The Sins of Séverac Bablon, Page 3

  CHAPTER III

  MIDNIGHT--AND THE MAN

  The next two days were busy ones for Sheard, who, from a variety ofcauses--the chief being his intimacy with the little circle which,whether it would or not, gathered around Mr. Julius Rohscheimer--foundhimself involved in the mystery of Severac Bablon. He had interviewedthis man and that, endeavouring to obtain some coherent story of thegreat "hold up," but with little success. Everything was a mysteriousmaze, and Scotland Yard was without any clue that might lead to thesolution. All the Fleet Street crime specialists had advanced theories,and now, on the night of the third day after the audacious robbery,Sheard was contributing his theory to the Sunday newspaper for which heworked.

  The subject of his article was the identity of Severac Bablon, whomSheard was endeavouring to prove to be not an individual, but a society;a society, so he argued, formed for the immolation of Capital upon thealtars of Demos.

  The course of reasoning that he had taken up proved more elusive than hehad anticipated.

  His bundle of notes lay before him on the table. The news of the latestoutrage, the burning of the great Runek Mills in Ontario, had served toconvince him that his solution was the right one; yet he could make noheadway, and the labours of the last day or so had left him tired anddrowsy.

  He left his table and sank into an arm-chair by the study fire, knockingout his briar on a coal and carefully refilling and lighting thatinvaluable collaborator. With his data presently arranged in bettermental order, he returned to the table and covered page after page withfacile reasoning. Then the drowsiness which he could not altogethershake off crept upon him again, and staring at the words "Such societieshave existed in fiction, now we have one existing in fact," he droppedinto a doze--as the clock in the hall struck one.

  When he awoke, with his chin on his breast, it was to observe, firstly,that the MS. no longer lay on the pad, and, secondly, on looking up,that a stranger sat in the arm-chair, opposite, reading it!

  "Who----" began Sheard, starting to his feet.

  Whereupon the stranger raised a white, protesting hand.

  "Give me but one moment's grace, Mr. Sheard," he said quietly, "and Iwill at once apologise and explain!"

  "What do you mean?" rapped the journalist. "How dare you enter my housein this way, and----" He broke off from sheer lack of words, for thiscalm, scrupulously dressed intruder was something outside the zone ofthings comprehensible.

  In person he was slender, but of his height it was impossible to judgeaccurately whilst he remained seated. He was perfectly attired inevening-dress, and wore a heavy, fur-lined coat. A silk hat, by aneminent hatter, stood upon Sheard's writing-table, a pair of glovesbeside it. A gold-mounted ebony walking-stick was propped against thefireplace. But the notable and unusual characteristic of the man was hisface. Its beauty was literally amazing. Sheard, who had studiedblack-and-white, told himself that here was an ideal head--that ofApollo himself.

  And this extraordinary man, with his absolutely flawless featurescomposed, and his large, luminous eyes half closed, lounged in Sheard'sstudy at half-past one in the early morning and toyed with an unfinishedmanuscript--like some old and privileged friend who had dropped in for achat.

  "Look here!" said the outraged pressman, stepping around the table asthe calm effrontery of the thing burst fully upon him. "Get out! _Now!_"

  "Mr. Sheard," said the other, "if I apologise frankly and fully for myintrusion, will you permit me to give my reasons for it?"

  Sheard again found himself inarticulate. He was angrily conscious of avague disquiet. The visitor's suave courtesy under circumstances soutterly unusual disarmed him, as it must have disarmed any average mansimilarly situated. For a moment his left fist clenched, his mind swungin the balance, irresolute. The other turned back a loose page andquietly resumed his perusal of the manuscript.

  That decided Sheard's attitude, and he laughed.

  Whereat the stranger again raised the protestant hand.

  "We shall awake Mrs. Sheard!" he said solicitously. "And now, as I seeyou have decided to give me a hearing, let me begin by offering you mysincere apology for entering your house uninvited."

  Sheard, his mind filled with a sense of phantasy, dropped into a chairopposite the visitor, reached into the cabinet at his elbow, andproffered a box of Turkish cigarettes.

  "Your methods place you beyond the reach of ordinary castigation," hesaid. "I don't know your name and I don't know your business; but Ihonestly admire your stark impudence!"

  "Very well," replied the other in his quiet, melodious voice, with itsfaint, elusive accent. "A compliment is intended, and I thank you! Andnow, I see you are wondering how I obtained admittance. Yet it is sosimple. Your front door is not bolted, and Mrs. Sheard, but a few dayssince, had the misfortune to lose a key. You recollect? I found thatkey! Is it enough?"

  "Quite enough!" said Sheard grimly. "But why go to the trouble? What doyou want?"

  "I want to insure that one, at least, of the influential dailies shallnot persistently misrepresent my actions!"

  "Then who----" began Sheard, and got no farther; for the stranger handedhim a card--

  SEVERAC BABLON

  "You see," continued the man already notorious in two continents, "yourpaper, here, is inaccurate in several important particulars! Yourpremises are incorrect, and your inferences consequently wrong!"

  Sheard stared at him, silent, astounded.

  "I have been described in the Press of England and America as anincendiary, because I burned the Runek Mills; as a maniac, because Icompensated men cruelly thrown out of employment; as a thief, because Itook from the rich in Park Lane and gave to the poor on the Embankment.I say that this is unjust!"

  His eyes gleamed into a sudden blaze. The delicate, white hand that heldSheard's manuscript gripped it so harshly that the paper was crushedinto a ball. That Severac Bablon was mad seemed an unavoidableconclusion; that he was forceful, dominant, a power to be counted with,was a truth legible in every line of his fine features, in every vibranttone of his voice, in the fire of his eyes. The air of the study seemedcharged with his electric passion.

  Then, in an instant, he regained his former calm. Rising to his feet, hethrew off the heavy coat he wore and stood, a tall, handsome figure,with his hands spread out, interrogatively.

  "Do I look such a man?" he demanded.

  Despite the theatrical savour of the thing, Sheard could not but feelthe real sincerity of his appeal; and, as he stared, wondering, at thefine brow, the widely-opened eyes, the keen nostrils and delicate yetindomitable mouth and chin, he was forced to admit that here was no mereup-to-date cracksman, but something else, something more. "Is he mad?"flashed again through his mind.

  "No!" smiled Severac Bablon, dropping back into the chair; "I am as saneas you yourself!"

  "Have I questioned it?"

  "With your eyes and the left corner of your mouth, yes!" Sheard wassilent.

  "I shall not weary you with a detailed exculpation of my acts,"continued his visitor; "but you have a list on your table, no doubt, ofthe people whom I forced to assist the Embankment poor?"

  Sheard nodded.

  "Mention but one whose name has ever before been associated withcharity; I mean the charity that has no relation to advertisement! Youare silent! You say"--glancing over the unfinished article--"that 'thiswas a capricious burlesque of true philanthropy.' I reply that it servedits purpose--of proclaiming my arrival in London and of clearlydemonstrating the purpose of my coming! You ask who are my accomplices!I answer--they are as the sands of the desert! You seek to learn who Iam. Seek, rather, to learn _what_ I am!"

  "Why have you selected me for this--honour?"

  "I overheard some remarks of yours, contrasting a restaurant supper-roomwith the Embankment which appealed to me! But, to come to the point, doyou believe me to be a rogue?"

  Sheard smiled a trifle uneasily.

  "You are doubtful," the other continued. "It has entered your mind thata proper co
urse would be to ring up Scotland Yard! Instead, come withme! I will show you how little you know of me and of what I can do. Iwill show you that no door is closed to me! Why do you hesitate? Youshall be home again, safe, within two hours. I pledge my word!"

  Possessing the true journalistic soul, Sheard was sorely tempted; for tothe passion of the copy-hunter such an invitation could not fail in itsappeal. With only a momentary hesitation, he stood up.

  "I'll come!" he said.

  A smart landaulette stood waiting outside the house; and, without a wordto the chauffeur, Severac Bablon opened the door and entered afterSheard. The motor immediately started, and the car moved off silently.The blinds were drawn.

  "You will have to trust yourself implicitly in my hands," said Sheard'sextraordinary companion. "In a moment I shall ask you to fasten yourhandkerchief about your eyes and to give me your word that you aresecurely blindfolded!"

  "Is it necessary?"

  "Quite! Are you nervous?"

  "No!"--shortly.

  There was a brief interval of silence, during which the car, as well asit was possible to judge, whirled through the deserted streets at afurious speed.

  "Will you oblige me?" came the musical voice.

  The journalist took out his pocket-handkerchief, and making it into abandage, tied it firmly about his head.

  "Are you ready?" asked Severac Bablon.

  "Yes."

  A click told of a raised blind.

  "Can you see?"

  "Not a thing!"

  "Then take my hand and follow quickly. Do not speak; do not stumble!"

  Cautiously feeling his way, Sheard, one hand clasping that of his guide,stepped out into the keen night air, and was assisted by some thirdperson--probably the chauffeur--on to the roof of the car!

  "Be silent!" from Severac Bablon. "Fear nothing! Step forward as yourfeet will be directed and trust implicitly to me!"

  As a man in a dream Sheard stood there--on the roof of a motor-car, in aLondon street--and waited. There came dimly to his ears, and from nogreat distance, the sound of late traffic along what he judged to be amain road. But immediately about him quiet reigned. They were evidentlyin some deserted back-water of a great thoroughfare. A faint scufflingsound arose, followed by that of someone lightly dropping upon a stonepavement.

  Then an arm was slipped about him and he was directed, in a whisper, tostep forward. He found his foot upon what he thought to be a flatrailing. His ankle was grasped from below and the voice of SeveracBablon came, "On to my shoulders--so!"

  Still with the supporting arm about him, he stepped gingerlyforward--and stood upon the shoulders of the man below.

  "Stand quite rigidly!" said Severac Bablon.

  He obeyed; and was lifted, lightly as a feather, and deposited upon theground! It was such a feat as he had seen professional athletes perform,and he marvelled at the physical strength of his companion.

  A keen zest for this extravagant adventure seized him. He thought thatit must be good to be a burglar. Then, as he heard the motor re-startedand the car move off, a sudden qualm of disquiet came; for it wastantamount to burning one's boats.

  "Take my hand!" he heard; and was led to the head of a flight of steps.Cautiously he felt his way down, in the wake of his guide.

  A key was turned in a well-oiled lock, and he was guided inside abuilding. There was a faint, crypt-like smell--vaguely familiar.

  "Quick!" said the soft voice--"remove your boots and leave them here!"

  Sheard obeyed, and holding the guiding hand tightly in his own,traversed a stone-paved corridor. Doors were unlocked and re-locked. Aflight of steps was negotiated in phantom silence; for his companion'sfootsteps, like his own, were noiseless. Another door was unlocked.

  "Now!" came the whispered words: "Remove the handkerchief!"

  Rapidly enough, Sheard obeyed, and, burning with curiosity, looked abouthim.

  "Good heavens!" he muttered.

  A supernatural fear of his mysterious cicerone momentarily possessedhim. For he thought that he stood in a lofty pagan temple!

  High above his head a watery moonbeam filtered through a window, andspilled its light about the base of a gigantic stone pillar. Toweringshapes, as of statues of gods, loomed, awesomely, in the gloom. Behindthe pillar dimly he could discern a painted procession of deities uponthe wall. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that the tall figure ofSeverac Bablon was at his elbow.

  "Where do you stand?" questioned his low voice.

  And, like an inspiration, the truth burst in upon Sheard's mind.

  "The British Museum!" he whispered hoarsely.

  "Correct!" was the answer; "the treasure-house of your modern Babylon!Wait, now, until I return; and, if you have no relish for arrest as aburglar, do not move--do not breathe!"

  With that, he was gone, into the dense shadows about; and Henry ThomasSheard, of the _Gleaner_, found himself, at, approximately, aquarter-past two in the morning, standing in an apartment of the BritishMuseum, with no better explanation to offer, in the event of detection,than that he had come there in the company of Severac Bablon.

  He thought of the many printing-presses busy, even then, with thedeductions of Fleet Street theorists, regarding this man of mystery. Allof their conclusions must necessarily be wrong, since their premiseswere certainly so. For which of them who had assured his readers thatSeverac Bablon was a common cracksman (on a large scale) would not havereconsidered his opinion had he learned that the common cracksman heldprivate keys of the national treasure-house?

  His eyes growing more accustomed to the darkness, Sheard began to seemore clearly the objects about him. A seated figure of the Pharaoh SetiI. surveyed him with a scorn but thinly veiled; beyond, two toweringAssyrian bulls showed gigantic in the semi-light. He could discern, now,the whole length of the lofty hall--a carven avenue; and, as his gazewandered along that dim vista, he detected a black shape emerging fromthe blacker shadows beyond the bulls.

  It was Severac Bablon. In an instant he stood beside him, and Sheard sawthat he carried a bag.

  "Follow me--quickly!" he said. "Not a second to spare!"

  But too fully alive to their peril, Sheard slipped away in the wake ofthis greatly daring man. The horror of his position was strong upon himnow.

  "This way!"

  Blindly he stumbled forward, upstairs, around a sharp corner, and then adoor was unlocked and re-locked behind them. "Egyptian Room!" came aquick whisper. "In here!"

  A white beam cut the blackness, temporarily dazzling him, and Sheard sawthat his companion was directing the light of an electric torch into awall-cabinet--which he held open. It contained mummy cases, and, withoutquite knowing how he got there, Sheard found himself crouching behindone. Severac Bablon vanished.

  Darkness followed, and to his ears stole the sound of distant voices.

  The voices grew louder.

  Behind him, upon the back of the cabinet, danced a sudden disc of light,and, within it, a moving shadow! Someone was searching the room!

  Muffled and indistinct the voices sounded through the glass and themummy-case; but that the searchers were standing within a foot of hishiding-place Sheard was painfully certain. He shrank behind thesarcophagus lid like a tortoise within its shell, fearful lest a hand,an arm, a patch of clothing should protrude.