Max Carrados

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  MAX CARRADOS

  By

  Ernest Bramah

  Methuen & Co., Ltd.

  1914

  CONTENTS

  PAGE

  THE COIN OF DIONYSIUS 1

  THE KNIGHT'S CROSS SIGNAL PROBLEM 25

  THE TRAGEDY AT BROOKBEND COTTAGE 66

  THE CLEVER MRS STRAITHWAITE 99

  THE LAST EXPLOIT OF HARRY THE ACTOR 138

  THE TILLING SHAW MYSTERY 187

  THE COMEDY AT FOUNTAIN COTTAGE 224

  THE GAME PLAYED IN THE DARK 262

  MAX CARRADOS

  THE COIN OF DIONYSIUS

  It was eight o'clock at night and raining, scarcely a time when abusiness so limited in its clientele as that of a coin dealer could hopeto attract any customer, but a light was still showing in the small shopthat bore over its window the name of Baxter, and in the even smalleroffice at the back the proprietor himself sat reading the latest _PallMall_. His enterprise seemed to be justified, for presently the doorbell gave its announcement, and throwing down his paper Mr Baxter wentforward.

  As a matter of fact the dealer had been expecting someone and his manneras he passed into the shop was unmistakably suggestive of a caller ofimportance. But at the first glance towards his visitor the excess ofdeference melted out of his bearing, leaving the urbane, self-possessedshopman in the presence of the casual customer.

  "Mr Baxter, I think?" said the latter. He had laid aside his drippingumbrella and was unbuttoning overcoat and coat to reach an inner pocket."You hardly remember me, I suppose? Mr Carlyle--two years ago I took upa case for you----"

  "To be sure. Mr Carlyle, the private detective----"

  "Inquiry agent," corrected Mr Carlyle precisely.

  "Well," smiled Mr Baxter, "for that matter I am a coin dealer and not anantiquarian or a numismatist. Is there anything in that way that I cando for you?"

  "Yes," replied his visitor; "it is my turn to consult you." He had takena small wash-leather bag from the inner pocket and now turned somethingcarefully out upon the counter. "What can you tell me about that?"

  The dealer gave the coin a moment's scrutiny.

  "There is no question about this," he replied. "It is a Siciliantetradrachm of Dionysius."

  "Yes, I know that--I have it on the label out of the cabinet. I can tellyou further that it's supposed to be one that Lord Seastoke gave twohundred and fifty pounds for at the Brice sale in '94."

  "It seems to me that you can tell me more about it than I can tell you,"remarked Mr Baxter. "What is it that you really want to know?"

  "I want to know," replied Mr Carlyle, "whether it is genuine or not."

  "Has any doubt been cast upon it?"

  "Certain circumstances raised a suspicion--that is all."

  The dealer took another look at the tetradrachm through his magnifyingglass, holding it by the edge with the careful touch of an expert. Thenhe shook his head slowly in a confession of ignorance.

  "Of course I could make a guess----"

  "No, don't," interrupted Mr Carlyle hastily. "An arrest hangs on it andnothing short of certainty is any good to me."

  "Is that so, Mr Carlyle?" said Mr Baxter, with increased interest."Well, to be quite candid, the thing is out of my line. Now if it was arare Saxon penny or a doubtful noble I'd stake my reputation on myopinion, but I do very little in the classical series."

  Mr Carlyle did not attempt to conceal his disappointment as he returnedthe coin to the bag and replaced the bag in the inner pocket.

  "I had been relying on you," he grumbled reproachfully. "Where on eartham I to go now?"

  "There is always the British Museum."

  "Ah, to be sure, thanks. But will anyone who can tell me be there now?"

  "Now? No fear!" replied Mr Baxter. "Go round in the morning----"

  "But I must know to-night," explained the visitor, reduced to despairagain. "To-morrow will be too late for the purpose."

  Mr Baxter did not hold out much encouragement in the circumstances.

  "You can scarcely expect to find anyone at business now," he remarked."I should have been gone these two hours myself only I happened to havean appointment with an American millionaire who fixed his own time."Something indistinguishable from a wink slid off Mr Baxter's right eye."Offmunson he's called, and a bright young pedigree-hunter has tracedhis descent from Offa, King of Mercia. So he--quite naturally--wants aset of Offas as a sort of collateral proof."

  "Very interesting," murmured Mr Carlyle, fidgeting with his watch. "Ishould love an hour's chat with you about your millionairecustomers--some other time. Just now--look here, Baxter, can't you giveme a line of introduction to some dealer in this sort of thing whohappens to live in town? You must know dozens of experts."

  "Why, bless my soul, Mr Carlyle, I don't know a man of them away fromhis business," said Mr Baxter, staring. "They may live in Park Lane orthey may live in Petticoat Lane for all I know. Besides, there aren't somany experts as you seem to imagine. And the two best will very likelyquarrel over it. You've had to do with 'expert witnesses,' I suppose?"

  "I don't want a witness; there will be no need to give evidence. All Iwant is an absolutely authoritative pronouncement that I can act on. Isthere no one who can really say whether the thing is genuine or not?"

  Mr Baxter's meaning silence became cynical in its implication as hecontinued to look at his visitor across the counter. Then he relaxed.

  "Stay a bit; there is a man--an amateur--I remember hearing wonderfulthings about some time ago. They say he really does know."

  "There you are," exclaimed Mr Carlyle, much relieved. "There always issomeone. Who is he?"

  "Funny name," replied Baxter. "Something Wynn or Wynn something." Hecraned his neck to catch sight of an important motor car that wasdrawing to the kerb before his window. "Wynn Carrados! You'll excuse menow, Mr Carlyle, won't you? This looks like Mr Offmunson."

  Mr Carlyle hastily scribbled the name down on his cuff.

  "Wynn Carrados, right. Where does he live?"

  "Haven't the remotest idea," replied Baxter, referring the arrangementof his tie to the judgment of the wall mirror. "I have never seen theman myself. Now, Mr Carlyle, I'm sorry I can't do any more for you. Youwon't mind, will you?"

  Mr Carlyle could not pretend to misunderstand. He enjoyed thedistinction of holding open the door for the transatlanticrepresentative of the line of Offa as he went out, and then made his waythrough the muddy streets back to his office. There was only one way oftracing a private individual at such short notice--through the pages ofthe directories, and the gentleman did not flatter himself by a veryhigh estimate of his chances.

  Fortune favoured him, however. He very soon discovered a Wynn Carradosliving at Richmond, and, better still, further search failed to unearthanother. There was, apparently, only one householder at all events ofthat name in the neighbourhood of London. He jotted down the address andset out for Richmond.

  The house was some distance from the station, Mr Carlyle learned. Hetook a taxicab and drove, dismissing the vehicle at the gate. He pridedhimself on his power of observation and the accuracy of the deductionswhich resulted from it--a detail of his business. "It's nothing morethan using one's eyes and putting two and two together," he wouldmodestly declare, when he wished to be deprecatory rather thanimpressive, and by the time he had reached the front door of "TheTurrets" he had formed some opinion of the position and tastes of theman who lived there.

  A man-servant admitted Mr Carlyle and took in his card--his pri
vate cardwith the bare request for an interview that would not detain Mr Carradosfor ten minutes. Luck still favoured him; Mr Carrados was at home andwould see him at once. The servant, the hall through which they passed,and the room into which he was shown, all contributed something to thedeductions which the quietly observant gentleman was half unconsciouslyrecording.

  "Mr Carlyle," announced the servant.

  The room was a library or study. The only occupant, a man of aboutCarlyle's own age, had been using a typewriter up to the moment of hisvisitor's entrance. He now turned and stood up with an expression offormal courtesy.

  "It's very good of you to see me at this hour," apologized the caller.

  The conventional expression of Mr Carrados's face changed a little.

  "Surely my man has got your name wrong?" he exclaimed. "Isn't it LouisCalling?"

  The visitor stopped short and his agreeable smile gave place to a suddenflash of anger or annoyance.

  "No, sir," he replied stiffly. "My name is on the card which you havebefore you."

  "I beg your pardon," said Mr Carrados, with perfect good-humour. "Ihadn't seen it. But I used to know a Calling some years ago--at StMichael's."

  "St Michael's!" Mr Carlyle's features underwent another change, no lessinstant and sweeping than before. "St Michael's! Wynn Carrados? Goodheavens! it isn't Max Wynn--old 'Winning' Wynn?"

  "A little older and a little fatter--yes," replied Carrados. "I _have_changed my name, you see."

  "Extraordinary thing meeting like this," said his visitor, dropping intoa chair and staring hard at Mr Carrados. "I have changed more than myname. How did you recognize me?"

  "The voice," replied Carrados. "It took me back to that littlesmoke-dried attic den of yours where we----"

  "My God!" exclaimed Carlyle bitterly, "don't remind me of what we weregoing to do in those days." He looked round the well-furnished, handsomeroom and recalled the other signs of wealth that he had noticed. "At allevents, you seem fairly comfortable, Wynn."

  "I am alternately envied and pitied," replied Carrados, with a placidtolerance of circumstance that seemed characteristic of him. "Still, asyou say, I am fairly comfortable."

  "Envied, I can understand. But why are you pitied?"

  "Because I am blind," was the tranquil reply.

  "Blind!" exclaimed Mr Carlyle, using his own eyes superlatively. "Do youmean--literally blind?"

  "Literally.... I was riding along a bridle-path through a wood about adozen years ago with a friend. He was in front. At one point a twigsprang back--you know how easily a thing like that happens. It justflicked my eye--nothing to think twice about."

  "And that blinded you?"

  "Yes, ultimately. It's called amaurosis."

  "I can scarcely believe it. You seem so sure and self-reliant. Your eyesare full of expression--only a little quieter than they used to be. Ibelieve you were typing when I came.... Aren't you having me?"

  "You miss the dog and the stick?" smiled Carrados. "No; it's a fact."

  "What an awful infliction for you, Max. You were always such animpulsive, reckless sort of fellow--never quiet. You must miss such afearful lot."

  "Has anyone else recognized you?" asked Carrados quietly.

  "Ah, that was the voice, you said," replied Carlyle.

  "Yes; but other people heard the voice as well. Only I had noblundering, self-confident eyes to be hoodwinked."

  "That's a rum way of putting it," said Carlyle. "Are your ears neverhoodwinked, may I ask?"

  "Not now. Nor my fingers. Nor any of my other senses that have to lookout for themselves."

  "Well, well," murmured Mr Carlyle, cut short in his sympatheticemotions. "I'm glad you take it so well. Of course, if you find it anadvantage to be blind, old man----" He stopped and reddened. "I beg yourpardon," he concluded stiffly.

  "Not an advantage perhaps," replied the other thoughtfully. "Still ithas compensations that one might not think of. A new world to explore,new experiences, new powers awakening; strange new perceptions; life inthe fourth dimension. But why do you beg my pardon, Louis?"

  "I am an ex-solicitor, struck off in connexion with the falsifying of atrust account, Mr Carrados," replied Carlyle, rising.

  "Sit down, Louis," said Carrados suavely. His face, even his incrediblyliving eyes, beamed placid good-nature. "The chair on which you willsit, the roof above you, all the comfortable surroundings to which youhave so amiably alluded, are the direct result of falsifying a trustaccount. But do I call you 'Mr Carlyle' in consequence? Certainly not,Louis."

  "I did not falsify the account," cried Carlyle hotly. He sat down,however, and added more quietly: "But why do I tell you all this? I havenever spoken of it before."

  "Blindness invites confidence," replied Carrados. "We are out of therunning--human rivalry ceases to exist. Besides, why shouldn't you? Inmy case the account _was_ falsified."

  "Of course that's all bunkum, Max," commented Carlyle. "Still, Iappreciate your motive."

  "Practically everything I possess was left to me by an American cousin,on the condition that I took the name of Carrados. He made his fortuneby an ingenious conspiracy of doctoring the crop reports and unloadingfavourably in consequence. And I need hardly remind you that thereceiver is equally guilty with the thief."

  "But twice as safe. I know something of that, Max.... Have you any ideawhat my business is?"

  "You shall tell me," replied Carrados.

  "I run a private inquiry agency. When I lost my profession I had to dosomething for a living. This occurred. I dropped my name, changed myappearance and opened an office. I knew the legal side down to theground and I got a retired Scotland Yard man to organize the outsidework."

  "Excellent!" cried Carrados. "Do you unearth many murders?"

  "No," admitted Mr Carlyle; "our business lies mostly on the conventionallines among divorce and defalcation."

  "That's a pity," remarked Carrados. "Do you know, Louis, I always had asecret ambition to be a detective myself. I have even thought latelythat I might still be able to do something at it if the chance came myway. That makes you smile?"

  "Well, certainly, the idea----"

  "Yes, the idea of a blind detective--the blind tracking the alert----"

  "Of course, as you say, certain faculties are no doubt quickened," MrCarlyle hastened to add considerately, "but, seriously, with theexception of an artist, I don't suppose there is any man who is moreutterly dependent on his eyes."

  Whatever opinion Carrados might have held privately, his genial exteriordid not betray a shadow of dissent. For a full minute he continued tosmoke as though he derived an actual visual enjoyment from the bluesprays that travelled and dispersed across the room. He had alreadyplaced before his visitor a box containing cigars of a brand which thatgentleman keenly appreciated but generally regarded as unattainable, andthe matter-of-fact ease and certainty with which the blind man hadbrought the box and put it before him had sent a questioning flickerthrough Carlyle's mind.

  "You used to be rather fond of art yourself, Louis," he remarkedpresently. "Give me your opinion of my latest purchase--the bronze lionon the cabinet there." Then, as Carlyle's gaze went about the room, headded quickly: "No, not that cabinet--the one on your left."

  Carlyle shot a sharp glance at his host as he got up, but Carrados'sexpression was merely benignly complacent. Then he strolled across tothe figure.

  "Very nice," he admitted. "Late Flemish, isn't it?"

  "No. It is a copy of Vidal's 'Roaring lion.'"

  "Vidal?"

  "A French artist." The voice became indescribably flat. "He, also, hadthe misfortune to be blind, by the way."

  "You old humbug, Max!" shrieked Carlyle, "you've been thinking that outfor the last five minutes." Then the unfortunate man bit his lip andturned his back towards his host.

  "Do you remember how we used to pile it up on that obtuse ass Sandersand then roast him?" asked Carrados, ignoring the half-smotheredexclamation with which the other man had recalled himsel
f.

  "Yes," replied Carlyle quietly. "This is very good," he continued,addressing himself to the bronze again. "How ever did he do it?"

  "With his hands."

  "Naturally. But, I mean, how did he study his model?"

  "Also with his hands. He called it 'seeing near.'"

  "Even with a lion--handled it?"

  "In such cases he required the services of a keeper, who brought theanimal to bay while Vidal exercised his own particular gifts.... Youdon't feel inclined to put me on the track of a mystery, Louis?"

  Unable to regard this request as anything but one of old Max'sunquenchable pleasantries, Mr Carlyle was on the point of making asuitable reply when a sudden thought caused him to smile knowingly. Upto that point he had, indeed, completely forgotten the object of hisvisit. Now that he remembered the doubtful Dionysius and Mr Baxter'srecommendation he immediately assumed that some mistake had been made.Either Max was not the Wynn Carrados he had been seeking or else thedealer had been misinformed; for although his host was wonderfullyexpert in the face of his misfortune, it was inconceivable that he coulddecide the genuineness of a coin without seeing it. The opportunityseemed a good one of getting even with Carrados by taking him at hisword.

  "Yes," he accordingly replied, with crisp deliberation, as he recrossedthe room; "yes, I will, Max. Here is the clue to what seems to be arather remarkable fraud." He put the tetradrachm into his host's hand."What do you make of it?"

  For a few seconds Carrados handled the piece with the delicatemanipulation of his finger-tips while Carlyle looked on with aself-appreciative grin. Then with equal gravity the blind man weighedthe coin in the balance of his hand. Finally he touched it with histongue.

  "Well?" demanded the other.

  "Of course I have not much to go on, and if I was more fully in yourconfidence I might come to another conclusion----"

  "Yes, yes," interposed Carlyle, with amused encouragement.

  "Then I should advise you to arrest the parlourmaid, Nina Brun,communicate with the police authorities of Padua for particulars of thecareer of Helene Brunesi, and suggest to Lord Seastoke that he shouldreturn to London to see what further depredations have been made in hiscabinet."

  Mr Carlyle's groping hand sought and found a chair, on to which hedropped blankly. His eyes were unable to detach themselves for a singlemoment from the very ordinary spectacle of Mr Carrados's mildlybenevolent face, while the sterilized ghost of his now forgottenamusement still lingered about his features.

  "Good heavens!" he managed to articulate, "how do you know?"

  "Isn't that what you wanted of me?" asked Carrados suavely.

  "Don't humbug, Max," said Carlyle severely. "This is no joke." Anundefined mistrust of his own powers suddenly possessed him in thepresence of this mystery. "How do you come to know of Nina Brun and LordSeastoke?"

  "You are a detective, Louis," replied Carrados. "How does one know thesethings? By using one's eyes and putting two and two together."

  Carlyle groaned and flung out an arm petulantly.

  "Is it all bunkum, Max? Do you really see all the time--though thatdoesn't go very far towards explaining it."

  "Like Vidal, I see very well--at close quarters," replied Carrados,lightly running a forefinger along the inscription on the tetradrachm."For longer range I keep another pair of eyes. Would you like to testthem?"

  Mr Carlyle's assent was not very gracious; it was, in fact, faintlysulky. He was suffering the annoyance of feeling distinctly unimpressivein his own department; but he was also curious.

  "The bell is just behind you, if you don't mind," said his host."Parkinson will appear. You might take note of him while he is in."

  The man who had admitted Mr Carlyle proved to be Parkinson.

  "This gentleman is Mr Carlyle, Parkinson," explained Carrados the momentthe man entered. "You will remember him for the future?"

  Parkinson's apologetic eye swept the visitor from head to foot, but solightly and swiftly that it conveyed to that gentleman the comparisonof being very deftly dusted.

  "I will endeavour to do so, sir," replied Parkinson, turning again tohis master.

  "I shall be at home to Mr Carlyle whenever he calls. That is all."

  "Very well, sir."

  "Now, Louis," remarked Mr Carrados briskly, when the door had closedagain, "you have had a good opportunity of studying Parkinson. What ishe like?"

  "In what way?"

  "I mean as a matter of description. I am a blind man--I haven't seen myservant for twelve years--what idea can you give me of him? I asked youto notice."

  "I know you did, but your Parkinson is the sort of man who has verylittle about him to describe. He is the embodiment of the ordinary. Hisheight is about average----"

  "Five feet nine," murmured Carrados. "Slightly above the mean."

  "Scarcely noticeably so. Clean-shaven. Medium brown hair. Noparticularly marked features. Dark eyes. Good teeth."

  "False," interposed Carrados. "The teeth--not the statement."

  "Possibly," admitted Mr Carlyle. "I am not a dental expert and I had noopportunity of examining Mr Parkinson's mouth in detail. But what isthe drift of all this?"

  "His clothes?"

  "Oh, just the ordinary evening dress of a valet. There is not much roomfor variety in that."

  "You noticed, in fact, nothing special by which Parkinson could beidentified?"

  "Well, he wore an unusually broad gold ring on the little finger of theleft hand."

  "But that is removable. And yet Parkinson has an ineradicable mole--asmall one, I admit--on his chin. And you a human sleuth-hound. Oh,Louis!"

  "At all events," retorted Carlyle, writhing a little under thisgood-humoured satire, although it was easy enough to see in itCarrados's affectionate intention--"at all events, I dare say I can giveas good a description of Parkinson as he can give of me."

  "That is what we are going to test. Ring the bell again."

  "Seriously?"

  "Quite. I am trying my eyes against yours. If I can't give you fifty outof a hundred I'll renounce my private detectorial ambition for ever."

  "It isn't quite the same," objected Carlyle, but he rang the bell.

  "Come in and close the door, Parkinson," said Carrados when the manappeared. "Don't look at Mr Carlyle again--in fact, you had better standwith your back towards him, he won't mind. Now describe to me hisappearance as you observed it."

  Parkinson tendered his respectful apologies to Mr Carlyle for theliberty he was compelled to take, by the deferential quality of hisvoice.

  "Mr Carlyle, sir, wears patent leather boots of about size seven andvery little used. There are five buttons, but on the left boot onebutton--the third up--is missing, leaving loose threads and not the moreusual metal fastener. Mr Carlyle's trousers, sir, are of a darkmaterial, a dark grey line of about a quarter of an inch width on adarker ground. The bottoms are turned permanently up and are, just now,a little muddy, if I may say so."

  "Very muddy," interposed Mr Carlyle generously. "It is a wet night,Parkinson."

  "Yes, sir; very unpleasant weather. If you will allow me, sir, I willbrush you in the hall. The mud is dry now, I notice. Then, sir,"continued Parkinson, reverting to the business in hand, "there are darkgreen cashmere hose. A curb-pattern key-chain passes into the left-handtrouser pocket."

  From the visitor's nether garments the photographic-eyed Parkinsonproceeded to higher ground, and with increasing wonder Mr Carlylelistened to the faithful catalogue of his possessions. Hisfetter-and-link albert of gold and platinum was minutely described. Hisspotted blue ascot, with its gentlemanly pearl scarfpin, was set forth,and the fact that the buttonhole in the left lapel of his morning coatshowed signs of use was duly noted. What Parkinson saw he recorded buthe made no deductions. A handkerchief carried in the cuff of the rightsleeve was simply that to him and not an indication that Mr Carlyle was,indeed, left-handed.

  But a more delicate part of Parkinson's undertaking remained. Heapproached it with a double
cough.

  "As regards Mr Carlyle's personal appearance; sir----"

  "No, enough!" cried the gentleman concerned hastily. "I am more thansatisfied. You are a keen observer, Parkinson."

  "I have trained myself to suit my master's requirements, sir," repliedthe man. He looked towards Mr Carrados, received a nod and withdrew.

  Mr Carlyle was the first to speak.

  "That man of yours would be worth five pounds a week to me, Max," heremarked thoughtfully. "But, of course----"

  "I don't think that he would take it," replied Carrados, in a voice ofequally detached speculation. "He suits me very well. But you have thechance of using his services--indirectly."

  "You still mean that--seriously?"

  "I notice in you a chronic disinclination to take me seriously, Louis.It is really--to an Englishman--almost painful. Is there somethinginherently comic about me or the atmosphere of The Turrets?"

  "No, my friend," replied Mr Carlyle, "but there is somethingessentially prosperous. That is what points to the improbable. Now whatis it?"

  "It might be merely a whim, but it is more than that," replied Carrados."It is, well, partly vanity, partly _ennui_, partly"--certainly therewas something more nearly tragic in his voice than comic now--"partlyhope."

  Mr Carlyle was too tactful to pursue the subject.

  "Those are three tolerable motives," he acquiesced. "I'll do anythingyou want, Max, on one condition."

  "Agreed. And it is?"

  "That you tell me how you knew so much of this affair." He tapped thesilver coin which lay on the table near them. "I am not easilyflabbergasted," he added.

  "You won't believe that there is nothing to explain--that it was purelysecond-sight?"

  "No," replied Carlyle tersely; "I won't."

  "You are quite right. And yet the thing is very simple."

  "They always are--when you know," soliloquized the other. "That's whatmakes them so confoundedly difficult when you don't."

  "Here is this one then. In Padua, which seems to be regaining its oldreputation as the birthplace of spurious antiques, by the way, therelives an ingenious craftsman named Pietro Stelli. This simple soul, whopossesses a talent not inferior to that of Cavino at his best, has formany years turned his hand to the not unprofitable occupation offorging rare Greek and Roman coins. As a collector and student ofcertain Greek colonials and a specialist in forgeries I have beenfamiliar with Stelli's workmanship for years. Latterly he seems to havecome under the influence of an international crook called--at themoment--Dompierre, who soon saw a way of utilizing Stelli's genius on aroyal scale. Helene Brunesi, who in private life is--and really is, Ibelieve--Madame Dompierre, readily lent her services to the enterprise."

  "Quite so," nodded Mr Carlyle, as his host paused.

  "You see the whole sequence, of course?"

  "Not exactly--not in detail," confessed Mr Carlyle.

  "Dompierre's idea was to gain access to some of the most celebratedcabinets of Europe and substitute Stelli's fabrications for the genuinecoins. The princely collection of rarities that he would thus amassmight be difficult to dispose of safely but I have no doubt that he hadmatured his plans. Helene, in the person of Nina Bran, an AnglicisedFrench parlourmaid--a part which she fills to perfection--was to obtainwax impressions of the most valuable pieces and to make the exchangewhen the counterfeits reached her. In this way it was obviously hopedthat the fraud would not come to light until long after the real coinshad been sold, and I gather that she has already done her worksuccessfully in several houses. Then, impressed by her excellentreferences and capable manner, my housekeeper engaged her, and for a fewweeks she went about her duties here. It was fatal to this detail ofthe scheme, however, that I have the misfortune to be blind. I am toldthat Helene has so innocently angelic a face as to disarm suspicion, butI was incapable of being impressed and that good material was thrownaway. But one morning my material fingers--which, of course, knewnothing of Helene's angelic face--discovered an unfamiliar touch aboutthe surface of my favourite Euclideas, and, although there was doubtlessnothing to be seen, my critical sense of smell reported that wax hadbeen recently pressed against it. I began to make discreet inquiries andin the meantime my cabinets went to the local bank for safety. Helenecountered by receiving a telegram from Angiers, calling her to thedeath-bed of her aged mother. The aged mother succumbed; duty compelledHelene to remain at the side of her stricken patriarchal father, anddoubtless The Turrets was written off the syndicate's operations as abad debt."

  "Very interesting," admitted Mr Carlyle; "but at the risk of seemingobtuse"--his manner had become delicately chastened--"I must say that Ifail to trace the inevitable connexion between Nina Brun and thisparticular forgery--assuming that it is a forgery."

  "Set your mind at rest about that, Louis," replied Carrados. "It is aforgery, and it is a forgery that none but Pietro Stelli could haveachieved. That is the essential connexion. Of course, there areaccessories. A private detective coming urgently to see me with anotable tetradrachm in his pocket, which he announces to be the clue toa remarkable fraud--well, really, Louis, one scarcely needs to be blindto see through that."

  "And Lord Seastoke? I suppose you happened to discover that Nina Brunhad gone there?"

  "No, I cannot claim to have discovered that, or I should certainly havewarned him at once when I found out--only recently--about the gang. As amatter of fact, the last information I had of Lord Seastoke was a linein yesterday's _Morning Post_ to the effect that he was still at Cairo.But many of these pieces----" He brushed his finger almost lovinglyacross the vivid chariot race that embellished the reverse of the coin,and broke off to remark: "You really ought to take up the subject,Louis. You have no idea how useful it might prove to you some day."

  "I really think I must," replied Carlyle grimly. "Two hundred and fiftypounds the original of this cost, I believe."

  "Cheap, too; it would make five hundred pounds in New York to-day. As Iwas saying, many are literally unique. This gem by Kimon is--here is hissignature, you see; Peter is particularly good at lettering--and as Ihandled the genuine tetradrachm about two years ago, when Lord Seastokeexhibited it at a meeting of our society in Albemarle Street, there isnothing at all wonderful in my being able to fix the locale of yourmystery. Indeed, I feel that I ought to apologize for it all being sosimple."

  "I think," remarked Mr Carlyle, critically examining the loose threadson his left boot, "that the apology on that head would be moreappropriate from me."