Part 13 (1/2)

Severac Bablon checked him, with a gesture.

”You will not contribute to a fund designed to aid in the defence of England? That is unjust. You reap large profits from England, Baron. To mention but one instance--you must draw quite twenty thousand pounds per annum from the firm of Romilis and Imer, Hatton Garden!”

Baron Hague stared in angry bewilderment.

”I have nothing to do with Romilis and Imer!”

”No? Then you can have no objection to my placing in the proper hands particulars--which, you will find, have been abstracted from your notebook--of the manner in which this parcel of diamonds reached Hatton Garden! I have the letter from your agent in Cape Town, addressed to the firm, and I have one signed 'Geo. Imer,' addressed to _you_! Finally, I am a telephone subscriber, and De Beers' number is Bank 5740! Shall I ring up the London office in the morning and draw their attention to this parcel, and to the interesting correspondence bearing upon it?”

Baron Hague's large features grew suddenly pinched in appearance. He leant forward, his hands resting upon his knees. Roles were reversed.

The great banker found himself seeking for a defence--one that might satisfy the rogue for whom the police of Europe were seeking!

”Why do you make a victim of _me_?” he gasped. ”Antony Elschild is----”

”Mr. Antony Elschild is a member of one of the greatest Jewish families in Europe, you would say? And his interests are wholly British? He has recognised that, Baron. I have his cheque for fifty thousand pounds!”

”For _how much_?”

”For fifty thousand pounds! Should you care to see it? I am forwarding it immediately to the _Gleaner_. Mr. Elschild is my friend. He it was who proposed that this fund be started by the great capitalists so as to stimulate smaller subscribers. His name is never absent from such lists, Baron.”

The Baron gulped.

”In Berlin--they would say I was mad!”

”And what will they say in Berlin if I call up De Beers in the morning?

Which reputation is preferable, Baron?”

Hague sat staring, fascinated, at the man in the long robe, who smoked yellow cigarettes and filled the air with their peculiar fumes. It seemed to him, suddenly, that he had taken leave of his senses, and that this cell--this pungent perfume--this man with the soul-searching eyes, the incisive voice--all were tricks of his senses.

What had he preserved the secret of his connection with the Hatton Garden firm for all these long years--each year determining to quit whilst safe, but each year lured on by the prospect of vaster gain--only to lay it at the feet of this Severac Bablon, who would ruin him?

Faintly, sounds of occasional traffic penetrated. From a place of half-shadows beyond the table, Severac Bablon's luminous eyes watched.

Save for those distant sounds which told of a thoroughfare near by, silence lay like a fog upon the place, and upon the mind of Baron Hague.

It grew intolerable, this stillness; it bred fear. Who was Severac Bablon? What was the secret of his power?

Hague looked up.

”Gott im Himmel!” he said hoa.r.s.ely. ”Who are you? Why do you persecute those who are Jewish?”

Severac Bablon stretched his hand over the great carved table, holding it, motionless, beneath the lamp. From the bezel of the solitary ring which he wore gleamed iridescent lights, venomous as those within the eye of a serpent.

A device, which seemed to be formed of lines of fire within the stone, glowed, redly, through the greenness. The ring was old--incalculably old--as anyone could see at a glance. And, in some occult fas.h.i.+on, it _spoke_ to Baron Hague; spoke to that which was within him--stirred up the Jewish blood and set it leaping madly through his veins.

Back to his mind came certain words of a rabbi, long since gone to his fathers; before his eyes glittered words which he had had impressed upon his mind more recently than in those half-forgotten childish days.

And now, he feared. Slowly, he rose from the big cus.h.i.+oned chair. He feared the man whom all the world knew as Severac Bablon, and his fear, for once, was something that did not arise from his purse. It was something which arose from the green stone--and from the one who possessed it--who dared to wear it. Hague backed yet farther from the table, squarely, whereupon, beneath the globular lamp, lay the long white hand.

”_Gott!_” he muttered. ”I am going mad! You cannot be--you----”