Jack O' Judgment E-Book

Edgar Wallace

• Herausgeber: Ozymandias Press
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Seitenzahl: 354

Beschreibung

Jack O' Judgment, that light-hearted, insouciant, masked mystery man, who sets out to expose a gang of daring crooks who are amassing millions regardless of their methods, is a book to read at a sitting. We are carried, spell-bound, through every page of what can justly be described as one of the late Edgar Wallace's best and most exciting thrillers...

Leseprobe

Jack O’ Judgment

Edgar Wallace

OZYMANDIAS PRESS

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Copyright © 2016 by Edgar Wallace

Interior design by Pronoun

Distribution by Pronoun

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIV

CHAPTER XXV

CHAPTER XXVI

CHAPTER XXVII

CHAPTER XXVIII

CHAPTER XXIX

CHAPTER XXX

CHAPTER XXXI

CHAPTER XXXII

CHAPTER XXXIII

CHAPTER XXXIV

CHAPTER XXXV

CHAPTER XXXVI

CHAPTER XXXVII

CHAPTER XXXVIII

CHAPTER XXXIX

CHAPTER I

THE KNAVE OF CLUBS

THEY PICKED UP THE young man called “Snow” Gregory from a Lambeth gutter, and he was dead before the policeman on point duty in Waterloo Road, who had heard the shots, came upon the scene.

He had been shot in his tracks on a night of snow and storm and none saw the murder.

When they got him to the mortuary and searched his clothes they found nothing except a little tin box of white powder which proved to be cocaine, and a playing card—the Jack of Clubs!

His associates had called him “Snow” Gregory because he was a doper, and cocaine is invariably referred to as “snow” by all its votaries. He was a gambler too, and he had been associated with Colonel Dan Boundary in certain of his business enterprises. That was all. The colonel knew nothing of the young man’s antecedents except that he had been an Oxford man who had come down in the world. The colonel added a few particulars designed, as it might seem to the impartial observer, to prove that he, the colonel, had ever been an uplifting quantity. (This colonelcy was an honorary title which he held by custom rather than by law.)

There were people who said that “Snow” Gregory, in his more exalted moments, talked too much for the colonel’s comfort, but people were very ready to talk unkindly of the colonel, whose wealth was an offence and a shame.

So they buried “Snow” Gregory, the unknown, and a jury of his fellow-countrymen returned a verdict of “Wilful murder against some person or persons unknown.”

And that was the end of a sordid tragedy, it seemed, until three months later there dawned upon Colonel Boundary’s busy life a brand new and alarming factor.

One morning there arrived at his palatial flat in Albemarle Place a letter. This he opened because it was marked “Private and Personal.” It was not a letter at all—as it proved—but a soiled and stained playing card, the Knave of Clubs.

He looked at the thing in perplexity, for the fate of his erstwhile assistant had long since passed from his mind. Then he saw writing on the margin of the card, and twisting it sideways read:

“JACK O’ JUDGMENT.”

Nothing more!

“Jack o’ Judgment!”

The colonel screwed up his tired eyes as if to shut out a vision.

“Faugh!” he said in disgust and dropped the pasteboard into his waste-paper basket.

For he had seen a vision—a white face, unshaven and haggard, its lips parted in a little grin, the smile of “Snow” Gregory on the last time they had met.

Later came other cards and unpleasant, not to say disconcerting happenings, and the colonel, taking counsel with himself, determined to kill two birds with one stone.

It was a daring and audacious thing to have done, and none but Colonel Dan Boundary would have taken the risk. He knew better than anybody else that Stafford King had devoted the whole of his time for the past three years to smashing the Boundary Gang. He knew that this grave young man with the steady, grey eyes, who sat on the other side of the big Louis XV table in the ornate private office of the Spillsbury Syndicate, had won his way to the chief position in the Criminal Intelligence Department by sheer genius, and that he was, of all men, the most to be feared.

No greater contrast could be imagined than that which was presented between the two protagonists—the refined, almost æsthetic chief of police on the one hand, the big commanding figure of the redoubtable colonel on the other.

Boundary with his black hair parted in the centre of his sleek head, his big weary eyes, his long, yellow walrus moustache, his double chin, his breadth and girth, his enormous hairy hands, now laid upon the table, might stand for force, brutal, remorseless, untiring. He stood for cunning too—the cunning of the stalking tiger.

Stafford was watching him with dispassionate interest. He may have been secretly amused at the man’s sheer daring, but if he was, his inscrutable face displayed no such emotion.

“I dare say, Mr. King,” said the colonel, in his slow, heavy way, “you think it is rather remarkable in all the circumstances that I should ask for you? I dare say,” he went on, “my business associates will think the same, considering all the unpleasantness we have had.”

Stafford King made no reply. He sat erect, alert and watchful.

“Give a dog a bad name and hang him,” said the colonel sententiously. “For twenty years I’ve had to fight the unjust suspicions of my enemies. I’ve been libelled,” he shook his head sorrowfully. “I don’t suppose there’s anybody been libelled more than me—and my business associates. I’ve had the police nosing—I mean investigating—into my affairs, and I’ll be straight with you, Mr. Stafford King, and tell you that when it came to my ears and the ears of my business associates, that you had been put on the job of watching poor old Dan Boundary, I was glad.”

“Is that intended as a compliment?” asked Stafford, with the faintest suspicion of a smile.

“Every way,” said the colonel emphatically. “In the first place, Mr. King, I know that you are the straightest and most honest police official in England, and possibly in the world. All I want is justice. My life is an open book, which courts the fullest investigation.”

He spread out his huge hands as though inviting an even closer inspection than had been afforded him hitherto.

Mr. Stafford King made no reply. He knew, very well he knew, the stories which had been told about the Boundary Gang. He knew a little and guessed a lot about its extraordinary ramifications. He was well aware, at any rate, that it was rich, and that this slow-speaking man could command millions. But he was far from desiring to endorse the colonel’s inferred claim as to the purity of his business methods.

He leant a little forward.

“I am sure you didn’t send for me to tell me all about your hard lot, colonel,” he said, a little ironically.

The colonel shook his head.

“I wanted to get to know you,” he said with fine frankness. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. King. I am told you do nothing but specialise on the Boundary enterprises, and I tell you, sir, that you can’t know too much about me, nor can I know too much about you.”

He paused.

“But you’re quite right when you say that I didn’t ask you to come here—and a great honour it is for a big police chief to spare time to see me—to discuss the past. It is the present I want to talk to you about.”

Stafford King nodded.

“I’m a law-abiding citizen,” said the colonel unctuously, “and anything I can do to assist the law, why, I’m going to do it. I wrote you on this matter about a fortnight ago.”

He opened a drawer and took out a large envelope embossed with a monogram of the Spillsbury Syndicate. This he opened and extracted a plain playing-card. It was a white-backed card of superfine texture, gilt-edged, and bore a familiar figure.

“The Knave of Clubs,” said Stafford King lifting his eyes.

“The Jack of Clubs,” said the colonel gravely; “that is its name I understand, for I am not a gambling man.”

He did not bat a lid nor did Stafford King smile.

“I remember,” said the detective chief, “you received one before. You wrote to my department about it.”

The colonel nodded.

“Read what’s written underneath.”

King lifted the card nearer to his eyes. The writing was almost microscopic and read:

“Save crime, save worry, save all unpleasantness. Give back the property you stole from Spillsbury.”

It was signed “Jack o’ Judgment.”

King put the card down and looked across at the colonel.

“What happened after the last card came?” he asked, “there was a burglary or something, wasn’t there?”

“The last card,” said the colonel, clearing his throat, “contained a diabolical and unfounded charge that I and my business associates had robbed Mr. George Fetter, the Manchester merchant, of £60,000 by means of card tricks—a low practice of which I would not be guilty nor would any of my business associates. My friends and myself knowing nothing of any card game, we of course refused to pay Mr. Fetter, and I am sure Mr. Fetter would be the last person who would ask us to do so. As a matter of fact, he did give us bills for £60,000, but that was in relation to a sale of property. I cannot imagine that Mr. Fetter would ever take money from us or that he knew of this business—I hope not, because he seems a very respectable—gentleman.”

The detective looked at the card again.

“What is this story of the Spillsbury deal?” he asked.

“What is that story of the Spillsbury deal?” said the colonel.

He had a trick of repeating questions—it was a trick which frequently gave him a very necessary breathing space.

“Why, there’s nothing to it. I bought the motor works in Coventry. I admit it was a good bargain. There’s no law against making a profit. You know what business is.”

The detective knew what business was. But Spillsbury was young and wild, and his wildness assumed an unpleasant character. It was the kind of wildness which people do not talk about—at least, not nice people. He had inherited a considerable fortune, and the control of four factories, the best of which was the one under discussion.

“I know Spillsbury,” said the detective, “and I happen to know Spillsbury’s works. I also know that he sold you a property worth £300,000 in the open market for a sum which was grossly inadequate—£30,000, was it not?”

“£35,000,” corrected the colonel. “There’s no law against making a bargain,” he repeated.

“You’ve been very fortunate with your bargains.”

Stafford King rose and picked up his hat.

“You bought Transome’s Hotel from young Mrs. Rachemeyer for a sum which was less than a twentieth of its worth. You bought Lord Bethon’s slate quarries for £12,000—their value in the open market was at least £100,000. For the past fifteen years you have been acquiring property at an amazing rate—and at an amazing price.”

The colonel smiled.

“You’re paying me a great compliment, Mr. Stafford King,” he said with a touch of sarcasm, “and I will never forget it. But don’t let us get away from the object of your coming. I am reporting to you, as a police officer, that I have been threatened by a blackguard, a thief, and very likely a murderer. I will not be responsible for any action I may take—Jack o’ Judgment indeed!” he growled.

“Have you ever seen him?” asked Stafford.

The colonel frowned.

“He’s alive, ain’t he?” he growled. “If I’d seen him, do you think he’d be writing me letters? It is your job to pinch him. If you people down at Scotland Yard spent less time poking into the affairs of honest business men——”

Stafford King was smiling now, frankly and undisguisedly. His grey eyes were creased with silent laughter.

“Colonel, you have some nerve!” he said admiringly, and with no other word he left the room.

CHAPTER II

JACK O’ JUDGMENT—HIS CARD

THE WRONG SIDE OF a stage door was the outside on a night such as this was. The rain was bucketing down and a chill north-wester howled up the narrow passage leading from the main street to the tiny entry.

But the outside, and the darkest corner of the cul-de-sac whence the stage door of the Orpheum Music Hall was reached, satisfied Stafford King. He drew further into the shadow at sight of the figure which picked a finicking way along the passage and paused only at the open doorway to furl his umbrella.

Pinto Silva, immaculately attired with a white rose in the button-hole of his faultless dress-jacket, had no doubt in his mind as to which was the most desirable side of the stage door. He passed in, nodding carelessly to the doorkeeper.

“A rotten night, Joe,” he said. “Miss White hasn’t gone yet, has she?”

“No, sir,” said the man obsequiously, “she’s only just left the stage a few minutes. Shall I tell her you’re here, sir?”

Pinto shook his head.

He was a good-looking man of thirty-five. There were some who would go further and describe him as handsome, though his peculiar style of good looks might not be to everybody’s taste. The olive complexion, the black eyes, the well-curled moustache and the effeminate chin had their attractions, and Pinto Silva admitted modestly in his reminiscent moments that there were women who had raved about him.

“Miss White is in No. 6,” said the doorkeeper. “Shall I send somebody along to tell her you’re here?”

“You needn’t trouble,” said the other, “she won’t be long now.”

The girl, hurrying along the corridor, fastening her coat as she came, stopped dead at the sight of him and a look of annoyance came to her face. She was tall for a girl, perfectly proportioned and something more than pretty.

Pinto lifted his hat with a smile.

“I’ve just been in front, Miss White. An excellent performance!”

“Thank you,” she said simply. “I did not see you.”

He nodded.

There was a complacency in his nod which irritated her. It almost seemed to infer that she was not speaking the truth and that he was humouring her in her deception.

“You’re quite comfortable?” he asked.

“Quite,” she replied politely.

She was obviously anxious to end the interview, and at a loss as to how she could.

“Dressing room comfortable, everybody respectful and all that sort of thing?” he asked. “Just say the word, if they give you trouble or cheek, and I’ll have them kicked out whoever they are, from the manager downwards.”

“Oh, thank you,” she said hurriedly, “everybody is most polite and nice.” She held out her hand. “I am afraid I must go now. A—a friend is waiting for me.”

“One minute, Miss White.” He licked his lips, and there was an unaccustomed embarrassment in his manner. “Maybe you’ll come along one night after the show and have a little supper. You know I’m very keen on you and all that sort of thing.”

“I know you’re very keen on me and all that sort of thing,” said Maisie White, a note of irony in her voice, “but unfortunately I’m not very keen on supper and all that sort of thing.”

She smiled and again held out her hand.

“I’ll say good night now.”

“Do you know, Maisie——” he began.

“Good night,” she said and brushed past him.

He looked after her as she disappeared into the darkness, a little frown gathering on his forehead, then with a shrug of his shoulders he walked slowly back to the doorkeeper’s office.

“Send somebody to get my car,” he snapped.

He waited impatiently, chewing his cigar, till the dripping figure of the doorkeeper reappeared with the information that the car was at the end of the passage. He put up his umbrella and walked through the pelting rain to where his limousine stood.

Pinto Silva was angry, and his anger was of the hateful, smouldering type which grew in strength from moment to moment and from hour to hour. How dare she treat him like this? She, who owed her engagement to his influence, and whose fortune and future were in his hands. He would speak to the colonel and the colonel could speak to her father. He had had enough of this.

He recognised with a start that he was afraid of the girl. It was incredible, but it was true. He had never felt that way to a woman before, but there was something in her eyes, a cold disdain which cowed even as it maddened him.

The car drew up before a block of buildings in a deserted West End thoroughfare. He flashed on the electric light and saw that the hour was a little after eleven. The last thing in the world he wanted was to take part in a conference that night. But if he wanted anything less, it was to cross the colonel at this moment of crisis.

He walked through the dark vestibule and entered an automatic lift, which carried him to the third floor. Here, the landing and the corridor were illuminated by one small electric lamp sufficient to light him to the heavy walnut doors which led to the office of the Spillsbury Syndicate. He opened the door with a latchkey and found himself in a big lobby, carpeted and furnished in good style.

A man was sitting before a radiator, a paper pad upon his knees, and he was making notes with a pencil. He looked up startled as the other entered and nodded. It was Olaf Hanson, the colonel’s clerk—and Olaf, with his flat expressionless face, and his stiff upstanding hair, always reminded Pinto of a Struwwelpeter which had been cropped.

“Hullo, Hanson, is the colonel inside?”

The man nodded.

“They’re waiting for you,” he said.

His voice was hard and unsympathetic, and his thin lips snapped out every syllable.

“Aren’t you coming in?” asked Pinto in surprise, his hand upon the door.

The man called Hanson shook his head.

“I’ve got to go to the colonel’s flat,” he said, “to get some papers. Besides, they don’t want me.”

He smiled quickly and wanly. It was a grimace rather than an expression of amusement and Pinto eyed him narrowly. He had, however, the good sense to ask no further questions. Turning the handle of the door, he walked into the large, ornate apartment.

In the centre of the room was a big table and the chairs at its sides were, for the most part, filled.

He dropped into a seat on the colonel’s right and nodded to the others at the table. Most of the principals were there—"Swell” Crewe, Jackson, Cresswell, and at the farther end of the table, Lollie Marsh with her baby face and her permanent expression of open-mouthed wonder.

“Where’s White?” he asked.

The colonel was reading a letter and did not immediately reply. Presently he took off his pince-nez and put them into his pocket.

“Where’s White?” he repeated. “White isn’t here. No, White isn’t here,” he repeated significantly.

“What’s wrong?” asked Pinto quickly.

The colonel scratched his chin and looked up to the ceiling.

“I’m settling up this Spillsbury business,” he said. “White isn’t in it.”

“Why not?” asked Pinto.

“He never was in it,” said the colonel evasively. “It was not the kind of business that White would like to be in. I guess he’s getting religious or something, or maybe it’s that daughter of his.”

The eyelids of Pinto Silva narrowed at the reference to Maisie White and he was on the point of remarking that he had just left her, but changed his mind.

“Does she know anything about—about her father?” he asked.

The colonel smiled.

“Why, no—unless you’ve told her.”

“I’m not on those terms,” said Pinto savagely. “I’m getting tired of that girl’s airs and graces, colonel, after what we’ve done for her!”

“You’ll get tireder, Pinto,” said a voice from the end of the table and he turned round to meet the laughing eyes of Lollie Marsh.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“I’ve been out taking a look at her to-day,” she said, and the colonel scowled at her.

“You were out taking a look at something else if I remember rightly,” he said quietly. “I told you to get after Stafford King.”

“And I got after him,” she said, “and after the girl too.”

“What do you mean?”

“That’s a bit of news for you, isn’t it?” She was delighted to drop the bombshell: “you can’t shadow Stafford King without crossing the tracks of Maisie White.”

The colonel uttered an exclamation.

“What do you mean?” he asked again.

“Didn’t you know they were acquainted? Didn’t you know that Stafford King goes down to Horsham to see her, and takes her to dinner twice a week?”

They looked at one another in consternation. Maisie White was the daughter of a man who, next to the colonel, had been the most daring member of the gang, who had organised more coups than any other man, save its leader. The news that the daughter of Solomon White was meeting the Chief of the Criminal Intelligence Department, was incredible and stunning.

“So that’s it, is it?” said the colonel, licking his dry lips. “That’s why Solomon White’s fed up with the life and wants to break away.”

He turned to Pinto Silva, whose face was set and hard.

“I thought you were keen on that girl, Pinto,” he said coarsely. “We left the way open to you. What do you know about it?”

“Nothing,” said the man shortly. “I don’t believe it.”

“Don’t believe it,” broke in the girl. “Listen! There was a matinée at the Orpheum to-day and King went there. I followed him in and got a seat next to him and tried to get friendly. But he had only eyes for the girl on the stage, and I might as well have been the paper on the wall for all the notice he took of me. After her turn, he went out and waited for her at the stage door. They went to Roymoyers for tea. I went back to the theatre and saw her dresser. She is the woman I recommended when Pinto put her on the stage.”

“What sort of work is Maisie doing?” asked the saturnine Crewe.

“Male impersonations,” said the girl. “Say! she looks dandy in a man’s kit! She’s the best male impersonator I’ve ever seen. Why, when she talks——”

“Never mind about that,” interrupted the colonel, “what did you discover?”

“I discovered that Stafford King comes regularly to the theatre, that he takes her to dinner and that he visits the house at Horsham.”

“Solly never told me that—the swine!” rapped the colonel, “he’s going to double-cross us, that fellow.”

“I don’t believe it.”

It was Crewe that spoke. “Swell” Crewe, whose boast it was that he had a suit for every day in the year.

“I know Solomon and I’ve known him for years,” he said. “I know him as well as you, colonel. As far as we are concerned, Solly is straight. I’m not denying the possibility that he wants to break away, but that’s only natural. He’s a man with a daughter, and he’s made his pile, but I’ll stake my life that he’ll never double-cross us.”

“Double-cross us?” the colonel had recovered his wonted equanimity. “What has he to ‘double-cross’?” he demanded almost jovially. “We have a straightforward business! I am not aware that any of us are guilty of dishonest actions. Double-cross! Bah!”

He brought his big hand down with a thump on the table, and they knew from experience that this was the gavel of the chairman that ended all discussions.

“Now, gentlemen,” said the colonel, “let us get to business. Ask Hanson to come in—he’s got the figures. It is the last lot of figures of ours that he’ll ever handle,” he added.

Somebody went to the door of the ante-room and called the secretary, but there was no reply.

“He’s gone out.”

“Gone out?” said the colonel and bent his brows. “Who told him to go out? Never mind, he’ll be back in a minute. Shut the door.”

He lifted a deed-box from the floor at his feet, placed it on the table, opened it with a key attached to his watch-chain and removed a bundle of documents.

“We’re going to settle the Spillsbury business to-night,” he said. “Spillsbury looks like squealing.”

“Where is he?” asked Pinto.

“In an inebriates’ home,” said the colonel grimly; “it seems there are some trustees to his father’s estate who are likely to question the legality of the transfers. But I’ve had the best legal opinion in London and there is no doubt that our position is safe. The only thing we’ve got to do to-night is to make absolutely sure that all those fool letters he wrote to Lollie have been destroyed.”

“You’ve got them?” said the girl quickly.

“I had them?” said the colonel, “and I burnt them all except one when the transfer was completed. And the question is, gentlemen,” he said, “shall we burn the last?”

He took from the bundle before him an envelope and held it up.

“I kept this in case there was anything coming, but if he’s in a booze home, why, he’s not going to be influenced by the threat of publishing a slushy letter to a girl. I guess his trustees are not going to be very much influenced either. On the other hand, if this letter were found among business documents, it would look pretty bad for us.”

“Found by whom?” asked Pinto.

“By the police,” said the colonel calmly.

“Police?”

The colonel nodded.

“They’re getting after us, but you needn’t be alarmed,” he said. “King is working to get a case, and he is not above applying for a search warrant. But I’m not scared of the police so much.” His voice slowed and he spoke with greater emphasis. “I guess there are enough court cards in the Boundary pack to beat that combination. It’s the Jack——”

“The Jack—ha! ha! ha!“

It was a shrill bubble of laughter which cut into his speech and the colonel leapt to his feet, his hand dropping to his hip-pocket. The door had opened and closed so silently that none had heard it, and a figure stood confronting them.

It was clad from head to foot in a long coat of black silk, which shimmered in the half-light of the electrolier. The hands were gloved, the head covered with a soft slouch hat and the face hidden behind a white silk handkerchief.

The colonel’s hand was in his hip-pocket when he thought better and raised both hands in the air. There was something peculiarly businesslike in the long-barrelled revolver which the intruder held, in spite of the silver-plating and the gold inlay along the chased barrel.

“Everybody’s hands in the air,” said the Jack shrilly, “right up to the beautiful sky! Yours too, Lollie. Stand away from the table, everybody, and back to the wall. For the Jack o’ Judgment is amongst you and life is full of amazing possibilities!”

They backed from the table, peering helplessly at the two unwinking eyes which showed through the holes in the handkerchief.

“Back to the wall, my pretties,” chuckled the Thing. “I’m going to make you laugh and you’ll want some support. I’m going to make you rock with joy and merriment!”

The figure had moved to the table, and all the time it spoke its nimble fingers were turning over the piles of documents which the colonel had disgorged from the dispatch box.

“I’m going to tell you a comical tale about a gang of blackmailers.”

“You’re a liar,” said the colonel hoarsely.

“About a gang of blackmailers,” said the Jack with shrill laughter, “fellows who didn’t work like common blackmailers, nor demand money. Oh, no! not naughty blackmailers! They got the fools and the vicious in their power and made them sell things for hundreds of pounds that were worth thousands. And they were such a wonderful crowd! They were such wonderfully amusing fellows. There was Dan Boundary who started life by robbing his dead mother, there was ‘Swell’ Crewe, who was once a gentleman and is now a thief!”

“Damn you!” said Crewe, lurching forward, but the gun swung round on him and he stopped.

“There was Lollie who would sell her own child——”

“I have no child,” half-screamed the girl.

“Think again, Lollie darling—dear little soul!”

He stopped. The envelope that his fingers had been seeking was found. He slipped it beneath the black silk cloak and in two bounds was at the door.

“Send for the police,” he mocked. “Send for the police, Dan! Get Stafford King, the eminent chief. Tell him I called! My card!”

With a dexterous flip of his fingers he sent a little pasteboard planing across the room. In an instant the door opened and closed upon the intruder and he was gone.

For a second there was silence, and then, with a little sob, Lollie Marsh collapsed in a heap on the floor. Colonel Dan Boundary looked from one white face to the other.

“There’s a hundred thousand pounds for any one of you who gets that fellow,” he said, breathing hard, “whether it is man or woman.”

CHAPTER III

THE DECOY

COLONEL BOUNDARY, SITTING AT his desk the morning after, pushed a bell. It was answered by the thick-set Olaf. He was dressed, as usual, in black from head to foot and the colonel eyed him thoughtfully.

“Hanson,” he said, “has Miss Marsh come?”

“Yes, she has come,” said the other resentfully.

“Tell her I want her,” said the colonel and then as the man was leaving the room: “Where did you get to last night when I wanted you?”

“I was out,” said the man shortly. “I get some time for myself, I suppose?”

The colonel nodded slowly.

“Sure you do, Hanson.”

His tone was mild, and that spelt danger to Hanson, had he known it. This was the third sign of rebellion which the man had shown in the past week.

“What’s happened to your temper this morning, Hanson?” he asked.

“Everything,” exploded the man and in his agitation his foreign origin was betrayed by his accent. “You tell me I shall haf plenty money, thousands of pounds! You say I go to my brother in America. Where is dot money? I go in March, I go in May, I go in July, still I am here!”

“My good friend,” said the colonel, “you’re too impatient. This is not a moment I can allow you to go away. You’re getting nervous, that’s what’s the matter with you. Perhaps I’ll let you have a holiday next week.”

“Nervous!” roared the man. “Yes, I am. All the time I feel eyes on me! When I walk in the street, every man I meet is a policeman. When I go to bed, I hear nothing but footsteps creeping in the passage outside my room.”

“Old Jack, eh?” said the colonel, eyeing him narrowly.

Hanson shivered.

He had seen the Jack o’ Judgment once. A figure in gossamer silk who had stood beside the bed in which the Scandinavian lay and had talked wisdom whilst Olaf quaked in a muck sweat of fear.

The colonel did not know this. He was under the impression that the appearance of the previous night had constituted the first of this mysterious menace.

So he nodded again.

“Send Miss Marsh to me,” he said.

Hanson would have got on his nerves if he had nerves. The man, at any rate, was becoming an intolerable nuisance. The colonel marked him down as one of the problems calling for early solution.

The secretary had not been gone more than a few seconds before the door opened again and the girl came in. She was tall, pretty in a doll-like way, with an aura of golden hair about her small head. She might have been more than pretty but for her eyes, which were too light a shade of blue to be beautiful. She was expensively gowned and walked with the easy swing of one whose position was assured.

“Good morning, Lollie,” said the colonel. “Did you see him again?”

She nodded.

“I got a pretty good view of him,” she said.

“Did he see you?”

She smiled.

“I don’t think so,” she said; “besides, what does it matter if he did?”

“Was the girl with him?”

She shook her head.

“Well?” asked the colonel after a pause. “Can you do anything with him?”

She pursed her lips.

If she had expected the colonel to refer to their terrifying experience of the night before, she was to be disappointed. The hard eyes of the man compelled her to keep to the matter under discussion.

“He looks pretty hard,” said the girl. “He is not the man to fall for that heart-to-heart stuff.”

“What do you mean?” asked the colonel.

“Just that,” said the girl with a shrug. “I can’t imagine his picking me up and taking me to dinner and pouring out the secrets of his young heart at the second bottle.”

“Neither can I,” said the colonel thoughtfully. “You’re a pretty clever girl, Lollie, and I’m going to make it worth your while to get close to that fellow. He’s the one man in Scotland Yard that we want to put out of business. Not that we’ve anything to be afraid of,” he added vaguely, “but he’s just interfering with——”

He paused for a word.

“With business,” said the girl. “Oh, come off it, colonel! Just tell me how far you want me to go.”

“You’ve got to go to the limit,” said the other decidedly. “You’ve got to put him as wrong as you can. He must be compromised up to his neck.”

“What about my young reputation?” asked the girl with a grimace.

“If you lose it, we’ll buy you another,” said the colonel drily, “and I reckon it’s about time you had another one, Lollie.”

The girl fingered her chin thoughtfully.

“It is not going to be easy,” she said again. “It isn’t going to be like young Spillsbury—Pinto Silva could have done that job without help—or Solomon White even.”

“You can shut up about Spillsbury,” growled the colonel. “I’ve told you to forget everything that has ever happened in our business! And I’ve told you a hundred times not to mention Pinto or any of the other men in this business! You can do as you’re told! And take that look off your face!”

He rose with extraordinary agility and leant over, glowering at the girl.

“You’ve been getting a bit too fresh lately, Lollie, and giving yourself airs! You don’t try any of that grand lady stuff with me, d’ye hear?”

There was nothing suave in the colonel’s manner, nothing slow or ponderous or courtly. He spoke rapidly and harshly and revealed the brute that many suspected but few knew.

“I’ve no more respect for women than I have for men, understand! If you ever get gay with me, I’ll take your neck in my hand like that,” he clenched his two fists together with a horribly suggestive motion and the frightened girl watched him, fascinated. “I’ll break you as if you were a bit of china! I’ll tear you as if you were a rag! You needn’t think you’ll ever get away from me—I’ll follow you to the ends of the earth. You’re paid like a queen and treated like a queen and you play straight—there was a man called ‘Snow’ Gregory once——”

The trembling girl was on her feet now, her face ashen white.

“I’m sorry, colonel,” she faltered. “I didn’t intend giving you offence. I—I——”

She was on the verge of tears when the colonel, with a quick gesture, motioned her back to the chair. His rage subsided as suddenly as it had risen.

“Now do as you’re told, Lollie,” he said calmly. “Get after that young fellow and don’t come back to me until you’ve got him.”

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak, and almost tiptoed from his dread presence.

At the door he stopped her.

“As to Maisie,” he said, “why, you can leave Maisie to me.”

CHAPTER IV

THE MISSING HANSON

COLONEL DAN BOUNDARY DESCENDED slowly from the Ford taxi-cab which had brought him up from Horsham station and surveyed without emotion the domicile of his partner. It was Colonel Boundary’s boast that he was in the act of lathering his face on the tenth floor of a Californian hotel when the earthquake began, and that he finished his shaving operations, took his bath and dressed himself before the earth had ceased to tremble.

“I shall want you again, so you had better wait,” he said to the driver and passed through the wooden gates toward Rose Lodge.

He stopped half-way up the path, having now a better view of the house. It was a red brick villa, the home of a well-to-do man. The trim lawn with its border of rose trees, the little fountain playing over the rockery, the quality of the garden furniture within view and the general air of comfort which pervaded the place, suggested the home of a prosperous City man, one of those happy creatures who have never troubled to get themselves in line for millions, but have lived happily between the four and five figure mark.

Colonel Boundary grunted and continued his walk. A trim maid opened the door to him and by her blank look it was evident that he was not a frequent visitor.

“Boundary—just say Boundary,” said the colonel in a deep voice which carried to the remotest part of the house.

He was shown to the drawing-room and again found much that interested him. He felt no twinge of pity at the thought that Solomon White would very soon exchange this almost luxury for the bleak discomfort of a prison cell, and not even the sight of the girl who came through the door to greet him brought him a qualm.

“You want to see my father, colonel?” she asked.

Her tone was cold but polite. The colonel had never been a great favourite of Maisie White’s, and now it required a considerable effort on her part to hide her deep aversion.

“Do I want to see your father?” said Colonel Boundary. “Why, yes, I think I do and I want to see you too, and I’d just as soon see you first, before I speak to Solly.”

She sat down, a model of patient politeness, her hands folded on her lap. In the light of day she was pretty, straight of back, graceful as to figure and the clear grey eyes which met his faded blue, were very understanding.

“Miss White,” he said, “we have been very good to you.”

“We?” repeated the girl.

“We,” nodded the colonel. “I speak for myself and my business associates. If Solomon had ever told you the truth you would know that you owe all your education, your beautiful home,” he waved his hand, “to myself and my business associates.” His tongue rolled round the last two words. They were favourites of his.

She nodded her head slightly.

“I was under the impression that I owed it to my father,” she said, with a hint of irony in her voice, “for I suppose that he earned all he has.”

“You suppose that he earned all that he has?” repeated the colonel. “Well, very likely you are right. He has earned more than he has got but pay-day is near at hand.”

There was no mistaking the menace in his tone, but the girl made no comment. She knew that there had been trouble. She knew that her father had for days been locked in his study and had scarcely spoken a word to anybody.

“I saw you the other night,” said the colonel, changing the direction of his attack. “I saw you at the Orpheum. Pinto Silva came with me. We were in the stage box.”

“I saw you,” said the girl quietly.

“A very good performance, considering you’re a kid,” said Boundary; “in fact, Pinto says you’re the best mimic he has ever seen on the stage——” He paused—"Pinto got you your contracts.”

She nodded.

“I am very grateful to Mr. Silva,” she said.

“You have all the world before you, my girl,” said Boundary in his slow, ponderous way, “a beautiful and bright future, plenty of money, pearls, diamonds,” he waved his hand with a vague gesture, “and Pinto, who is the most valuable of my business associates, is very fond of you.”

The girl sighed helplessly.

“I thought that matter had been finished and done with, colonel,” she said. “I don’t know how people in your world would regard such an offer, but in my world they would look upon it as an insult.”

“And what the devil is your world?” asked the colonel, without any sign of irritation.

She rose to her feet.

“The clean, decent world,” she said calmly, “the law-abiding world. The world that regards such arrangements as you suggest as infamous. It is not only the fact that Mr. Silva is already married——”

The colonel raised his hand.

“Pinto talks very seriously of getting a divorce,” he said solemnly, “and when a gentleman like Pinto Silva gives his word, that ought to be sufficient for any girl. And now you have come to mention law-abiding worlds,” he went on slowly, “I would like to speak of one of the law-abiders.”

She knew what was coming and was silent.

“There’s a young gentleman named Stafford King hanging round you.” He saw her face flush but went on, “Mr. Stafford King is a policeman.”