Part 36 (1/2)

After this interesting conference, whereof each member had but sought to pump the others, M. Duquesne, entering Whitehall, almost ran into a tall man, wearing a most unusual and conspicuous caped overcoat, silk lined; whose haughty, downward glance revealed his possession of very large, dark eyes; whose face was so handsome that the little Frenchman caught his breath; whose carriage was that of a monarch or of one of the musketeers of Louis XIII.

With the ease of long practice, M. Duquesne formed an unseen escort for this distinguished stranger.

Arriving at Charing Cross, the latter, without hesitation, entered the telegraph office. M. Duquesne also recollected an important matter that called for a telegram. In quest of a better pen he leaned over to the compartment occupied by the handsome man, but was unable to get so much as a glimpse of what he was writing. Having handed in his message in such a manner that the ingenious Frenchman was foiled again, he strode out, the observed of everyone in the place, but particularly of M.

Duquesne.

To the latter's unbounded astonishment, at the door he turned and raised his hat to him ironically.

Familiar with the characteristic bravado of French criminals, that decided the detective's next move. He stepped quickly back to the counter as the polite stranger disappeared.

”I am Duquesne of Paris,” he said in his fluent English to the clerk who had taken the message, and showed his card. ”On official business I wish to inspect the last telegram which you received.”

The clerk shook his head.

”Can't be done. Only for Scotland Yard.”

Duquesne was a man of action. He wasted not a precious moment in f.e.c.kless argument. It was hard that he should have to share this treasure with another. But in seven minutes he was at New Scotland Yard, and in fifteen he was back again to his great good fortune, with Inspector Sheffield.

The matter was adjusted. In the notebooks of Messrs Duquesne and Sheffield the following was written:

”Sheard, _Gleaner_, Tudor Street. Laurel Cottage, Dulwich Village, eight to-night.”

Returning to the Astoria to make arrangements for the evening's expedition, Duquesne upon entering his room, found there a large-boned man, with a great, spa.r.s.ely-covered skull, and a thin, untidy beard. He sat writing by the window, and, at the other's entrance, cast a slow glance from heavy-lidded eyes across his shoulder.

M. Duquesne bowed profoundly, hat in hand.

It was the great Lemage.

There were overwhelming forces about to take the field. France, England and the United States were combining against Severac Bablon. It seemed that at Laurel Cottage he was like to meet his Waterloo.

At twenty-five minutes to seven that evening a smart plain-clothes constable reported in Chief Inspector Sheffield's room.

”Well, Dawson?” said the inspector, looking up from his writing.

”Laurel Cottage, Dulwich, was let by the Old College authorities, sir, to a Mr. Sanrack a month ago.”

”What is he like, this Mr. Sanrack?”

”A tall, dark gentleman. Very handsome. Looks like an actor.”

”Sanrack--Severac,” mused Sheffield. ”Daring! All right, Dawson, you can go. You know where to wait.”

Fifteen minutes later arrived M. Duquesne. He had been carpeted by his chief for invoking the aid of the London police in the matter of the telegram.

”Five methods occur to me instantly, stupid pig,” the great Lemage had said, ”whereby you might have learnt its contents alone!”

Heavy with a sense of his own dull powers of invention--for he found himself unable to conceive one, much less five such schemes--M. Duquesne came into the inspector's room.

”Does your chief join us to-night?” inquired Sheffield, on learning that the famous investigator was in London.

”He may do so, m'sieur; but his plans are uncertain.”