there was the Kenton brooch; you took it all almost too calmly, as though you were laughing up your sleeve about it. Oh, there were a dozen little things that suggested it. And then there was the other afternoon” — her expression changed now, and he saw that she was thinking of something unpleasant, although he had no idea what it was — “when you handed over a thousand pounds in notes. It was unusual, to say the least. There was no reason why you should have had money like that at the flat . . .”

“I might have been to the races.”

“There were none near London, and in any case you hadn’t had time to get back from them. It wasn’t three o’clock when I came.”

“But still I don’t see,” said Mannering, a little helplessly, “how that could have made you think I was — a . . .”

The word “thief was on his lips, but she broke in quickly, before he uttered it.

“You were the Baron. I know. It wasn’t any single fact that made me think so. It was the combination of circumstances. And when I read about the burglary last night” — she motioned to the paper as she went on — “I realised that I’d known it was you all along.”

“Yet you stayed here last night?”

“I think I was more — amused — than anything else,” said Lorna very softly. “It is funny, John. You’ve a reputation for immense riches. Lucky Mannering, the man who never loses . . .”

“I’ve never heard that one,” said Mannering, a little ruefully, and with a sudden light-heartedness.

“It’s quite a general one,” she said. “And I can see how cleverly you’ve created the impression, my dear. It’s almost fool proof. Even Dad has no idea . . .”

“But you knew?”

Lorna nodded, and there was an expression in her eyes which tormented him.

“I know you,” she said very quietly. She laughed suddenly, and released her hand from his. And the breakfast,” she murmured.

“Damn the breakfast!” said Mannering. There’s something else you wanted to say, but which you’ve kept back. What is it?”

Lorna’s smiled disappeared as he stared into her eyes. The anxiety he had seen in her eyes before returned. Her lips parted a little, and she looked — afraid. It was the only suitable word he could find.

“Isn’t there?” he persisted, very quietly.

Lorna nodded slowly. She tried to speak, but the words would not come. Mannering’s mind was in a whirl as he waited. For the life of him he could understand nothing, could conceive of no reason for this sudden change in her manner. Yet he knew that she had been worried months ago. That time when they had talked of marriage — and had postponed it at her wish — came very vividly to him. The same something that had forced her to ask him to forget it was worrying her now, and was in some way connected with her need for money a few days before.

“Take your time,” he said.

“It’s so difficult,” began Lorna. . . .

And then someone tapped on the front-door.

The sound seemed to echo through the flat like a revolver-shot. The colour drained from Lorna’s face, and Mannering paled. Instinctively they looked towards the papers, with their glaring headlines, and the same fear was in each mind.

Mannering broke the tense silence as the knock came again more imperatively.

“I’ll go,” he said. “Keep out of sight.”

Lorna nodded, and turned away. Walking with his right arm stiff at his side, Mannering went to the door. His colour had returned, and he was laughing at himself. The knock might be from any casual caller — from a tradesman, from a friend. . . .

He opened the door, convinced that his fears were groundless; and the next moment he was facing the sprucely dressed Detective-Inspector Bristow!

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

BRISTOW MAKES A DISCOVERY

MANNERING FELT THE SHOCK RUN THROUGH HIM, AND HE believed he had betrayed himself. He could not repress the fear that came back, while he wondered whether it was possible that this call had nothing to do with the burglary. He told himself that it wasn’t, and felt the blood drain from his cheeks. There was a sudden change of expression on Bristow’s face, which had been creased in a pleasant enough smile.

Then Mannering sneezed.

He was used to the need for quick action, and he knew that suspicion would be sown in Bristow’s mind unless he explained the sudden change of expression. So the sneeze came quickly, and seemed natural. He had recovered by the time he looked up, and grinned an apology.

“Sorry, Inspector, sorry. That’s not much of a greeting.”

Bristow smiled, and offered his hand. Mannering was forced to respond. He felt the muscles of his shoulder tearing as he gripped the other’s hand, and he kept back a wince of pain. But if that was all there was to worry him he was safe enough.

Bristow stepped into the first room, making no immediate comment. Mannering felt completely at a loss, but he motioned to a chair, and pushed a box of cigarettes towards the detective.

Bristow took one with a nod, and lit it

“Thanks,” he said. Then he smiled a little, and half shrugged his shoulders. “Can you guess why I’ve come ?” he asked.

“I can’t,” confessed Mannering, sitting down at the table. He realised suddenly that it was laid for two, and that the detective would be bound to notice it, but he couldn’t worry about that now. “Unless it’s this . . .”

He tapped a paper lying front-page upward on the table, next to Lorna’s knife and fork.

Bristow nodded, and his expression was grim. Mannering streamed smoke towards the ceiling, trying to look unconcerned, and wondering whether he succeeded. The suspense of this meeting was getting unbearable, but Bristow was apparently waiting for him to speak again. He made an effort.

“You think it’s another Baron job ?”

“Not much doubt about it,” said Bristow. He crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair, looking at Mannering thoughtfully. Mannering was on edge; at any moment the policeman would see that second place at the table, a thought he could not get out of his mind. It affected Lorna, and Mannering meant to keep her name out of anything that might transpire — away from Bristow too, if it could be managed.

“Yes,” went on the policeman. “The blue mask was reported . . .”

“Blue mask?” Mannering frowned, and thought uncomfortably that the mask was within three yards of Bristow. “I don’t remember that . . .”

“I don’t think I ever mentioned it,” said Bristow. “One of the regulars who admitted teaching the Baron spoke of the blue mask. But that’s by the way. It’s one of his jobs all right, because ether gas was used, and” — Bristow was very grim as he went on — “I’ve had a dose of that from the gentleman. That was the only time I met him face-to-face.”

Mannering’s fears collapsed like a pricked balloon, and in their place came real exhilaration. The sudden laughter in his eyes looked like eagerness as he leaned forward.

“You’ve actually met him and never told me? You’re a close dog, Bristow!”

Bristow grunted, hardly knowing whether to be pleased or offended. He decided on the former.

“I wouldn’t recognise him again,” he said, looking absently round the room. “But that’s by the way, too. I came along” — he laughed a little and coloured — “because I thought a chat with you would do me good, Mannering. The A.C. will be short-tempered again, and I thought . . .”

Bristow stopped, and the pleasant expression went from his face. In that moment Mannering’s fears returned, only to lose themselves in anxiety for Lorna. That second place . . .

But the detective’s voice was very hard, and a warning that something had gone wrong ticked through Mannering’s mind.

“You’ve read about the business, of course?”

Mannering tried to assume that the other was evading the matter of the two places at the table. He nodded, and wished Bristow would stop looking. For the detective was still staring at the one spot, and there was an expression on his face that puzzled the cracksman.

“He was surprised by a watchman, wasn’t he?” he asked with a big effort. “There was some shooting . . .”

“There was one shot,” said Detective-Inspector Bristow in a curiously stilted voice. “It was from a Webley thirty-two, Mannering, and we can’t find the bullet. The obvious solution to that little problem is that it lodged in the Baron.”

“Yes,” said Mannering, and his mouth was dry. Bristow was dangerously near the truth now.

“So we think,” said Bristow.

He was still staring at the table. Mannering felt that he must make some comment, or some move, that would cause the detective to shift his gaze. Bristow wasn’t being discreet. He needn’t make it so pointed that he’d seen the two places.

Of course, thought Mannering, I’m all on edge, or I probably wouldn’t have noticed anything. But he is staring, there’s no doubt about it. Why?

He moved in his chair abruptly, and at last Bristow’s gaze shifted. Mannering, jerking his shoulder suddenly, winced with pain, and started to move his left hand towards the wound. He stopped quickly, but Bristow saw it.

“Hurt yourself?” asked the Inspector. His voice seemed a thousand miles away, as though he was in a world of his own.

“Slipped last night at the Ramon Ball,” said Mannering, with a short laugh. He was very wary, very much afraid. It almost seemed that Bristow knew something; the man was getting at him.

“At the Ramon Ball, eh ?” said Bristow. He still seemed a long way off, and his expression was certainly strained, almost incredulous. “Er — it wasn’t that which hurt you, was it?”

“That?” Mannering echoed the word, and turned round.

And then the colour drained from his face. He realised now that Bristow had not been looking at the second place at the table after all. He had been looking at the bullet, which was lying next to the morning paper!

“It looks like a Webley three-two,” said Bristow, like a man in a dream. “Let me see it, Mannering . . .”

The door of the bedroom was not quite closed, and Lorna Faundey could see the spruce figure of Bristow as he sat opposite Mannering. She was glad that she had seen the detective before and could recognise him, for it enabled her to judge the position at a glance.

She could estimate the peril of that visit.

Mannering was not at his best. He had suffered considerably from loss of blood, and although his recovery had been speedy, and he had shown little sign of his overnight ordeal, the fact remained that he was less likely to be able to outwit the detective than if he had been uninjured. For a few moments Lorna felt really afraid. She knew nothing of the co-operation between Mannering and the police, and she could conceive of no reason for the early-morning visit, excepting a connection with the burglary at the Ramons; house. Her heart was beating as she stared tensely through the narrow opening of the door.

Alter a few seconds she breathed more easily. She could see that Bristow was friendly, and that Mannering was not perturbed. The conversation between the two men came to her ears. She realised for the first time that Mannering had been helping the detective, and the realisation made her eyes dance. It was a situation that Mannering would use to perfection, and that few other men would have dared to try.

Satisfied that there was no need for alarm, she turned back into the bedroom. She looked rather sad and rather weary for a moment, very much as she had looked just before Bristow had entered the flat. She thought, with a wry smile, that Mannering would have known the truth — the worst — if the detective had delayed the visit for another five minutes.

Did she want him to know?

Until that morning she had not. But now she felt that it would be wiser if he did. He would understand, she believed; he was remarkable for his power of understanding. And he would say nothing, and make no protest against things as they were. He would wait

Wait. . .

She felt that she had been waiting for ever, instead of for five years. She felt, as she had a few days before, when she had taken the money from Mannering, and as she had felt when she had persuaded Lady Kenton to buy that picture for three hundred pounds, that she would know nothing of happiness. Just now and again, with Mannering, she had forgotten the truth, but memory came back all too swiftly; and if memory failed there was fact.

She shivered a little, and went back to the door.

What she saw now made her eyes widen in alarm, and filled her with sudden dread. Her body went rigid.

Bristow was staring towards the table. He was speaking in a hard, dry voice, which had little or no friendliness in it Of course, it was possible that he had realised that there was someone else in the flat, and that he had drawn his own — and the wrong — conclusions. There were men who would have looked askance at another who had been caught out in an affaire. Many men, in fact.

But she doubted whether Bristow would be affected by that.

Then she looked at the table, and her heart seemed to stop. She heard Bristow’s voice, stiff and far away.

“It looks like a Webley three-two. Let me see it, Mannering.”

And she knew that it was the bullet. She remembered that John had asked for it, and that she had brought it from the bathroom, intending to give it to him. And then she had seen the papers, which he had placed so that she would have to see the headlines, and she had put the tell-tale bullet down, forgetting it, thinking only of herself and Mannering, an association which she knew might end abruptly one day, or else which would go on and on, if their patience was everlasting.

And the bullet was on the table.

Her mind worked quickly. She saw Bristow stand up, saw his very jerky movements as he took the bullet and examined it. She saw Mannering’s expression too, and she realised that Mannering knew that he was caught

He was caught. The police would be able to test that bullet, and prove that it had come from the revolver of the man who had been guarding the Ramon house on the previous night. That and the bullet-wound in Mannering’s shoulder would be all the proof that the police would need to make their case sound.

The doors of prison seemed to be closing round John Mannering at that moment. Lorna Fauntley hardly knew how to think. But there must be something she could do — there must be some way out. . . .

Her eyes narrowed suddenly as an idea came.

There was a way, difficult, perhaps, dangerous enough to implicate her as well as Mannering if it tailed. But if it succeeded both of them would be sale, and she was prepared to take the risk; it did not even make her stop to think.

The whole affair rested on that bullet. It was concrete evidence. It could be shown in court and could be matched up with the revolver, the turning-point of the evidence against Mannering. If there was no bullet, she reasoned, there was no evidence. Bristow could think what he liked, but thinking was no use in a court of law. She could swear that Mannering had been with her at the New Arts Hall from nine o’clock until half-past twelve, and others would support her, believing it to be the truth; the papers recorded the time of the crime as half-past eleven, and the alibi would be sufficient; but it would be useless in the face of that bullet. So it must go.

Very suddenly, and with a smile on her face that baffled Mannering and puzzled Bristow, she opened the door of the bedroom and entered the living-room.

Mannering paled. Bristow looked round in surprise.

Lorna stopped, as if startled to find two men instead of one. Just for a moment she looked alarmed, and Mannering was forced to admire her self-control. Then her smile returned, and she looked at Bristow.

“I didn’t know we had company,” she said. “Has John suggested tea, or don’t you believe in two breakfasts ?”

Bristow could not think of anything to say. His mind had been jerked away from contemplation of the bullet between his fingers, and he hardly realised that it was still there as he stared at Lorna.

“Two breakfasts?”

Lorna laughed lightly. Mannering, for all his admiration of her self-possession, could not for the life of him understand what she was driving at. But he knew she was playing with an idea. She looked at him once, quickly, but with a wealth of meaning. The helplessness that had surged through him when Bristow had seen the bullet and picked it from the table disappeared. There was a chance, faint perhaps, but definitely there. And Lorna was playing her hand confidently. If anyone could work the miracle she could. He felt his pulse quicken.

“I assume you’ve eaten once,” said Lorna, still smiling. She seemed blissfully unaware of the tension in the air, and looked at Bristow, who hesitated for a moment. Mannering caught his eye, and flashed an appeal to the policeman. He realised that Lorna wanted him to back her up; she wanted him to persuade Bristow not to broach the subject while she was there. It was expecting a great deal, but there was a faint possibility that Bristow could be induced to drop it, if only for a short while, and thus save Mannering from being unmasked in front of a woman.

Bristow fingered his moustache awkwardly. He read the appeal, and nodded slowly, while Lorna took another cup and saucer from a small cupboard, asked him how much sugar and whether any milk. He answered automatically. The seconds seemed to drag like hours.

Lorna filled three cups, and handed one to him, as if nothing was out of the ordinary.

Mannering marvelled again at her self-possession, but he was still puzzled. She knew about the bullet, and she must realise the situation, but she was carrying herself superbly. Bristow couldn’t know for certain whether she had overheard any of the conversation.

The detective reached for the cup, and then realised that he couldn’t take it while the bullet was in his hand. He didn’t know that Lorna was gambling on the belief that he would not give up the evidence he held, and he drew back quickly. But he was a fraction of a second too late. Lorna uttered a little cry of alarm. . . .

Mannering saw that she actually pushed the cup and saucer against the detective’s hand; it was the crucial moment, and he almost cried out in suspense. The cup tilted and went over. The tea, scalding hot, poured over Lorna’s fingers and over Bristow’s.

The detective gasped, and dropped the bullet as the tea stung his flesh. It wasn’t until a moment later that he realised that he had been tricked.

Lorna bent down like a flash, and Mannering realised what she was doing. He seemed to be laughing to himself, irrationally, at the cleverness of the ruse. And she was still playing a part, still fighting.

“I’m awfully sorry,” she said. “I really should have been more careful. No — I’ll pick it up. . . .”

But Bristow was alert now.

“Get up!” he snapped, and his voice was harder than Mannering had ever heard it before.

Lorna stood up, holding the cup and saucer, neither of which had broken; her expression was icy as she eyed the detective. Many a man would have been deceived by her words and her tone.

“I don’t quite understand,” she said.

Bristow grunted, and his eyes were like agate.

“I understand you now,” he said. “This isn’t going to be quite the picnic you seem to think, young lady. Where’s that bullet?”

“Bullet?” Lorna’s tone, the question in her voice, the expression on her face, and the apparent mystification in her eyes were perfect. She stared at Bristow, waiting for him to answer.

The detective swore beneath his breath, nonplussed for a moment.

Mannering was feeling an absurd relief. The reaction tended to make him feel light-headed, but he realised his weakness, and knew that he must do something to support Lorna without spoiling her ruse. He looked towards the floor at the pool of tea, and then into Bristow’s eyes.

“Did you mention a bullet?” he asked, and his voice sounded unnatural, even to himself. “I . . .”

Bristow snapped his fingers with a gesture of more than annoyance. He was bristling with anger, but beneath the anger was common sense and a knowledge of the strength of the powers behind him. He had been outwitted, but only temporarily. The bullet was still in the room, almost certainly in Lorna Fauntley’s slim hand.

“Don’t try to be funny,” he snapped, and his eyes flamed as he looked at Mannering. “There are some things which are out of bounds, Mannering, and that’s one of them.”

Mannering flushed, but laughed.

“You’re beside yourself,” he said easily. “You’ve come here excited, and you don’t know what you’re saying — or doing.”

“Excited!” Bristow blared the word. “Do you mean to tell me that there wasn’t a bullet?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Mannering. The gleam in his eyes belied the words, but his lips were steady and serious. “Do you, Lorna ?”

The girl shook her head; her eyes were inscrutable.

“He’s being abominably rude,” she said. “If he’s a specimen of the Yard policemen I’m inclined to agree with Lady Kenton.”

Mannering kept a straight face with difficulty. He knew, Bristow knew, and Lorna knew that unless that bullet were produced Bristow had no kind of a charge against him. The bullet was in Lorna’s hand. Bristow daren’t try to use force, and he would have to wait until a woman came from the Yard. That would give them half an hour or more to get rid of the bullet effectively. God, what a situation!

Bristow’s eyes hardened. He realised that he was being baited in the hope that he would do something foolish. But he was too seasoned an officer to take chances. His voice was harsh.

“So that’s how you’d like to make it, is it?” he snapped. “Well, you can’t get away with it, Mannering. You’re the Baron. That bullet will prove it. Now — where’s your telephone ?”

Mannering indicated a stand in the corner of the room. There was no object in trying to evade Bristow on that point, but the detective needn’t reach the instrument.

A moment later Mannering felt a quick revulsion of feeling, and again the situation swung round.

Bristow dipped his hand into his pocket, and pulled out a gun. There was a grim smile on his face, tinged with triumph.

“Yes, I know it’s against regulations,” he said, “but it pays to take a chance at times. I took this in case I bumped into the Baron — into you — last night. It’ll serve its purpose now. Get into the corner — both of you !”

Mannering hesitated. Lorna’s eyes widened, and fear tugged at her heart. This was a development neither of them had anticipated.

“I shouldn’t take any chances,” grunted Bristow. He was hard and implacable, and he seemed to have changed into granite. “If this goes off it’ll be because you were resisting me in the execution of my duty. I’ve nothing to worry about, and you stand to risk another bullet.”

There was a tense silence as he stopped. Then Mannering uttered a short, high-pitched laugh.

“Let’s humour him,” he said to Lorna, and he hardly knew how to keep his voice level, for his heart was thumping fast.

Bristow’s eyes glinted. He watched the couple move towards the corner, and the glint changed from one of annoyance to satisfaction at Mannering’s words. Keeping his gun trained on his prisoners, he reached for the telephone. It was one of the new type, and he had no difficulty in talking and keeping his captives under his eyes. They were caught. Mannering might have moved and taken a chance, but he would not risk Lorna.

“Scotland Yard,” Bristow grunted. There was a pause. Then: “Sergeant Tring? Oh, Tring, come along to Mannering’s flat, in Brook Street, with two plain-clothes men and a woman. Yes, a woman. That’s all. Don’t lose any time.”

He replaced the receiver with a flourish.

That just about finished you,” he said evenly, and he smiled, more like the old Bill Bristow well known and liked in the East End. “I’ll admit you gave me a shock, Mannering, and I’ll admit it was luck that I found you, but — we always get our man.”

Mannering shrugged his shoulders. He contrived to smile, but he felt no humour. The end was coming, quickly, undramatically. His recent burglaries and his successes seemed to lose a great deal of their glitter.

He seemed to picture the crowded court, the judge and jury, the droning voice of the prosecutor. It would be child’s play for the Crown. There was hardly a possible line of defence. Even Toby Plender wouldn’t be able to do anything, clever though he was.

Mannering felt physically sick.

Bristow seemed to realise it, and naturally felt a malicious pleasure. It rankled deeply that he had been made such a complete fool, and even now he was wondering what Lynch’s comment would be.

“It’ll be in your favour,” he said, “that you didn’t try force, Mannering. And it’s luck for you that you don’t carry firearms.”

Mannering shrugged his shoulders again, and Lorna’s eyes were very wide. She was gripping Mannering’s sound arm, and he could feel her fingers trembling. Neither of them spoke.

“I suppose you wouldn’t like to tell me where I’ll find the stuff?” suggested Bristow, fingering his moustache. “It would save a lot of time.”

Mannering made a big effort.

“What stuff?” he asked. His voice was remarkably steady, and he surprised even himself.

There was a gleam of admiration in Bristow’s eyes.

“You’re game,” he said grudgingly.

Lorna broke out as the words left the Inspector’s lips. Her poise had gone now, and her breast was heaving.

“John — don’t let it happen! Take a chance. You can get away; you must, you must! You mustn’t let them get you. John . . .”

Mannering gripped her arm soothingly; her outburst gave him new strength.

“Steady,” he said. “There’s no sense in losing your head, my dear. Bristow’s got an idea that I’m the Baron, and he won’t be satisfied until it’s been proved to the contrary. So . . .”

Lorna swallowed hard. She looked up at the man at her side, and saw his face set in a strange smile. He would fight to the last, of course.

There was a fleeting expression of doubt in Bristow’s eyes, but it was gone in a flash. He laughed rather harshly, and moved his gun.

“That’ll cut no ice when we’ve found the stuff you took from Ramon’s,” he said. “And the bullet.”

“No?” Mannering was very cool. His mind was working at top speed, on one thing and one thing only. The bullet.

How could he get round that substantial piece of evidence? Was there a way out, other than losing the bullet? Must this be the end ?

“No,” snapped Bristow.

Mannering bent his head suddenly, until his lips were very close to Lorna’s ear. Bristow’s gun moved a fraction of an inch threateningly.

“No tricks,” he warned.

“Try and slip it in my pocket,” whispered Mannering. Don’t answer.” He straightened up, and grinned at Bristow. “Couldn’t we sit down now ?” he demanded.

The detective was bristling with suspicion.

“I’ve warned you,” he said, “and if you try any tricks, Mannering, you’ll make acquaintance with another bullet. I’ve had more than enough of the Baron — a lot more.”

“I find him a little too universal myself,” smiled Mannering.

As he spoke he moved, and Lorna slipped the bullet from her hand into his pocket. Or almost into it. At the critical moment he moved again, and the little lump of lead dropped to the floor. The plop came as Lorna gasped out in consternation. Bristow’s eyes glittered, and he made his first mistake.

He darted towards the bullet. Mannering saw him, loosed his left arm, and swung it at the detective with every ounce of strength in his body. Bristow realised the ruse a fraction of a second too late. He saw the clenched fist loom in front of his eyes, and then there came the sickening thud of fist on bone and flesh. Bristow went sprawling, his eyes rolling as he fell.

Lorna seemed petrified; the thing had happened so swiftly. Mannering swung towards the telephone while Bristow was still dropping to the floor. He had dialled his number before Bristow’s head dropped back, but he need not have worried, for his man was unconscious.

Mannering was almost frenzied with excitement, and his eyes were gleaming. The wait for the response to his call seemed never-ending. But a voice came at last, a rather sleepy and irritable voice.

“Hallo, there! Yes, yes?”

The Colonel, thought Mannering. And: “Let me speak to Gerry,” he said, keeping his voice steady with a great effort. “Yes, Gerry Long; quickly, please.”

“A minute,” grunted Colonel Belton at the other end of the wire.

The minute seemed age-long.

Bristow was still stretched out, unconscious. Lorna seemed to break through the stupefaction which had gripped her when she had seen the policeman go down, and her eyes brightened.

“What shall we do with it?” she demanded.

“Lose it, with luck,” snapped Mannering, “If this man keeps me waiting much longer I’ll . . .”

“But why can’t I take it?” Lorna almost cried the words. “I could get to the river, drop it down a drain . . .”

“And have the police pestering you, questioning you and your lather, your mother and . . .”

“But it doesn’t matter. You’ll be all right.”

Mannering’s eyes were very warm.

“You’re very dear,” he said. “But I think we can get away with it. . . . Ah! Gerry . . .” He swung round to the telephone, and Gerry Long, cheerful again now, answered quickly.

“H’m-h’m. Want me, Mannering?”

“Come to my flat,” snapped Mannering, “the back way. You came once before — remember?”

“Yes.” Long seemed to realise the urgency in the other’s tone. There was crispness in his voice at the other end of the wire.

“Stand in the courtyard,” snapped Mannering, “and catch the thing I’m going to throw out of the window. Then lose it. A drain, or the river, somewhere. And for God’s sake be here inside five minutes — less if you can make it.”

“Right,” said Long, and Mannering heard the click of the receiver.

He swung round towards the girl, and his eyes were dancing with hope. But there was anxiety in his expression, for time was precious.

“I think we’ll do it,” he muttered. “I wish to heaven you weren’t here, my dear, but it’ll be best for you to stop now.”

Lorna nodded. She did not know why, but she accepted Mannering’s assurance without question. But there was one thing worrying her, and she pointed towards Bristow, who was lying at full length, still motionless.

“What about — him?”

Mannering could see the rise and fall of the detective’s chest, and he believed that the other would regain consciousness in a few minutes, none the worse for his knock-out, but very bad-tempered and with a stronger dislike of the Baron than ever.

“He’ll be all right,” he grunted. “The thing is — will Gerry get here first, or Tanker — the policeman? Oh, my dear . . .”

He broke off, white to the lips. There was a thud of heavy feet on the landing outside the front-door of the flat. Mannering’s face paled, but his voice was steady.

He held out the bullet to the girl.

“I’ll go,” he said. “If it’s the police get into the bedroom, wait for Gerry, and throw that down when he comes. I’ll keep them out — somehow.”

But he doubted whether he could. He knew that Sergeant Jacob (Tanker) Tring was a shrewd officer, and would have no hesitation in breaking into every room in the flat when he saw his superior lying unconscious; and if Tring got into the room in time to see Gerry Long outside the game was up.

As he turned the handle of the door he was wishing that he had let Lorna take the bullet out of the flat. She would have had time to get away; the proof would have been missing. But before he had opened the door he knew that he had done the only thing. It lessened the chance of dragging Lorna’s name through the mud, and if it was humanly possible that had to be avoided.

He pulled the door open, his face set to greet Tring.

And then he stood very still for a moment, staring at a large, solemn-faced man who was resting a heavy attaché-case on the floor, and who was proffering packets of note-paper and envelopes.

“Would you care to buy . . .” The man’s opening words came smoothly.

“I’ll make you a gift,” said Mannering, recovering from the surprise and acting quickly.

The man’s face brightened at the sight of a free half-crown, but darkened as the door was shut in his face abruptly. He pocketed the coin, and walked on to the next flat, shrugging his shoulders and lugging his case, knowing nothing of the alarm he had caused.

Mannering hurried towards Lorna, who was standing by the door. She had known from his words that it had been a false alarm. Quickly he explained, and went to the window anxiously. The alleyway along which Gerry Long would have to come was empty.

And then Mannering’s face hardened; this time there was no mistake.

He could just see into Brook Street, for his flat was near a corner, and he saw the police car, which was travelling at a generous forty miles an hour along the road. He recognised the dour face of Tanker Tring next to the driver, and he knew that the game was almost over.

Lorna saw his change of expression, and guessed why. Her eyes clouded, and for the life of her she could not have spoken.

“They’ll be here in a moment,” Mannering muttered. “I’ll give them a minute — no more. Why the hell doesn’t Long come?”

The question was useless. They waited and watched tensely, with their ears pricked to catch the slightest sound from the front of the flat. It was a matter of seconds now. Once the police arrived the chance was gone.

And then Mannering saw the thing he wanted most in the world just then. Gerry Long was hurrying along the alleyway and staring up at the window. The seconds passed like hours, and Mannering felt like a man possessed when the knock thundered on the front-door with the American barely within throwing-distance.

“Answer it,” Mannering said to Lorna very grimly.

Lorna moved away, fear clutching at her, a mad unreasoning fear that it was too late to save Mannering now. But Mannering, in that last tense moment, hardly noticed her. He saw that Long was hurrying, and he could see the anxiety on the American’s face. Long was in the small courtyard leading from the alley now. Mannering moved to the window, waved, and pressed a finger to his lips. He was trembling like a leaf as tossed the bullet down. Was it in time? . . .

Long waited below with his hands poised. The bullet dropped into them safely, and Mannering felt a tremendous relief. He was through!

And then Lorna’s voice came, raised in an agony of fear.

“John, be careful, be careful!”

Mannering swung round as the door was pushed open violently. He saw Bristow, conscious but wild-eyed, outlined in the doorway, and the policeman lunged towards him, cursing. Mannering stood back rigidly, watchfully, his face blank. Bristow saw the open window and guessed the rest. He leaped for the opening and stared out. In the distance he could see Gerry Long’s head and shoulders, but the American was too far away now to be recognised. But Bristow wasn’t finished. . . .

“I’ll get you,” he snapped. “Don’t make any mistake about that, Mannering.”

As he spoke he leaped towards the window.

Mannering knew what the other was going to do. The one chance that remained for Bristow to get the bullet was to catch the man who was running away. The one way to start was through the window; seconds counted, as much for the one man as the other.

Bristow hesitated for the fraction of a second to reconnoitre the position. There was no fire-escape near him, but immediately beneath the window was a Y-shaped drainpipe that offered a slender hold. Had Bristow not been groggy and aware only of the desperate need for catching the man in the alley he might have thought twice about trying to get down that way.

He hardly hesitated, however, and flung one leg over the sill. He rested his loot on the drain-pipe, and then lowered himself. Mannering realised the danger, and cried out in genuine alarm.

“Steady, Bristow — steady!”

And then Bristow slipped. Mannering heard a crack! and he knew in a flash that the drain-pipe had broken.

For a sickening moment Mannering thought that the other was over. It was a long drop to the courtyard below, a drop on to solid concrete, and there could be only one end if Bristow went down. Tragedy loomed in front of him. . . .

Then he saw the tips of the detective’s fingers on the window-ledge. He was at the window in two strides, and for a moment he forgot the wound in his shoulder; he had to. He leaned out and gripped the other’s left wrist as Bristow’s precarious hold was loosened. Every thought but that o. saving the detective was out of his mind now.

The full weight of Bristow’s body was thrown on Mannering’s injured shoulder. The pain stabbed through him, agonising, excruciating. For a moment he was afraid that he could not hold on. Sweat covered his forehead, and his teeth gritted against one another. But he hung on, with Bristow dangling below; and slowly he manoeuvred his left hand to the support of his right.

Grunting with pain, conscious only of the one task, he kept his hold. The pain seemed to be running through his whole body now, and he was wet with sweat. Bristow seemed to grow heavier as the seconds dragged by, but he came no higher. Then his wrist slipped an inch. . . .

Mannering groaned.

He didn’t see the door open, or Tanker Tring, with his face set in alarm, in the doorway. Tring gulped — and then he moved rapidly towards the window, taking the situation in at a glance. He leaned out, fastening his hands round Bristow’s wrists below Mannering’s. Mannering eased his hold, and stumbled back into the room, while Tanker raised his stentorian voice for the other men who had come with him. They were already in the room, but Mannering, leaning against the wall, didn’t see them as they hurried across; nor did he see the three of them haul Bristow up, slowly but easily.

Mannering felt like death.

His face was chalk-white. His eyes were closed, his breath was coming unsteadily. Lorna Fauntley, terrified in case the effort to get rid of the bullet had failed, hardly daring to look into the room, forced herself to enter, and saw Mannering.

Concern drove the fear from her eyes. She went forward quickly, and Mannering heard her voice, as if from a long way off.

“It’s all right, John — all right . . .”

Then Mannering fainted.

Almost at the same moment the policemen by the window dragged Bristow into the room. Tanker Tring was wondering what in heaven’s name had happened, but he concentrated on taking charge of the situation as it was. He found a decanter of whisky and poured a generous portion between Bristow’s lips. He grunted as his superior spluttered and coughed, and absent-mindedly tasted the spirits. He’d learn everything soon enough.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

BRISTOW DISLIKES HIS JOB

DETECTIVE-INSPECTOR WILLIAM BRISTOW LOOKED MOROSELY at his sergeant, but said nothing. Tring was eaten up with curiosity, but he knew when to ask questions and when to keep silent. He stared idly at the half-empty decanter.

Bristow muttered something inaudible under his breath.

The two detectives who had helped in his rescue had gone back to the Yard, with the woman-detective. Bristow knew that it was useless to look for the bullet now. He didn’t feel that he wanted to look for the bullet. He remembered the terrible moment when he had dangled over the window-ledge, and he remembered the relief that had surged through him when Mannering had gripped him. And then, when he had recovered well enough to take charge, he had seen Mannering stretched out on the floor, and he had seen the pool of blood from the wound which had reopened in the Baron’s shoulder.

Bristow was a man, as well as a policeman. He knew that he had been saved from death — or at least from severe injuries — by Mannering’s efforts, and he could guess how much those efforts had cost the other man. And yet. . .

Mannering was the Baron.

Bristow grunted again. He was a policeman, and a policeman had no right to allow sentiment of any kind to interfere with his duty. He knew that Mannering was the Baron, and that in that flat there was enough to prove it. The bullet might be missing, but the jewels would still be there.

That bitterness he had felt towards Mannering because of the ease with which the other had outwitted him and duped him was gone. It was a straightforward job of being a policeman that remained, but it was the most distasteful one that he had ever experienced; nevertheless it had to be done.

He got up suddenly and started to speak. Before he had said two words, however, Lorna Fauntley came out of the bedroom. Her face was pale, her tone almost listless.

“He’ll have to have a doctor,” she said.

Bristow motioned to the telephone. Tanker, not unaware of the woman’s beauty, clambered up with rather clumsy courtesy and muttered: “I’ll get one along, miss.”

Bristow stared at the girl, who eyed him more than a little wearily.

“Well?” she said.

“I don’t like it,” muttered Bristow, “but it’s got to be done. Did he bring a case with him last night?”

Lorna’s lip tightened obstinately. Bristow passed a hand across his forehead.

“For heaven’s sake don’t make it difficult!” he snapped. “It’ll be the same in the long run. We’re bound to find it.”

She hesitated, and then nodded. Her voice was dull.

“All right,” she said. “It’s in there — the bedroom. He’s still unconscious — don’t make a noise.”

Bristow grunted, and walked heavily towards the room, feeling no satisfaction.

Lorna waited until the door closed behind him. She glanced at Tanker Tring, whose back was towards her, and who was saying “hallo” deliberately and tirelessly into the mouthpiece. If either of them had looked at her at that moment they must have known that something was wrong. But neither of them did. She slipped a key into the lock of the bureau-drawer, opened it quickly and silently, and took the little bundle of pearls that was there, wrapped in cottonwool, with Mannering’s blue mask. The Rosa pearls. Mannering had told her of them a few minutes before, and she was making a last effort; even now it might fail.

She slipped the things into the “V” of her dress, and pushed the drawer back. Tring muttered into the telephone for a moment, and replaced it, turning round and seeing the girl learning wearily against the bureau, motionless. He grunted again. Something was certainly wrong, and she’d had a nasty turn, that he knew.

Bristow opened the bedroom door at that moment, and came out.

There was a twisted smiled on his lips as he stared at Lorna, but her face was set. She looked completely beaten and hopeless. Bristow’s smile changed slowly to an expression of bewilderment. Surely it wasn’t possible that he’d been wrong?

He knew that it wasn’t. He knew that Mannering and the Baron were one and the same.

But he couldn’t prove it! The bullet was gone, and the brown suit-case in the bedroom was filled with the costume of a Charles II beau! There were no jewels!

“Turn this place inside-out,” he snapped to Tring.

Tanker shrugged his shoulders, deciding that it was not a moment to speak, and started his job.

Lorna Faundey had never seen the police at work before. She was surprised by the thoroughness of the search. Drawers, pictures, carpets, furniture, everything was moved and turned inside-out, and everything was replaced in its exact position.

But there was nothing there which could interest them, and Lorna’s heart was beating fast.

Bristow called enough at last. He looked at the girl, and he was uncertain whether there was triumph in her eyes or whether it was sheer relief. He was inclined to think that it was relief. He shrugged.

“I don’t know how he did it,” he muttered, half to himself, “but he did.” He glared at Tring. “Why the blazes don’t you stop staring?” he snapped. “Get out, can’t you?”

Tring was saved from the necessity of a retort by the arrival of the doctor. Bristow’s last sight of Lorna Fauntley that day was of her hurrying into the bedroom, followed by the portly, grey-haired physician.

Gerry Long was satisfied to do what he was asked and to show no curiosity. He owed Mannering his life, and there was little that he would not do to pay the debt. When, after the affair of the morning — he had dropped the bullet into the Thames at Westminster — he received a telephone-message from Lorna Fauntley, he made no bones about doing what she asked.

It was a simple enough task. He had to go to the New Arts Hall and ask for the attaché-case which had been left in a private cubicle on the previous night. The initials on the case were J. M. The job was accomplished successfully, and Long, still on Lorna’s instructions, took it to the Waterloo cloakroom and left it there under the name of James Mitchell. It was not until six months later that he realised that he had taken the Ramon jewels and Mannering’s gas-pistol to the station. Gerry Long was to learn a great many things in the next six months, but for the time being he was content to remain in the dark.

At his flat Mannering leaned back on his pillow and smiled at Lorna Fauntley.

The doctor had gone. After the straining it had received the wound was nasty, but it would yield to treatment, and neither of them was worried about it. Lorna was still worried, however, about the possibility of trouble from Bristow, but Mannering doubted whether it would come.

“He didn’t like his job after the window episode, my dear. I’ll be surprised if we hear anything more from him over this business. But that doesn’t mean we can do as we like in future. He’s a good fellow, but he’ll stick to his job. God,” he added, “but it was close ! If you hadn’t managed to get the pearls, Lorna, it would have been all up. Tring didn’t notice you?”

“No more than Bristow noticed you weren’t unconscious,” said Lorna, and her smile was bright.

Mannering closed his eyes for a moment, going over the affair in his mind.

He had known that apart from the bullet the only possible source of trouble was the Rosa pearls, and when he had regained consciousness and had seen Lorna alone with him he had told her where to find the key and the pearls. She had done the rest, coolly and capably. The Ramon jewels he had left at the New Arts Hall; the case had been locked, and was safer there than anywhere else. He did not think that Bristow was likely to look for them there.

So he had those gems and the Rosas. They would bring enough to keep him going for several months; if he could sell the Rosas, enough for a year or more. But in future he’d be more careful.

More careful!

He opened his eyes suddenly. A shock that was almost physical ran through him. He had realised, almost without thinking about it, that he had no thought of giving up the game: the idea hadn’t occurred to him. . . .

The Baron was still free.

But there was Lorna, he realised, and he smiled at her, speaking slowly of the things he had been tempted to ask many times before, until: “If I drop it,” he asked, “will you marry me?”

There was a short, tense silence. Her eyes, dark, sometimes mocking and mysterious, held nothing but deep sorrow.

“But I can’t,” she said, in a voice which he could hardly hear. “I’d give half my life to, John, but I can’t.”

As she finished speaking there was an absolute silence in the room for a period that seemed as if it would never end. Then Mannering stretched out his arms and took her hands in his. There was a soft smile on his lips, and a gleam in his eyes that she had seen so often and loved so much.

He was thinking, as he looked into her face, of the things she had said and done in the last few months — since the day when they had first met and she had appealed to him as “different”. He remembered her reputation; he knew that no men had interested her, that Fauntley had despaired of her ever marrying. Then he reminded himself of the hopelessness that had shone from her eyes sometimes, of the fits of depression she had, even though she had managed to lose them when they had been together. He recalled the time when he had discovered that she wanted money badly, yet dared not approach her father.

And now she said, “I’d give half my life to, John, but I can’t.”

It could mean only one thing, he knew, and now he felt that he had suspected it for a long time. He spoke at last, slowly, smiling, and giving her a confidence enough to repress the tears that were so close to the surface.

“So — you’re married?”

Lorna nodded, and said nothing. What could she say?

“And you’re paying — him — money to keep the marriage secret ?”

She nodded again, but spoke this time.

“Yes.” Her voice was very low, but he heard every word clearly. “I’ve been married for a long time. Oh, it seems a century ago! He went away soon afterwards, and we agreed to keep it a secret until he returned . . . God, what a fool I was!”

“Steady,” murmured Mannering, and his pressure on her hands increased.

“Thanks,” she said, and a smile flashed in her eyes, to disappear swiftly. “I don’t know what the past year would have been like without you, John. He came back just after I’d met you. He wanted money, and he was prepared to keep silent if I gave it to him. So” — she shrugged her shoulders, and her smile was gone now; she looked tragic, he told himself, but more beautiful than he had ever seen her — “I did all I could. That’s why I tried to take the Overndon necklace . . .”

Mannering had told himself a few minutes before that he knew all there was to know. Now, as her words came out slowly, they took several seconds to impress themselves on his mind. She had tried to take the Overndon necklace!

“Good God!” he gasped. “At the wedding — so the dummy pearls were yours!”

“Yes,” she said steadily; her gaze did not move. “I even bought the dummy pearls to match the real ones as near as I could. I’d been with Emma to buy them in the first place, and I knew what they were like. But when I was there my nerves went. I slipped the dummies into Gerry’s pocket never dreaming there would be any trouble. . . .”

She broke off, and there was silence for a few minutes, Mannering was trying to get this new fact out of his mind; it was amazing enough, but it didn’t matter now. True, it cleared up the mystery of the dummies, but everything other than the fact of Lorna’s marriage was unimportant.

“It’s all right,” he said at last. “Nothing happened that wasn’t soon put right. But. . .”

She flung her head back and ran her fingers through her hair.

“The marriage can’t be put right,” she said. “Oh, I could let it be known; I could get a divorce. But it would break Dad — he’s so scared of scandal. Mother too. Somehow I don’t think I could find the courage to — to let it come out.”

“You’d rather pay him — and have your life a misery,” said Mannering, but there was no sting in his words, and his voice strengthened suddenly. “We’ll find a way out, my dear. We must find one. A year or two won’t matter, while we’re waiting; and meanwhile we can work.”

Lorna smiled; her eyes held real humour, and he marvelled at the way she could forget the thing that must have made her wish, often enough, that she was dead.

“The Baron can work,” she said, and they laughed together.

THE END