Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo

The Sparrow, sprightly and alert, stood, after taking his cafe au lait, looking down into the courtyard. He had been reading through several letters and telegrams which had caused him some perturbation.

“They are playing me false!” he muttered, as he gazed out of the window. “I’m certain of it—quite certain! But, Gad! If they do I’ll be even with them! Who could have given Henfrey away in London—and why?”

He paced the length of the room, his teeth hard set and his hands clenched.

“I thought they were all loyal after what I have done for them—after the fortunes I have put into their pockets. Fancy! One of them a well-known member of Parliament—another a director of one of the soundest insurance companies! Nobody suspects the really great crooks. It is only the little clumsy muddlers whom the police catch and the judge makes examples of!”

Then crossing back to the window, he said aloud:

“Lisette ought to be here! She was due in from Toulouse at nine o’clock. I hope nothing further has happened. One thing is satisfactory—young Henfrey is safe.”

As a matter of fact, the girl had spoken to The Sparrow from her hotel in Toulouse late on the previous night, and told him that her “friend Hugh” was in Marseilles.

Even to the master criminal the whole problem was increasingly complicated. He could not prove the innocence of young Henfrey, because of the mysterious, sinister influence being brought to bear against him. He had interested himself in aiding the young fellow to evade arrest, because he had no desire that there should be a trial in which he and his associates might be implicated.

The Sparrow hated trials of any sort. With him silence was golden, and very wisely he would pay any sum rather than court publicity.

Half an hour went past, but the girl he expected did not put in an appearance.

Monsieur Gautier—the man with the gloved hand—was believed by his old housekeeper to be a rich and somewhat eccentric bachelor, who was interested in old clocks and antique silver, and who travelled extensively in order to purchase fine specimens. Indeed it was by that description he was registered in the archives of the Surete, with the observation that notwithstanding his foreign name he was an Englishman of highest standing.

It was never dreamed that the bristly-haired alert little man, who was so often seen in the salerooms of Paris when antique silver was being sold, was the notorious Sparrow.

Lisette’s failure to arrive considerably disturbed him. He hoped that nothing had happened to her. Time after time, he walked to the window and looked out eagerly for her to cross the courtyard. In those rooms he sometimes lived for weeks in safe obscurity, his neighbours regarding him as a man of the greatest integrity, though a trifle eccentric in his habits.

At last, just before eleven, he saw Lisette’s smart figure in a heavy travelling coat crossing the courtyard, and a few moments later she was shown into his room.

“You’re late!” the old man said, as soon as the door was closed. “I feared that something had gone wrong! Why did you leave Madrid? What has happened?” he asked eagerly.

“Happened!” she echoed in French. “Why, very nearly a disaster! Someone has given us away—at least, Monsieur Henfrey was given away to the police!”

“Not arrested?” he asked breathlessly.

“No. We all three managed to get away—but only just in time! I had a wire to-night from Monsieur Tresham, telling me guardedly that within an hour or so after we left Madrid the police called at my hotel—and at Henfrey’s.”

“Who can have done that?” asked The Sparrow, his eyes narrowing in anger, his gloved hand clenched.

“Your enemy—and mine!” was the girl’s reply. “Franklyn is in Switzerland. Monsieur Henfrey is in Marseilles—at the Louvre et Paix—and I am here.”

“Then we have a secret enemy—eh?”

“Yes—and he is not very far to seek. Monsieur Howell has done this!”

“Howell! He would never do such a thing, my dear mademoiselle,” replied the gloved man, smiling.

“Oh! wouldn’t he? I would not trust either Benton or Howell!”

“I think you are mistaken, mademoiselle. They have never shown much friendship towards each other.”

“They are close friends as far as concerns the Henfrey affair,” declared mademoiselle. “I happen to know that it was Howell who prepared the old man’s will. It is in his handwriting, and his manservant, Cooke, is one of the witnesses.”

“What? You know about that will, Lisette? Tell me everything.”

“Howell himself let it out to me. They were careful that you should not know. At the time I was in London with Franklyn and Benton over the jewels of that ship-owner’s wife, I forget her name—the affair in Carlton House Terrace.”

“Yes. I recollect. A very neat piece of business.”

“Well—Howell told me how he had prepared the will, and how Benton, who was staying with old Mr. Henfrey away in the country, got him to put his signature to it by pretending it to be for the purchase of a house at Eltham, in Kent. The house was, indeed, purchased at Benton’s suggestion, but the signature was to a will which Howell’s man, Cooke, and a friend of his, named Saunders, afterwards witnessed, and which has now been proved—the will by which the young man is compelled to marry Benton’s adopted daughter before he inherits his father’s estates.”

“You actually know this?”

“Howell told me so with his own lips.”

“Then why is young Henfrey being made the victim?” asked The Sparrow shrewdly. “Why, indeed, have you not revealed this to me before?”

“Because I had no proof before that Howell is our enemy. He has now given us away. He has some motive. What is it?”

The bristly-haired little man of twenty names and as many individualities pondered for a moment. It was evident that he was both apprehensive and amazed at the suggestion the pretty young French girl had placed before him.

When one finds a betrayer, then in order to fix his guilt it becomes necessary to discover the motive.

The Sparrow was in a quandary. Seldom was he in such a perturbed state of mind. He and his accomplices could always defy the police. It was not the first time in his career, however, that he had found a traitor in his camp. If Howell was really a traitor, then he would pay dearly for it. Three times within the last ten years there had been traitors in the great criminal organization. One was a Dutchman; the second was a Greek; and the third a Swiss. Each died—for dead men tell no tales.

The Sparrow ordered some cafe noir from his housekeeper and produced a particularly seductive brand of liqueur, which mademoiselle took—together with a cigarette.

Then she left, he giving her the parting injunction:

“It is probable that you will go to Marseilles and meet young Henfrey. I will think it all over. You will have a note from me at the Grand Hotel before noon to-morrow.”

TWENTY-SEVENTH CHAPTER

THE INQUISITIVE MR. SHRIMPTON

An hour later Hugh stood in The Sparrow’s room, and related his exciting adventure in Marseilles and on the high road.

“H’m!” remarked the man with the gloved hand. “A very pretty piece of business. The police endeavoured to mislead you, and you, by a very fortunate circumstance, suspected. That cigarette, my dear young friend, stood you in very good stead. It was fortunate that I gave it to you.”

“By this time the driver of the car has, of course, recovered and told his story,” Hugh remarked.

“And by this time the police probably know that you have come to Paris,” remarked The Sparrow. “Now, Mr. Henfrey, only an hour ago I learnt something which has altered my plans entirely. There is a traitor somewhere—somebody has given you away.”

“Who?”

“At present I have not decided. But we must all be wary and watchful,” was The Sparrow’s reply. “In any case, it is a happy circumstance that you saw through the ruse of the police to get you to Cette. First the Madrid police were put upon your track, and then, as you eluded them, the Marseilles police were given timely information—a clever trap,” he laughed. “I admire it. But at Marseilles they are even more shrewd than in Paris. Maillot, the chef de la Surete at Marseilles, is a really capable official. I know him well. A year ago he dined with me at the Palais de la Bouillabaisse. I pretended that I had been the victim of a great theft, and he accepted my invitation. He little dreamed that I was Il Passero, for whom he had been spreading the net for years!”

“You are really marvellous, Mr. Peters,” remarked Hugh. “And I have to thank you for the way in which you have protected me time after time. Your organization is simply wonderful.”

The man with the black glove laughed.