The Four Faces

"Yes?" I said encouragingly, as he did not speak.

"I'll tell you what's amiss, sir," he answered abruptly, forcing himself to speak. "The day after you'd left, a peculiar-looking man called here, and asked to see you. When I told him you were not at home, he asked if you were out of town. I didn't answer that, sir, but I asked him quite politely if I couldn't give you any message. He answered No, that he must see you himself. Then he started to question me, in a kind of roundabout way, about you and your movements, sir."

"I hope you kept your counsel," I exclaimed quickly, for, excellent servant though Simon, was, he occasionally lacked discretion.

"Indeed I did, sir. Though I was quite courteous, I was a bit short with him. The next day he come again, about the same time—it was close on dinner time—and with him this time was another man—a rather younger man. They questioned me again, sir, quite friendly-like, but they didn't get much change out of me. Yesterday they tried it on a third time—both of them come again—and, well, sir, happing to put my hand into my jacket pocket soon after they were gone, I found these in it."

As he spoke he dived into his jacket, and pulled out an envelope. Opening the envelope, he withdrew from it what I saw at a glance were bank-notes. Unfolding them with trembling hands, which made the notes crackle noisily, he showed me that he had there ten five-pound notes.

"And they gave you those for nothing?" I asked, meaning to be ironical.

"Well, sir, they didn't get anything in return, though they expect something in return—that's only natural. They said they'd come back to see me."

"Did they say when they'd come back?"

"To-day, sir, about the same time as they come yesterday and the day before." He pulled out his watch. "It's close on seven now. Perhaps you will like to see them if they come presently, sir."

"On the other hand, perhaps I shall not," I said, and I lit a cigarette. "At the same time, if they call, you can tell me."

"Certainly, sir—if anybody rings, I'll come at once and tell you."

He shuffled for a moment, then added:

"And these notes, sir; am I entitled to keep them?"

"Of course you are. Anybody has a right to accept and keep a gift. At the same time, I would warn you not to be disappointed if, when you try to cash them, you find the numbers have been stopped."

Downstairs, with Albeury, I began to look through my correspondence. The third telegram I opened puzzled me.

"Is it all right?—Dick."

It had been awaiting me two days. Guessing that there must be a letter from Dick which would throw light on this telegram, I glanced quickly through the pile. I soon came to one addressed in his handwriting.

I had to read it through twice before I fully realized what it all meant. Then I turned quickly to Albeury.

"Read that," I said, pushing the letter to him across the table.

He picked it up and adjusted his glasses. A few moments later he sprang suddenly to his feet.

"My God! Mr. Berrington!" he exclaimed, "this is most serious! And it was written "—he glanced at the date—"eight days ago—the very day you left London."

"What is to be done?" I said quickly.

"You may well ask," he answered. He looked up at the clock. "The police must be shown this at once, and, under the circumstances, told everything that happened in France. I had hoped to be able to entrap the gang without dealing with Scotland Yard direct."

For some moments he paced the room. Never since I had met him had I seen him so perturbed—he was at all times singularly calm. I was not, however, surprised at his anxiety, for it seemed more than likely that quite unwittingly, and with the best intentions, Dick Challoner had not merely landed us in a terrible mess, but that he had certainly turned the tables upon us, leaving Dulcie and myself at the mercy of this desperate gang. On board the boat I had mentioned Dick to the detective, and told him about the cypher, and the part that Dick had played. He had not seemed impressed, as I had expected him to be, and without a doubt he had not been pleased. All he had said was, I now remembered: "It's a bad thing to let a boy get meddling with a matter of this kind, Mr. Berrington"—he had said it in a tone of some annoyance. And now, it would seem, his view had been the right one. What Dick had done, according to this letter just received from him, had been to start advertising in the Morning Post on his own account—in the cypher code which he had discovered—serious messages intended for the gang and that must assuredly have been read by them. With his letter two cuttings were enclosed—his two messages already published. As I looked at them again a thought flashed across me. Now I knew how it came about that my impenetrable disguise had been discovered. Now I knew how it came about that Alphonse Furneaux had been released from the room where Preston had locked him in his flat. And now I knew why the members of the gang had left the "Continental" so suddenly, scattering themselves probably in all directions, and why the woman Stapleton had dashed back to London.

I caught my breath as my train of thought hurried on. Another thought had struck me. I held my breath! Yes, it must be so. Try as I would I could not possibly deceive myself.

Dick had unwittingly been responsible for the murder of George Preston!

This was the most awful blow of all. Unconsciously I looked up at the detective, who still paced the room. Instantly my eyes met his. He may have read in my eyes the horror that I felt, or the strength of my feeling may have communicated my thought to him, for at once he stood still, and, staring straight at me, said in a tone of considerable emotion:

"That boy has done a fearful thing, Mr. Berrington. He has—"

"Stop! Stop!" I cried, raising my head. "I know what you are going to say! But you mustn't blame him, Albeury—he did it without knowing—absolutely without knowing! And only you and I know that he is to blame. Dick must never know—never. Nobody else must ever know. If his father ever finds it out, it will kill him."

For some moments Albeury remained quite still. His lip twitched—I had seen it twitch like that before, when he was deeply moved. At last he spoke.

"Nobody shall ever know," he said in the same strained tone. He paused, then:

"I must talk on your telephone," he exclaimed suddenly, turning to leave the room.

As he did so, Simon entered.

"The two men are here, sir," he said. "I have told them you are quite alone. Shall I show them in?"

CHAPTER XXVII

THE FOUR FACES

They were quietly dressed, inoffensive-looking men, one a good deal younger than the other. Judged by their clothes and general appearance they might have been gentlemen's servants or superior shop-assistants. Directly they saw that I was not alone, the elder, whose age was fifty or so, said, in a tense voice:

"We wish to see you alone, Mr. Berrington. Our business is quite private."

"You can talk openly before this gentleman," I answered, for, at a glance from me, Albeury had remained in the room. "What do you want to see me about?"

"In private, please, Mr. Berrington," he repeated doggedly, not heeding my question.

"Either you speak to me in this gentleman's presence," I answered, controlling my irritation, "or not at all. What do you want?"

They hesitated for barely an instant, and I thought my firmness had disconcerted them, when suddenly I saw them exchange a swift glance. The younger man stepped quickly back to the door, which was close behind him, and, without turning, locked it. As he did so his companion sprang to one side with a sharp cry. Albeury had him covered with a revolver. The younger man had already slipped his hand into his pocket, when I sprang upon him.

Though some years have passed since I practised ju-jitsu, I have not forgotten the different holds. In a moment I had his arms locked behind him—had he attempted to struggle then he must have broken his wrists. Turning, I saw that Albeury had the other man still at his mercy with the revolver—not for an instant did he look away from him.

I was about to call loudly to Simon to call the police, when the elder man spoke.

"Stop!" he gasped, just above a whisper. "You have done us. Give us a chance to escape and well help you."

"Help me! How?" I said, still gripping my man tightly. "What have you come for? What did you want?"

"We're under orders—so help me, we are!" he exclaimed huskily. "We had at any cost to see you."

"And for that you bribed my man, or tried to?"

"Yes—to let us see you alone."

Albeury's arm, extended with the cocked revolver, was as rigid as a rock. The muzzle covered the man's chest. Again the man glanced swiftly at the detective, then went on, speaking quickly: