Part 19 (1/2)

Then Allerd.y.k.e went off to the General Post Office and sent a telegram to his housekeeper in Bradford--

”Send off at once by registered parcel post to me at Waldorf Hotel, London, the morocco-bound photograph alb.u.m lying on right-hand corner of my writing-desk in the library.--MARSHALL ALLERd.y.k.e.”

He went out of the post-office laughing cynically. Bit by bit things were coming out, he said to himself as he strolled away towards the hotel; link after link the chain was being forged. But around whom, in the end, was it going to be fastened? It was the first time in his life that he had ever been brought face to face with crime, and the seeking out of the criminal was beginning to fascinate him.

”Egad, it's a queer business!” he muttered. ”A thread here, a thread there!--Heaven knows what it'll all come to. But this Chettle's a good 'un--he's like to do things.”

Chettle joined him in the smoking-room of the hotel at a quarter to seven, and immediately produced a telegram.

”Came half an hour ago,” he said as they sat down in a corner. ”n.o.body but myself seen it up to now. And--it's just what I expected. Read it.”

Allerd.y.k.e slowly read the message through, pondering over it--

”We have made fullest inquiries concerning Lydenberg. He was certainly not in practice here either under that or any other name. Nothing is known of him as a resident in this city. We have definitely ascertained that he came to Christiania from Copenhagen, by land, via Lund and Copenhagen, arriving Christiania May 7th, and that he left here by steams.h.i.+p _Perisco_ for Hull, May 10th.”

”You notice the dates?” observed Chettle. ”May 7th and 10th. Now, it was on May 8th that your cousin wired to Fullaway from Christiania, Mr.

Allerd.y.k.e--there's no doubt about it! This man, Lydenberg, whoever he is or was, was sent to waylay your cousin at Christiania--sent from London.

I've worked it out--he went overland--Belgium, Holland, Germany, Denmark, Sweden, Norway. Sounds a lot--but it's a quick journey. Sir--he was sent!

And the sooner we find out about that photograph the better.”

”I'm at work,” answered Allerd.y.k.e. ”Leave it to me.”

He found his morocco-bound photograph alb.u.m awaiting him when he arrived at the Waldorf Hotel next day, and during the afternoon he took it in his hand and strolled quietly and casually into Franklin Fullaway's rooms.

Everything there looked as he had always seen it--Mrs. Marlow, charming as ever, was tapping steadily at her typewriter: Fullaway, himself a large cigar in his mouth, was reading the American newspapers, just arrived, in his own sanctum. He greeted Allerd.y.k.e with enthusiasm.

”Been away since yesterday, eh?” he said, after warm greetings. ”Home?”

”Aye, I've been down to Yorks.h.i.+re,” responded Allerd.y.k.e offhandedly. ”One or two things I wanted to see to, and some things I wanted to get. This is one of 'em.”

”Family Bible?” inquired Fullaway, eyeing the solemnly bound alb.u.m.

”No. Photos,” answered Allerd.y.k.e. He was going to test things at once, and he opened the book at the fateful page. ”I'm a bit of an amateur photographer,” he went on, with a laugh. ”Here's what's probably the last photo ever taken of James. What d'ye think of it?”

Fullaway glanced at the photograph, all unconscious that his caller was watching him as he had never been watched in his life. He waved his cigar at the open page.

”Oh!” he said airily. ”A remarkably good likeness--wonderful! I said so when I saw it before--excellent likeness, Allerd.y.k.e, excellent! Couldn't be beaten by a professional. Excellent!”

Marshall Allerd.y.k.e felt his heart beating like a sledgehammer as he put his next question, and for the life of him he could not tell how he managed to keep his voice under control.

”Ah!” he said. ”You've seen it before, then? James show it to you?”

Fullaway nodded towards the door of the outer room, from which came the faint click of the secretary's machine.

”He gave one to Mrs. Marlow the very last time he was here.” he answered.

”They were talking about amateur photography, and he pulled a print of that out of his pocket and made her a present of it; said it couldn't be beaten. You're a clever hand, Allerd.y.k.e--most lifelike portrait I ever saw. Well--any news?”

CHAPTER XIX