Part 46 (1/2)

”By--whom?”

”By Severac Bablon, so it is written on his desk. It is unfortunate that Lawrence was there to-night; but I--I am your friend, my child. Are you going to faint--no?”

”No,” said the girl, smiling bravely.

”Then good-night.”

He pressed her hand again--and was gone.

CHAPTER XXIII

M. LEVI

The art of detection, in common with every other art, produces from time to time a genius; and a genius, whatever else he may be, emphatically is _not_ a person having ”an infinite capacity for taking pains.” Such masters of criminology as Alphonse Bertillon or his famous compatriot, Victor Lemage, whose resignation so recently had stirred the wide world to wonder--achieve their results by painstaking labours, yes, but all those labours would be more or less futile without that elusive element of inspiration, intuition, luck--call it what you will--which const.i.tutes genius, which alone distinguishes such men from the other capable plodders about them. A brief retrospective survey of the surprising results achieved by Dr. Lepardo within the s.p.a.ce of an hour will show these to have been due to brilliant imagination, deep knowledge of human nature, foresight, unusual mental activity, and--that other capacity so hard to define.

Dr. Lepardo was studying the following paragraph marked by Miss Maitland:

FOR SALE.--Entire furniture, antique, of large flat, comprising pieces by Sheraton, Chippendale, Boule, etc. Paintings by Greuze, Murillo, Van Dyck, also modern masters. Pottery, Chinese, Sevres, old English, etc. A collection of 500 pieces of early pewter, etc., etc., etc. The whole valued at over 30,000.

The torpedo-like car had dropped him at Bedford Court Mansions, and, shuffling up the steps into the hall, he addressed himself to the porter.

”Ah, my friend, has the Count de Guise gone out again?”

”I have not seen him go out, sir.”

”Not since you saw him come in?”

”Not since then, sir--no.”

”About half-past seven he came in, I think? Yes, about half-past.”

”Quite right, sir.”

Again the odd gleam came into the doctor's eyes, as it had come when, by one of his amazing leading questions he had learnt that Lawrence Guthrie's father resided in Constantinople. The doctor mounted to the first floor. He was about to ring the bell of No. 59b, when another idea struck him. He descended and again addressed the porter.

”The Count must be resting. He does not reply. He has, of course, discharged his servants?”

”Yes, sir. He leaves England next week.”

”Ah, he is alone.”

Upstairs once more.

He rang three times before the door was opened to him by a tall, slight man, arrayed in a blue silk dressing-gown. He had a most pleasant face, and wore his moustache and beard according to the latest Parisian mode.

He looked about thirty years of age, was fair, blue-eyed, and handsome.

”I am sorry to trouble you so late, Count,” said the old doctor, in perfect French; ”but I think I can make you an offer for some, if not all, of your collection.”