The Secret House

"Why for me?" asked the other, with a smile.

"Because I take it you are interested in the study of criminal detection," replied T. B. easily.

He walked aimlessly along one extensive row of drawers, and suddenly came to a halt.

"Here, for instance, is a record of a remarkable man," he said. He pulled open a drawer unerringly, ran his fingers along the top of a batch of envelopes and selected one. He nodded the Count to a polished table near the window, and pulled up two chairs.

"Sit down," he said, "and I will introduce you to one of the minor masters of the criminal world."

Count Poltavo was an interested man as T. B. opened the envelope and took out two plain folders, and laid them on the table.

He opened the first of these; the photograph of a military-looking man in Russian uniform lay upon the top. Poltavo saw it, gasped, and looked up, his face livid.

"That was the Military Governor of Poland," said T. B., easily; "he was assassinated by one who posed as his son many years ago."

The Count had risen quickly, and stood shaking from head to foot, his trembling hand at his mouth.

"I have never seen him," he muttered. "I think your record office is very close – you have no ventilation."

"Wait a little," said T. B., and he turned to the second dossier.

Presently he extracted another photograph, the photograph of a young man, a singularly good-looking youth, and laid it on the table by the side of the other picture.

"Do you know this gentleman?" asked T. B.

There was no reply.

"It is the photograph of the murderer," the detective went on, "and unfortunately this was not his only crime. You will observe there are two distinct folders, each filled with particulars of our young friend's progress along the path which leads to the gallows."

He sorted out another photograph. It was a beautiful girl in a Russian peasant costume; evidently the portrait of some one taken at a fancy dress ball, because both the refined face and the figure of the girl were inconsistent with the costume.

"That is the Princess Lydia Bontasky," said T. B., "one of the victims of our young friend's treachery. Here is another."

The face of the fourth photograph was plain, and marked with sorrow.

"She was shot at Kieff by our young and high-spirited friend, and died of her wounds. Here are particulars of a bank robbery organized five years ago by a number of people who called themselves anarchists, but who were in reality very commonplace, conventional thieves unpossessed of any respect for human life. But I see this does not interest you."

He closed the dossier and put it back into its envelope, before he looked up at the Count's face. The man was pale now, with a waxen pallor of death.

"They are very interesting," he muttered.

He stumbled rather than walked the length of the room, and he had not recovered when they reached the corridor.

"This is the way out," said T. B., as he indicated the broad stairs. "I advise you, Count Poltavo, to step warily. It will be my duty to inform the Russian police that you are at present in this country. Whether they move or do not move is a problematical matter. Your fellow-countrymen are not specially energetic where crimes of five years' standing are concerned. But this I warn you," – he dropped his hand upon the other's shoulder, – "that if you stand in my way I shall give you trouble which will have much more serious consequences for you."

Three minutes later Poltavo walked out of Scotland Yard like a man in a dream. He hailed the first cab that came past and drove back to his flat. He was there for ten minutes and emerged with a handbag.

He drove to the Grand Marylebone Hotel, and detective inspector Ela, who had watched his every movement, followed in another taxi. He waited until he saw Poltavo enter the hotel, then the officer descended some distance from the door, and walked nonchalantly to the entrance.

There was no sign of Poltavo.

Ela strolled carelessly through the corridor, and down into the big palm court. From the palm court another entrance led into the Marylebone Road. Ela quickened his steps, went through the big swing doors to the vestibule.

Yes, the porter on duty had seen the gentleman; he had called a taxi and gone a few minutes before.

Ela cursed himself for his folly in letting the man out of his sight.

He reported the result of his shadowing to T. B. Smith over the telephone, and T. B. was frankly uncomplimentary.

"However, I think I know where we will pick him up," he said. "Meet me at Waterloo; we must catch the 6:15 to Great Bradley."

CHAPTER XI

"You want to see Mr. Moole?" Dr. Fall asked the visitor.

"I wish to see Mr. Moole," replied Poltavo. He stood at the door of the Secret House, and after a brief scrutiny the big-faced doctor admitted him, closing the door behind him.

"Tell me, what do you want?" he asked. He had seen the curious gesture that Poltavo had made – the pass sign which had unbarred the entrance to many strange people.

"I want to see Farrington!" replied Poltavo, coolly.

"Farrington!" Fall's brow knit in a puzzled frown.

"Farrington," repeated Poltavo, impatiently. "Do not let us have any of this nonsense, Fall. I want to see him on a matter of urgency. I am Poltavo."

"I know just who you are," said Fall, calmly, "but why you should come here under the impression that the late Mr. Farrington is an inmate of this establishment I do not understand. We are a lunatic asylum, not a mortuary," he said, with heavy humour.

Still, he led the way upstairs to the drawing-room on the first floor.

"What is the trouble?" he asked, as he closed the door behind him.

Poltavo chose to tell the story of his identification by T. B. Smith rather than the real object of his journey. Fall listened in silence.

"I doubt very much whether he will see you," he said: "he is in his worst mood. However, I will go along and find out what his wishes are."

He was absent for ten minutes, and when he returned he beckoned to the visitor.

Poltavo followed him up the stairs till he came to the room in which the bedridden Mr. Moole lay.

A man turned as the two visitors came in – it was Farrington in the life, Farrington as he had seen him on the night of his disappearance from the box at the Jollity. The big man nodded curtly.

"Why have you come down here," he asked, harshly, "leading half the detectives in London to me?"

"I do not think you need bother about half the detectives in London," said Poltavo. He looked at Fall. "I want to see you alone," he said.

Farrington nodded his head and the other departed, closing the door behind him.

"Now," said Poltavo, – he crossed the room with two strides, – "I want to know what you mean – you treacherous dog – by this infernal will of yours!"