of their occupant's books, pictures, and objects of art. Mr. Gerald
Rayner, it was evident, was a man of culture--that, indeed, was shown by
his conversation. And at first Appleyard had set him down as a poet, or
an artist, or a writing man of some sort--a dilettante who possessed
private means. Then, being a sharp observer of all that went on around
his own centre, he began to perceive that he must be mistaken in
that--Rayner was obviously a business man, like himself. For every
morning, at precisely half-past nine, a smart motor-brougham arrived at
the door of the private hotel and carried Rayner off Citywards; every
afternoon at exactly half-past five the same conveyance brought him back.
Only business men, said Appleyard, are so regular, so punctual; therefore
Rayner must be a business man.

But nobody in that hotel knew anything whatever of Rayner, beyond what
they saw of him within its walls. Nobody knew whither the motor-brougham
carried him, what he did when he reached his destination, nobody knew
what or who he was. Appleyard, who was always knocking about the heart of
the City, who was for ever in its business streets, who knew all the City
clubs, all the best City restaurants, and was familiar with all sorts
and shades of life in the City, never saw Rayner in any of his own
purlieus. Accordingly, he came to the conclusion that Rayner's business,
whatever it was, did not take him to the City. Nevertheless, it was
certain, in Appleyard's opinion, that he was in business, and paid
scrupulous attention to his daily duties.

Over the edge of his newspaper he watched Rayner and Miss Slade meet,
exchange a word or two, and retire to a corner of an inner lounge in
which they often sat talking together. He had often seen them talking
together, and it had struck him that they seemed to talk with more than
ordinary confidence. The hunchback was on terms of easy familiarity with
everybody in the house, and he had a remarkable range of topics. He could
talk sport, books, finance, politics, art, science, history,
theology--the variety of his conversation was astonishing. But Appleyard
had begun to notice that he rarely talked to any single person with the
exception of Miss Slade--he would join a group in smoking-room or
drawing-room and enter gaily into whatever was being discussed, but he
seemed to have no desire to hold a _tete-a-tete_ talk with any one except
this young woman, who was now as much an object of mystery and
speculation to Appleyard as he himself was. They were often seen talking
together in quiet corners--and some of the old maids and eligible widows
were already saying that Miss Slade was setting her cap at Mr. Rayner's
evident deep purse.

Ambler Appleyard went to bed that night wondering greatly about two
matters--first, why Miss Slade was Miss Slade in Bayswater and Mrs.
Marlow at Fullaway's office; second, if Miss Slade or Mrs. Marlow,
whichever she really was, had any secrets with the mysterious Mr.
Rayner. From that he got to wondering who Rayner really was, and what
his business was. And this process of speculation began again next
morning, and continued all the way to the Gresham Street warehouse,
and by the time he had arrived there he had half-determined to find
out more about Miss Slade than was known to him up to then--and also,
since he appeared to be such great friends with Miss Slade, about Mr.
Gerald Rayner.

"But how?" he mused as he ran up the steps to the warehouse. "I'm not a
private detective, and I don't propose to employ one. If I knew some
sharp fellow--"

Just then he caught sight of Gaffney, who sat on a bale of goods within
the warehouse door, holding a note in his hand. He stood up with a grin
of friendly recognition when he saw Appleyard.

"Morning, sir," he said. "Letter from Mr. Allerdyke for you. No answer,
but I was to wait till you'd read it."

Appleyard opened the note there and then. It was a mere hurried scrawl,
saying that Allerdyke was just setting off for Hull, in obedience to a
call from the police; as Gaffney had nothing to do, would Appleyard make
use of him during Allerdyke's absence?

Appleyard bade Gaffney wait a while, went into his office, ran through
his correspondence, gave the morning's orders out to the warehouseman,
and called the chauffeur inside.

"Gaffney," he said as he carefully closed the door on them, "you're a
Londoner, aren't you?"

Gaffney smiled widely.

"Ought to be, Mr. Appleyard," he answered. "I was born within sound of
Bow Bells, anyhow. Off Aldersgate Street, sir. Yes, I'm a Cockney,
right enough."

"Then you know London well, of course," suggested Appleyard.

"Never went out of it much, sir, till I went down to Bradford to this
present job," replied Gaffney. "I shouldn't have left it if Mr. Allerdyke
hadn't given me extra good wages and a real good place."

Appleyard tossed Allerdyke's note across his desk.

"You see what Mr. Allerdyke says," he remarked. "Wants me to find you
something to do while he's off. How long is he likely to be off?"

"He said he might be back to-morrow night, sir," answered Gaffney,
glancing at the note. "But possibly not till the day after to-morrow."

"Well, I don't know that there's anything you can do here," said
Appleyard. "We're not particularly busy, and we've a full staff. But," he
continued, with a sharp glance at the chauffeur, "there's something you
can do for me, privately, to-morrow morning--a quite private matter--a
matter entirely between ourselves. I'll account to Mr. Allerdyke for your
time, but I don't want even him to know about this job that you can do
for me--I'll pay you for doing it out of my own pocket."

"Just as you think right, sir," answered Gaffney. "So long as you make it
right with the guv'nor, I'm willing."

"Very well," said Appleyard. He paused a moment, and then lowered his
voice. "You've seen about this tremendous reward that's being offered in
Mr. James Allerdyke's case?" he asked, with another sharp look. "You know
what I mean?"

Gaffney's shrewd face grew shrewder, and he nodded knowingly.

"I know!" he said. "Fifty thousand! A fortune, sir!"

"What I want you to do," continued Appleyard, "may lead to something
relating to that, and it mayn't. Anyway, I'll make you all right. Now,
listen carefully. Do you think you could get hold of a private motor
to-morrow morning? A smart, private cab in which you could put a friend
of yours--well dressed--would be the thing. Early."

"Easy as winking, sir," answered Gaffney. "Know the cab, and know a
friend o'mine who'd sit in it--as long as you like."

"Very good," said Appleyard. "Now, then, do you know Lancaster Gate?"

"Do I know St. Paul's?" exclaimed Gaffney, half-derisively. "Used to
drive for an old gent who lived in Porchester Terrace."

"Oh!" replied Appleyard. "Then I daresay you know the Pompadour
Private Hotel?"

"As well as I know my own fingers," responded Gaffney. "Driven to and
from it many a hundred times."

"Just the man I want, then," continued Appleyard. "Now, to-morrow
morning, get your cab early--put your friend in it--dressed up, of
course--and at half-past nine to the very minute drive slowly past the
front door of the Pompadour. You'll see a private motor-brougham
there--dark green--you'll also see a hunchbacked gentleman enter it--you
can't mistake him. Follow him! Never mind where he goes, or how long it
takes to get there--or how few minutes it takes to get there, for that
matter!--follow him and find out where that private cab puts him down.
Then--come and report to me. Is that all clear?"

"Clear as noonday, sir," answered Gaffney. "I understand--I've been at
that sort of game more than once."

"All right," said Appleyard. "I leave it to you. Take every care--I
don't want this man to get the least suspicion that he's followed.
And--" He hesitated, considering his plans over again. "Yes," he went
on, "there's just another detail that I may mention--it'll save time.
This hunchback gentleman's name is Rayner--Mr. Gerald Rayner. Can you
remember it?"

"As well as my own," answered Gaffney. "Mr. Gerald Rayner. I've got it."

"Very good. Now, then, can you trust this friend of yours?" asked
Appleyard. "Is he a chap of common sense?"

"It's my own brother," replied Gaffney. "Some people say I'm the sharper
of the two, some say he is. There's a pair of us, anyhow."

"That'll do," said Appleyard. "Now, wherever you see this Mr. Rayner set
down, let your brother get out of your cab and take particular notice if
he goes into any shop, office, flats, buildings, anything of that sort
which bears his name--Rayner. D'you see? I want to know what his business
is. And now that you know what I want, you and your brother put your
heads together and try to find it out, and come to me when you've done,
and I'll make it worth your while. You'd better go now and make your
arrangements."

Gaffney went away, evidently delighted with his commission, and Appleyard
turned to his business of the day, wondering if he was not going to waste
the chauffer's time and his own money. Next morning he purposely hung
about the Pompadour until the time for Rayner's departure arrived; from
one of the front windows he saw the hunchback enter his brougham and
drive away; at the same moment he saw a neat private cab, driven by
Gaffney, and occupied by a smart-looking young gentleman in a silk hat,
come along and follow in quite an ordinary and usual manner. And on that
he himself went to Gresham Street and waited.

Gaffney and his brother turned in during the morning, both evidently
primed with news. Appleyard shut himself into his office with them.

"Well?" he asked.

"Easy job, Mr. Appleyard," replied Gaffney. "Drove straight through the
Park, Constitution Hill, the Mall, Strand, to top of Arundel Street.
There he got out; brougham went off--back--he walked down street. So my
brother here he got out too, and strolled down street after him. He'll
tell you the rest, sir."

"Just as plain as what he's told," said the other Gaffney. "I followed
him down the street; he walked one side, I t'other side. He went into
Clytemnestra House--one of those big houses of business flats and
offices--almost at the bottom. I waited some time to see if he was
settled like, or if it was only a call he was making. Then I went into
the hall of Clytemnestra House, as if I was looking for somebody. There
are two boards in that hall with the names of tenants painted on 'em. But
there's not that name--Gerald Rayner. Still, I'll tell you what there is,
sir--there's a name that begins with the same initials--G.R."

"What name?" asked Appleyard.

"The name," replied the second Gaffney, "is Gavin Ramsay--Agent."




CHAPTER XVII

THE PHOTOGRAPH


Allerdyke went off to Hull, post-haste, because of a telephone call which
roused him out of bed an hour before his usual time. It came from
Chettle, the New Scotland Yard man who had been sent down to Hull as soon
as the news of Lydenberg's murder arrived. Chettle asked Allerdyke to
join him by the very next express, and to come alone; he asked him,
moreover, not to tell Mr. Franklin Fullaway whither he was bound. And
Allerdyke, having taken a quick glance at a time-table, summoned Gaffney,
told him of his journey, bade him keep his tongue quiet at the Waldorf,
wrote his hasty note to Appleyard, dressed, and hurried away to King's
Cross. He breakfasted on the train, and was in Hull by one o'clock, and
Chettle hailed him as he set foot on the platform, and immediately led
him off to a cab which awaited them outside the station.

"Much obliged to you for coming so promptly, Mr. Allerdyke," said the
detective. "And for coming by yourself--that was just what I wanted."

"Aye, and why?" asked Allerdyke. "Why by myself? I've been wondering
about that all the way down."

Chettle, a sleek, comfortable-looking man, with a quiet manner and a sly
glance, laughed knowingly, twiddling his fat thumbs as he leaned back in
the cab. "Oh, well, it doesn't do--in my opinion--to spread information
amongst too many people, Mr. Allerdyke," he said. "That's my notion of
things, anyway. I just wanted to go into a few matters with you, alone,
d'ye see? I didn't want that American gentleman along with you. Eh?"

"Now, why?" asked Allerdyke. "Out with it!"

"Well, you see, Mr. Allerdyke," answered the detective, "we know you.
You're a man of substance, you've got a big stake in the country--you're
Allerdyke, of Allerdyke and Partners, Limited, Bradford and London. But
we don't know Fullaway. He may be all right, but you could only call him
a bird of passage, like. He can close down his business and be away out
of England to-morrow, and, personally, I don't believe in letting him
into every secret about all this affair until we know more about him. You
see, Mr. Allerdyke, there's one thing very certain--so far as we've
ascertained at present, nobody but Fullaway, and possibly whoever's in
his employ, was acquainted with the fact that your cousin was carrying
those jewels from Russia to England. Nobody in this country, at any rate.
And--it's a thing of serious importance, sir."

Just what Appleyard had said!--what, indeed, no one of discernment could
help saying, thought Allerdyke. The sole knowledge, of course, was with
Fullaway and his lady clerk--so far as was known. Therefore--

"Just so," he said aloud. "I see your point--of course, I've already seen
it. Well, what are we going to do--now? You've brought me down here for
something special, no doubt."

"Quite so, sir," answered Chettle composedly. "I want to draw your
attention to some very special features and to ask you certain questions
arising out of 'em. We'll take things in order, Mr. Allerdyke. We're
driving now to the High Street--I want to show you the exact spot where
Lydenberg was shot dead. After that we'll go to the police-station and
I'll show you two or three little matters, and we'll have a talk about
them. And now, before we get to the High Street, I may as well tell you
that on examining Lydenberg's body very little was found in the way of
papers--scarcely anything, and nothing connecting him with your cousin's
affair--in fact, the police here say they never saw a foreign gentleman
with less on him in that way. But in the inside pocket of his overcoat
there was a postcard, which had been posted here in Hull. Here it
is--and you'll see that it was the cause of taking him to the spot where
he was shot."

Chettle took from an old letter-case an innocent-looking postcard, on one
corner of which was a stain.

"His blood," he remarked laconically. "He was shot clean through the
heart. Well, you see, it's a mere line."

Allerdyke took the card and looked at it with a mingled feeling of
repulsion and fascination. The writing on it was thin, angular, upright,
and it suggested foreign origin. And the communication was brief--and
unsigned--

"High Street morning eleven sharp left-hand side old houses."

"You don't recognize that handwriting, of course, Mr. Allerdyke?" asked
Chettle. "Never seen it before, I suppose?"

"No!" replied Allerdyke. "Never. But I should say it's a foreigner's."

"Very likely," assented Chettle. "Aye, well, sir, it lured the man to his
death. And now I'll show you where he died, and how easy it was for the
murderer to kill him and get away unobserved."

He pulled the cab up at the corner of the High Street, and turned
southward towards the river, looking round at his companion with one of
his sly smiles.

"I daresay that you, being a Yorkshireman, Mr. Allerdyke, know all about
this old street," he remarked as they walked forward. "I never saw it,
never heard of it, until the other day, when I was sent down on this
Lydenberg business, but it struck me at once. I should think it's one of
the oldest streets left in England."

"It is," answered Allerdyke. "I know it well enough, and I've seen it
changed. It used to be the street of the old Hull merchants--they had
their houses and warehouses all combined, with gardens at the back
running down to the river Hull. Queer old places there used to be in this
street, I can tell you when I was a lad!--of late years they've pulled a
lot of property down that had got what you might call thoroughly
worm-eaten--oh, yes, the place isn't half as ancient or picturesque as it
was even twenty years ago!"

"There's plenty of the ancient about it still, for all that," observed
Chettle, with a dry laugh. "There was more than enough of it for
Lydenberg the other day, at any rate. Now, then, you remember what it
said on the postcard--he was to walk down the High Street, on the
left-hand side, at eleven o'clock? Very well--down the High Street he
walks, on this side which we are now--he strolls along, by these old
houses, looking about him, of course, for the person he was to meet. The
few people who were about down here that morning, and who saw him, said
that he was looking about from side to side. And all of a sudden a shot
rang out, and Lydenberg fell--just here--right on this very pavement."

He pulled Allerdyke up in a narrow part of the old street, jointed to
the flags, and then to the house behind them--an ancient, ramshackle
place, the doors and windows of which were boarded up, the entire fabric
of which showed unmistakable readiness for the pick and shovel of the
house-breaker. And he laid a hand on one of the shattered windows, close
by a big hole in the decaying wood.

"There's no doubt the murderer was hidden behind this shutter, and that
he fired at Lydenberg from it, through this hole," he said. "So, you see,
he'd only be a few feet from his man. He was evidently a good shot, and a
fellow of resolute nerve, for he made no mistake. He only fired once, but
he shot Lydenberg clean through the heart, dead!"

"Anybody see it happen?" asked Allerdyke, staring about him at the scene
of the tragedy, and thinking how very ordinary and commonplace everything
looked. "I suppose there'd be people about, though the street, at this
end, anyway, isn't as busy as it once was?"

"Several people saw him fall," answered Chettle.

"They say he jumped, spun round, and fell across the pavement. And they
all thought it was a case of suicide. That, of course, gave the murderer
a bigger and better chance of making off. You see, as these people saw no
assailant, it never struck 'em that the shot had been fired from behind
this window. When they collected their thoughts, found it wasn't suicide,
and realized that it was murder, the murderer was--Lord knows where! From
behind these old houses, Mr. Allerdyke, there's a perfect rabbit-warren
of alleys, courts, slums, twists, and turns! The man could slip out at
the back, go left or right, mix himself up with the crowd on the quays
and wharves, walk into the streets, go anywhere--all in a minute or two."

"Clever--very clever! You've no clue?" asked Allerdyke.

"None; not a scrap!" replied the detective. "Bless you, there's score of
foreigners knocking about Hull. Scores! Hundreds! We've done all we can,
the local police and myself--we've no clue whatever. But, of course, it
was done by one of the gang."

"By one of the gang!" exclaimed Allerdyke. "Ah you've got a theory of
your own, then?"

Chettle laughed quietly as they turned and retraced their steps up
the street.

"It 'ud be queer if I hadn't, by this time," he answered. "Oh yes, I've
thought things out pretty well, and I should say our people at the Yard
have come to the same conclusion that I have--I'm not conceited enough,
Mr. Allerdyke, to fancy that I'm the only person who's arrived at a
reasonable theory, not I?"

"Well--what is your theory?" asked Allerdyke.

"This," replied the detective. "The whole thing, the theft of the
Princess Nastirsevitch's jewels from your cousin, of Miss de Longarde's
or Lennard's jewels, was the work of a peculiarly clever gang--though it
may be of an individual--who made use of both Lydenberg and the French
maid as instruments, and subsequently murdered those two in order to
silence them forever. I say it may be the work of an individual--it's
quite possible that the man who killed the Frenchwoman is also the man
who shot Lydenberg--but it may be the work of one, two, or three separate
persons, acting in collusion. I believe that Lydenberg was the actual
thief of the Princess's jewels from your cousin; that the Frenchwoman
actually stole her mistress's jewels. But as to how it was worked--as to
who invented and carried out the whole thing--ah!"

"And to that--to the real secret of the whole matter--we haven't the
ghost of a clue!" muttered Allerdyke. "That's about it, eh?"

Chettle laughed--a sly, suggestive laugh. He gave his companion one of
his half-apologetic looks.

"I'm not so sure, Mr. Allerdyke," he said. "We may have--and that's why I
wanted to see you by yourself. Come round to the police-station."

In a quiet room in the usual drab and dismal atmosphere which Allerdyke
was beginning to associate with police affairs, Chettle produced the
personal property of the dead man, all removed, he said, from the Station
Hotel, for safe keeping.

"There's little to go on, Mr. Allerdyke," he said, pointing to one
article after another. "You'll remember that the man represented himself
as being a Norwegian doctor, who had come to Hull on private business. He
may have been that--we're making inquiries about him in Christiania,
where he hailed from. According to those who're in a position to speak,
his clothing, linen, boots, and so on are all of the sort you'd get in
that country. But he'd no papers on him to show his business, no private
letters, no documents connecting him with Hull in any way: he hadn't even
a visiting-card. He'd a return ticket--from Hull to Christiania--and he'd
plenty of money, English and foreign. When I got down here, I helped the
local police to go through everything--we even searched the linings of
his clothing and ripped his one handbag to pieces. But we've found no
more than I've said. However--I've found something. Nobody knows that
I've found it. I haven't told the people here--I haven't even reported
it to headquarters in London. I wanted you to see it before I spoke of it
to a soul. Look here!"

Chettle opened a square cardboard box in which certain personal effects
belonging to Lydenberg had been placed--one or two rings, a pocket-knife,
his purse and its contents, a cigar-case, his watch and chain. He took up
the watch, detached it from the chain, and held it towards Allerdyke, who
was regarding these proceedings with intense curiosity.

"You see this watch, Mr. Allerdyke," he said. "It's a watch of foreign
make--Swiss--and it's an old one, a good many years old, I should say.
Consequently, it's a bit what we might call massive. Now, I was looking
at it yesterday--late last night, in fact--and an idea suddenly struck
me. In consequence of that idea, I opened the back of the watch, and
discovered--that!"

He snapped open the case of the watch as he spoke and showed Allerdyke,
neatly cut out to a circle, neatly fitted into the case, a
photograph--the photograph of James Allerdyke! And Allerdyke started as
if he had been shot, and let out a sharp exclamation.

"My God!" he cried. "James! James, by all that's holy--and in there!"

"You recognize it, of course?" said Chettle, with a grim smile. "No doubt
of it, eh?"

"Doubt! Recognize!" exclaimed Allerdyke. "Lord, man--why, I took it
myself, not two months ago!"




CHAPTER XVIII

DEFINITE SUSPICION


Chettle laughed--a low, suggestive, satisfied chuckle. He laid the watch,
its case still open, on the table at which they were standing, and tapped
the photograph with the point of his finger.

"That may be the first step to the scaffold--for somebody," he said, with
a meaning glance. "Ah--it's extraordinary what little, innocent-looking
things help to put a bit of rope round a man's neck! So you took this,
Mr. Allerdyke?--took it yourself, you say?"

"Took it myself, some eight or nine weeks ago," answered Allerdyke. "I
took it in my garden one Sunday afternoon when my cousin James happened
to be there. I do a bit in that way--amusement, you know. I just chanced
to have a camera in my hand, and I saw James in a very favourable light
and position, and I snapped him. And it was such a good 'un when
developed that I printed off a few copies."

The detective's face became anxious.

"How many, now?" he asked. "How many, Mr. Allerdyke? I hope you can
remember?--it's a point of the utmost seriousness."

"Naught easier," answered Allerdyke readily. "I've a good memory for
little things as well as big 'uns. I printed off four copies. One of 'em
I pasted into an album in which I keep particularly good photographs of
my own taking; the other three I gave to him--he put 'em in his
pocket-book."

"All unmounted--like this?" asked Chettle.

"All unmounted--like that," affirmed Allerdyke. "And now, then, since it
seems to be a matter of importance, I can tell you what James did with at
any rate two of 'em. He gave one to our cousin Grace--Mrs. Henry
Mallins--a Bradford lady. He gave another to a friend of my own, another
amateur photographer, Wilson Firth--gave him it in my presence at the
Midland Hotel one day, when we were all three having a cigar together in
the smoking-room there. Wilson Firth's a bit of a rival of mine in the
amateur photographic line--we each try to beat the other, you understand.
Now, then, James pulled one of these snapshots out and handed it over to
Wilson with a laugh. 'There,' he says, 'that's our Marshall's latest
performance--you'll have a job to do aught better than that, Wilson, my
lad,' he says. So that accounts for two. And--this is the third!"

"And the question, Mr. Allerdyke, the big question--a most important
question!--is, how did it come into this man Lydenberg's possession?"
said the detective anxiously. "If we can find that out--"

"I've been thinking," interrupted Allerdyke. "There's this about it, you
know: James and this Lydenberg came over together from Christiania to
Hull in the _Perisco_. They talked to one another--that's certain. James
may have given it to Lydenberg. But the thing is--is that likely?"

"No!" replied Chettle, with emphatic assurance. "No, sir! And I'll tell
you why. If your cousin had given this photo to Lydenberg, as he might,
of course, have given it to a mere passing acquaintance, because that
acquaintance took a fancy to it, or something of that sort, Lydenberg
would in all reasonable probability have just slipped in into his
pocket-book, or put it loose amongst his letters and papers. But, as we
see, however Lydenberg became possessed of this photo, he took unusual
pains and precautions about it. You see, he cut it down, most carefully
and neatly, to fit into the cover of his watch--he took the trouble to
carry it where no one else would see it, but where he could see it
himself at a second's notice--he'd nothing to do but to snap open that
cover. No, sir, your cousin didn't give that photo to Lydenberg. That
photo was sent to Lydenberg, Mr. Allerdyke--sent! And it was sent for one
purpose only. What? That he should be able to identify Mr. James
Allerdyke as soon as he set eyes on him!"

Allerdyke nodded his head--in complete understanding and affirmation. He
was thinking the same thing--thinking, too, that here was at least a
clue, a real tangible clue.

"Aye!" he said. "I agree with you. Then, of course, the one and only
thing to do is--"

"To find out who the person was that your cousin gave this particular
print to!" said Chettle eagerly. "Of course, it's a big field. So far as
I understand things, he'd been knocking round a good bit between the time
of your taking this photo and his death. He'd been in London, hadn't he?
And in Russia--in two or three places. How can we find out when and how
he parted with this? For give it to somebody he did, and that somebody
was a person who knew of the jewel transaction, and employed Lydenberg in
it, and sent the photo to Lydenberg so that he should know your cousin by
sight--at once. Mr. Allerdyke, the secret of these murders and thefts
is--there!"

Chettle replaced the watch in the cardboard box from which he had taken
it, produced a bit of sealing-wax from his pocket, sealed up the box, and
put it and the other things belonging to Lydenberg back in the small
trunk from which he had withdrawn them to show his companion. And
Allerdyke watched him in silence, wondering and speculating about this
new development.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked suddenly. "You've got some scheme,
of course, or you wouldn't have got me down here alone."

"Just so," agreed Chettle. "I have a scheme--and that's why I did get you
down here alone. Mr. Allerdyke, you're a sharp, shrewd man--all you
Yorkshiremen are!--at least, all that I've ever come across. You're good
hands at ferreting things out. Now, Mr. Allerdyke, let's be
plain--there's no two ways about it, no doubt whatever of it, the only
people in England that we're aware of who knew about this Nastirsevitch
jewel transaction are--Fullaway and whoever he has in his employ! We
know of nobody else--unless, indeed, it's the Chicago millionaire,
Delkin, and he's not very likely to have wanted to go in for a job of
this sort. No, sir--Fullaway is the suspected person, in my
opinion!--though I'm going to take precious good care to keep that
opinion to myself yet awhile, I can tell you. Fullaway, Mr. Allerdyke,
Fullaway!"

"Well?" demanded Allerdyke. "And so--"

"And so I want you to use your utmost ingenuity to find out if your
cousin James gave that photo to Fullaway," continued Chettle. "We know
very well that he was in touch with Fullaway before he went off to
Russia--I have it in my notes that when Fullaway came to see you here in
Hull, at the Station Hotel, the day of your cousin's death, he told you
that he and Mr. James Allerdyke had been doing business for a couple of
years, and that they'd last met in London about the end of March, just
before your cousin set off on his journey to Russia. Is that correct?"

"Quite correct--to the letter," answered Allerdyke.

"Very well," said Chettle. "Now, according to you, that 'ud be not so
very long after you took that snapshot of your cousin? So, he'd probably
have the third print of it--the one we've just been looking at--on him
when he was in London at that time?"

"Very likely," assented Allerdyke.

"Then," said Chettle with great eagerness, "try, Mr. Allerdyke, try your
best and cleverest to find out if he gave it to Fullaway. You can
think--you with a sharp brain!--of some cunning fashion of finding that
out. What?"

"I don't know," replied Allerdyke, slowly and doubtfully. He possessed
quite as much ingenuity as Chettle credited him with, but his own
resourcefulness in that direction only inclined him to credit other men
with the possession of just the same faculty. "I don't know about that.
If James did give that print to Fullaway, and if Fullaway made use of it
as you think, Fullaway'll be far too cute ever to let on that it was
given to him. See!"

"I see that--been seeing it all through," answered Chettle. "All the
same, there's ways and means. Think of something--you know Fullaway a bit
by this time. Try it!"

"Oh, I'll try it, you bet!" exclaimed Allerdyke. "I'll try it for all
it's worth, and as cleverly as I can. In fact, I've already thought of a
plan, and if you don't want me any more just now, I'll go to the
post-office and send off a telegram that's something to do with it."

"Nothing more now, sir," answered Chettle. "But look here--you're not
going back to town to-night?"

"Why, that's just what I meant to do," replied Allerdyke. "There's naught
to stop here for, is there?"

"I'm expecting a message from the Christiania police some time this
afternoon or evening," said Chettle. "I cabled to them yesterday making
full inquiries about Lydenberg--he represented himself here, to Dr. Orwin
and the police-surgeons especially, as being a medical man in practice in
Christiania, who had come across to Hull on some entirely private family
business. Now, we've made the most exhaustive inquiries here in
Hull--there isn't a soul in the town knows anything whatever of
Lydenberg! I'm as certain as I am that I see you that he'd no business
here at all--except to kill and rob your cousin. And so, of course, we
want to know if he really was what he said he was, over there. I pressed
upon the Christiania police to let me know all they could within
thirty-six hours. So if you'll stop the night here, I'll likely be able
to show you their reply to me."

"Right!" answered Allerdyke. "I'll put up at the Station Hotel. You come
and have your dinner with me there at seven o'clock."

"Much obliged, Mr. Allerdyke," replied Chettle. "I'll come."

Then Allerdyke went off to the General Post Office and sent a telegram to
his housekeeper in Bradford--

"Send off at once by registered parcel post to me at Waldorf Hotel,
London, the morocco-bound photograph album lying on right-hand corner of
my writing-desk in the library.--MARSHALL ALLERDYKE."

He went out of the post-office laughing cynically. Bit by bit things
were coming out, he said to himself as he strolled away towards the
hotel; link after link the chain was being forged. But around whom, in
the end, was it going to be fastened? It was the first time in his life
that he had ever been brought face to face with crime, and the seeking
out of the criminal was beginning to fascinate him.

"Egad, it's a queer business!" he muttered. "A thread here, a thread
there!--Heaven knows what it'll all come to. But this Chettle's a good
'un--he's like to do things."

Chettle joined him in the smoking-room of the hotel at a quarter to
seven, and immediately produced a telegram.

"Came half an hour ago," he said as they sat down in a corner. "Nobody
but myself seen it up to now. And--it's just what I expected. Read it."

Allerdyke slowly read the message through, pondering over it--