Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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The Crime in St. James's.
"WHAT is it, Pedro?"
The slim lad who was walking quietly through the quiet side-street halted suddenly and glanced down at the great bloodhound.
The animal had been ambling peacefully along at the end of its chain, seemingly content enough to be out in the fresh night air with its young companion. They had passed right down through the Mall past the great palace where the King was still in residence, and had gone on through the Palace Yard and so into the quiet St. James's Square.
Pedro stopped, and lifting his heavy head, sniffed suspiciously at the soft night air.
"What is it, old man?" Tinker asked, bending to pat the intelligent hound.
Speech was the only gift the hound lacked, yet in its curious way it managed to make itself understood.
It turned, and, tugging gently at the chain, led Tinker down to the right of the square. The young detective followed the animal with a good-humoured smile on his clean, healthy face. Pedro was a privileged animal and could do just about what it pleased with its master.
"It's almost one o'clock, old chap," Tinker observed; "still, if you fancy another ramble before we head for Baker Street—by all means have it."
They were heading now for the north side of the park, but presently Pedro, taking his companion by surprise, darted forward. The heavy chain slipped from Tinker's fingers, and a second later the great dog was loping down a dark alley, the chain rattling and clanking behind him.
Tinker dropped into a run at the heels of the hound.
"Steady, Pedro." he warned; "this is not the open country, you know. You must not go for a hunting expedition in London."
At the end of the alley he halted and looked into the narrow court into which Pedro had bolted.
The court was surrounded by high buildings, all of them in utter darkness. There was a bright moon shining, but the height of the buildings prevented its silver beams from piercing the darkness there.
Suddenly Tinker heard a soft rumbling note come to him—it was Pedro's way of signalling a find of some sort.
"What on earth has the old beggar found?" the lad thought, as he began to pace warily into the dark courtyard.
He counted thirty paces before he reached the dog. Pedro was standing up on his hind legs, with his fore paws resting on the wall, and his head thrust back. He was looking up at something, but although Tinker strained his eyes he could not discern the object that had riveted the attention of his keener-sighted companion.
Suddenly, as Tinker moved a little closer towards the wall, there fell on his upturned face a drop of something.
With a muffled cry the lad started back, wiping the drop from his cheek. In the gloom he peered at the back of his hand—the dull stain was unmistakable—blood!
For a moment the lad stood stock-still, gazing at the smear on his hand, then, with a shiver of disgust, he dropped his hand and stepped towards the wall. Pressing himself against it he turned his eyes upwards again. This time, thanks to the different angle of sight he obtained, Tinker was able to make out a curious shape hanging above his head.
"It is something hanging from a window," the lad thought, staring up into the little strip of sky which hung between the high buildings.
Slowly he made out the lines of a man's head and shoulders. Then he saw that an arm was hanging loosely from its socket down over the sill. The motionless figure hinted that the lad had come unexpectedly on the beginning of a crime.
"He is either dead or very badly wounded," Tinker thought, his quick brain alive now and moving rapidly.
"I'll have to find a policeman and get him to help me."
He stepped away from the wall and lifted Pedro's chain again.
"Come on, old man," he said aloud; "you've done your share of this—and you'll have to let the humans take their turn now. Good boy, you haven't forgotten your scent yet, I see."
He stopped for a moment to pat the great intelligent head, then, tightening the chain, Tinker hurriedly walked out of the court and up the narrow passage. He was fortunate enough in finding a policeman at the corner of the street, and when he reported his find the constable seemed inclined to doubt him at first.
But another glance at Tinker's face and then at the great bloodhound, brought the policeman on the alert.
"It's Tinker; isn't it?" he said.
The young assistant smiled.
"That's right, old chap," he returned, "and now, if you'll just back up we'll try and find out what sort of affair has happened back there."
"It must be Dresdell Court," the police-constable said, as he began to stride off along the street with Tinker by his side. "The houses have all been turned into offices—I was down there about an hour ago, and it was all quiet then."
"There's a lot of things can happen in an hour," said Tinker grimly.
Just as they turned into the passage the peak-capped form of an inspector appeared from the opposite end of the street. Tinker gave vent to an expression of relief as he recognised the officer as Inspector McFadden.
A few words served to place the officer in command of the facts, and the trio, with Pedro at their heels, turned into the courtyard. Tinker went ahead and presently turned towards the wall. When he glanced up towards the sky he could not see any shadow bulking above him!
Thinking that perhaps he had mistaken the exact position, the lad moved slowly along the wall, keeping his head back and watching the outlines of the buildings.
But a few moments of this served to convince him that he was wasting time. The body had disappeared.
The inspector and the constable had been waiting in the darkness, and Tinker felt a trifle annoyed as he walked back to make his report.
But before he could reach the inspector's side there came out suddenly into the night a wild shrill scream.
"Police! Police! Murder! Murder!"
The cries rioted down into the little courtyard, rendered doubly significant by the silence which brooded over the dark buildings: They heard the scraping of a window and again the voice rang out.
"Help! Murder!"
The inspector stepped towards the wall, and in answer to a curt word from him, the night-constable removed his lantern and turned the white bulb upwards. The light from the bullseye slid like a white disc up the wall, and presently in the halo appeared the white, terror-stricken face of a woman.
"All right, madam!" the inspector cried. "We will be with you in a moment. Is there an entry to the building from here?"
The woman clasped her hands with relief at the sound of the strong voice.
"Oh, please come quickly!" she cried. "Come round to the front—to number 347a—I will meet you and let you in. Please hurry—murder has been committed."
Like a flash the inspector turned, and with Tinker close to him, darted down the court and out through the passage.
They sprinted down the side street and turned into the main street with Pedro galloping along by their side. They were now in front of the range of buildings whose backs locked out over the courtyard, and presently they heard the boom of a big door being suddenly thrown open and a woman, with a loose dressing-gown thrown over her head and shoulders, darted across the pavement.
"This way, inspector!" she cried, beckoning as she ran.
"Oh, thank Heaven, I have found you. It was dreadful—dreadful. I—I went down to the office and—and I fell over the poor old gentleman. Oh!"
She was almost beside herself with fear, and the kindly inspector placed his hand on her shoulder.
"All right, madam," he said. "It must have been a terrible shock to you, but we will see to the matter now. Just show me where the room is situated and you can go back to your rooms. I suppose you are the housekeeper?"
"Yes, sir," the woman returned, with a catch of her breath. "Mallow is my name, sir. Oh, to think of such a thing happening in our place! And such a quiet respectable old gentleman, too—it is a shame."
While she talked the inspector had led her towards the building, and now, with Tinker and Pedro at their heels, the housekeeper and her uniformed supporter climbed the stairs. On the second floor the woman stopped and pointed to a door that was half open. There was a light inside the room, and as the inspector stepped towards it, Mrs. Mallow came to a halt.
"I won't go in, sir, if—if you don't mind," she began.
"That's quite right," said the officer. "Go up to your rooms and we'll send for you if you are wanted."
He waited until the frightened old creature had darted off up the dark staircase towards her own chambers, then turned to Tinker.
"You are used to this sort of business, Tinker," he said, as he placed his hand on the door; "so it won't upset you."
As the door opened Tinker saw that tragedy had indeed stepped into that apartment. In line with the window, lying on its face, was the body of a well-dressed man.
Swiftly the inspector stepped across the chamber and knelt beside the prone body. He turned it over gently and the sinister stain in the breast told its own tale.
"Stabbed," said McFadden, laconically.
Tinker looked down at the bearded face.
"Dead?" he breathed.
The inspector made a swift examination.
"Yes," he replied. "He is dead."
He crossed to the window and glanced down into the courtyard. The constable was still standing where he had been placed.
"Go and get an ambulance at once!" the inspector cried. "Call up the Yard and notify them—look alive."
Tinker was looking round the room, and his quick eyes gradually picked up many details.
There were two windows in the chamber, and opposite the second one stood an ordinary office desk. The roll-top was open and there were scattered all about the floor heaps of letters. The drawers were open and one of them had even been wrenched out of its place.
"Someone was mighty anxious to find something," said Tinker to the inspector, pointing to the desk. "And—look! the safe is open as well."
A small safe, standing on a raised platform in the far corner of the room, had also been ransacked.
"We can't do much in the matter until we find out who he is," said the inspector, slowly. "We'll have to see the housekeeper—but I think we can wait before we do that. This poor chap is beyond our aid; and although I'll search the building, I have very little hopes of finding the brutes who did the foul deed."
Tinker walked across the room and picked up a silver object that was lying beneath the window. It was a card-case and he opened it.
"Ivan Torkoff," he read, aloud.
McFadden gave vent to an exclamation, and dropping on his knee, glanced again at the bearded face of the dead man.
"It is Ivan Torkoff who lies here," he said. "A curious coincidence, this."
"How?" asked Tinker.
McFadden nodded his head at the limp body.
"Four days ago this poor chap came into our office and asked for police protection, I believe," he said. "The policeman on day duty here received orders to keep an eye on him—but I see that the fate he feared followed him and found him after all."
"Who is he?" Tinker asked.
"A Russian who has taken out naturalisation papers—and is now an Englishman," the inspector returned as he arose. "That is all I know about him—all that we knew at the office."
He looked at Tinker keenly.
"I wonder if your master, Sexton Blake, knows any more," he said slowly. "There are very few people that he is not acquainted with."
Tinker turned towards the door.
"I just thought of the guv'nor," he said. "There is nothing for me to do here—I think I'll get along to Baker Street and report."
"I hope that Mr. Blake will come into this if he can," said McFadden.
He was of the better type of police official, and had nothing but admiration for the extraordinary qualities of the master detective.
"I'll tell him what you said, inspector," the youngster returned, as he walked out of the room with the faithful bloodhound padding along behind him.
As Tinker reached the outside door there came wheeling up to it the noiseless ambulance with two stalwart constables in charge.
The young detective directed the men where to go, then, with a nod, he and the hound walked rapidly off up the street and vanished.
"You know who that youngster was, I suppose?" said the constable, who had been met by Tinker after the discovery.
"Can't say that I do," his companion returned, as he crossed the pavement.
"He's Blake's assistant; and whenever there's a trouble about he always seems to be in it," said the first speaker.
"Goodness knows how he got on to this affair; but he was the first to find out about it."
"Strikes me the dog had something to do with that."
Which was a very close guess at the truth. For Pedro had certainly been the first to find the scent of as strange a crime as ever the famous detective had been called upon to discover.
On the following morning McFadden appeared at Blake's rooms in Baker Street, and gave the great detective a complete report of the case and the history of the dead man.
It appeared that he was a Russian exile—a man of good position, evidently. He had taken an office in the buildings, and was interested in oil companies, as the papers in his desk denoted. He lived in a small hotel on the Embankment, and spent most of his time at his office. Apparently he had no friends.
"Have you inquired at the Embassy?" Blake asked.
McFadden shrugged his broad shoulders.
"You know what they do when we try that," he said. "Torkoff was an exile—a political one, I should think. We will get little or no information from that quarter."
He glanced at Blake.
"But if you were to have a try, Mr. Blake?"
The great detective thought for a moment.
"I won't promise," he said at last. "It appears to me as though this was a case for the police alone. Still, I might just take a hand for a little while. I'll let you know about it later on."
McFadden knew that Sexton Blake was beyond all hints at monetary considerations. The great detective no longer hunted for criminals of the world, simply because of their crimes. The cases he took up had to be ones that involved some suffering human being in them; it was then that the master-mind busied itself, for to save some poor soul from misery was the highest of all rewards to Sexton Blake.
"I only hope we find out that someone suffers through this," the inspector thought, as he left the rooms. "I'll come up here like a shot then; and he won't turn me away, I'll bet!"
He little dreamed how the near future was to settle his difficulties for him.
Blake was soon to busy himself on the Torkoff case—with results that were to surprise the world.
Jack Brearley's Story.
"AND what can I do for you, Mr. Brearley?" Sexton Blake asked.
The tall, broad-shouldered man, in the neat suit of blue serge, glanced into the keen face of the detective.
"In the first place, Mr. Blake," Jack Brearley said. "I'm a sailor—first mate of the Ikon, a tramp steamer. She's at Tilbury now, and this is the first time I've been in Old England for five years."
Blake nodded at the healthy, tanned face.
"Knocking about the world never harmed a good man," he returned.
"Not if he takes the rough with the smooth," Jack Brearley agreed. "Well, to get on with my story, I want you to help me to find a—a lady—a young lady."
The tan on his face deepened, and as the deep-blue eyes met those of the detective the sailor smiled.
"Yes." he said; "I'm head over heels in love with Neta. Haven't slept a wink since she left the old Ikon; and won't rest until I find her again. You don't think any the worse of me for that, I hope?"
Blake's fine face softened.
"The love of a good man for a pure woman is the best thing in the world," he said, in his rich, grave voice. "I will certainly not laugh at you because of that."
The sailor held out a great brown fist impulsively, and they shook hands.
"That clears the decks nicely," said Jack, with a sigh of relief. "I feel that I can talk to you now."
"Go ahead," said Blake.
"My story really begins at Vladivostok," the mate of the Ikon began. "As you are no doubt aware, that is one of the termini of the Trans-Siberian Railway. Well, my old tramp was being loaded up there—hides, and other evil-smelling things, for London. I went ashore on the last evening to have a look round, and I run plum into an adventure."
He paused for a moment, and rubbed his strong hands together.
"A woman was running down one of the narrow streets towards the docks," he said, "and behind her came padding a couple of great brutes of Russians. They were in ordinary attire, but I could see with half an eye that they were police all right."
"Did you interfere?" Blake asked.
"I didn't mean to," said Jack Brearley slowly; "it isn't safe to do that in a Russian port. But just as I turned the corner the girl caught sight of me, and ran towards me. She caught my arm, and spoke to me in English."
"She was only a slip of a lass," the mate went on, his fine eyes kindling; "not more than twenty, and—and the loveliest girl I've ever clapped eyes on. 'Save me,' was all she could say; and, by jiminy, sir, the words went straight to my heart!"
The great detective watched the grim jaw of his visitor, and a low chuckle escaped from his lips. Jack Brearley looked as though he was a man whom any woman would not have to ask aid twice from.
"Go on," said Blake.
"I hadn't much time to study out things," the mate of the Ikon went on, with a quick smile. "But I did my best. I caught the little lady, and swung her round the corner. She told me afterwards that for the moment she was pretty scared. I must have handled her rather roughly, you see. When I was round the corner I pointed to the passage that led down to the quay, and told her to bolt in that direction just as hard as her limbs could carry her."
His rich laugh broke out.
"And, by James, she did it, too!" he said. "She's only a slip of a girl, as I said before, but she's got the pluck of a regiment of Guards, sir. She just gave me one look, then went off like a bird. I heard the heavy feet of the two Russians drumming on the street, and knew that it was time to get busy."
"What did you do?" Blake asked.
Jack Brearley grinned.
"I used to play back in the old Rugger days," he said; "and I just tackled these fellows in the old style. They were running side by side, and I managed to get between them. It was a real low tackle, and they were down on their backs before they quite knew what happened."
"And then?"
"Well, we had a bit of a dust-heap in the centre of the roadway. But, bless you, Mr. Blake, these fellows are no good at that sort of pastime! I managed to give number one a welt on the side of the jaw that knocked him silly, and the second man bumped his head against the cobbles— of course, I helped him to do that little trick—until his wits went wool-gathering. It was all over in a couple of minutes; and I didn't wait to see what happened to them afterwards."
"You followed the fugitive, I suppose?"
"Rather! I found her hiding behind the Customs shed, and I promptly offered to take her on board the Ikon—a chance she jumped at. In less than twenty minutes she was stowed away safely in my own cabin, and, after a bit of a jaw with the skipper, he agreed to start out of the harbour as soon as it was light."
"And you got her clear away," Blake said.
Jack Brearley nodded.
"Brought her safely to Tilbury," he said; "and saw her into a taxi. She was going to try and find her father; and she promised to let me hear from her as soon as she was settled."
"And you have heard nothing since?"
The bronzed face of the sailor clouded.
"Not a word," he said slowly. "Sometimes I think that—that she may not want to see me any more. I'm only a rough sailor, you see, and she—well, she's good enough for a belted earl." His honest face fell. "But, I—I don't think that Neta was that sort," he added. "You see, she—we—we spent a deal of time together, and she—she said that she loved me. But it's her father that I'm doubtful about. He's a big pot; I believe, and he may have prevented her from writing to me."
"What was her name?" asked Blake.
"Neta Torkoff!" came the astounding response.
Blake started forward, a sudden light in his keen eyes.
"Neta Torkoff!" he repeated.
The mate of the Ikon stared at the detective.
"You—you have heard something about her?" he broke out, a strained, anxious look in his blue eyes. "For Heaven's sake tell me what it is? What have you heard?"
Blake raised his hand for a moment.
"It may be only a coincidence," he said; "but I will let you know about it in good time. Meanwhile, I have a few questions to ask. First of all, did Miss Torkoff tell you why these men were hunting her?"
The sailor shook his head.
"She wasn't quite sure," he returned. "She had travelled from St. Petersburg by the train that starts at 2 p.m. on Saturdays. She had received a cable from her father, who has lived in London for years, I understand, telling her to make for Vladivostok, and wait for him there. At Chelyabinsk—that's a three and a half days' journey from St. Petersburg—Neta noted a couple of men searching the train. They looked very hard at her, and finally entered the adjacent compartment. You know that these Trans-Siberian trains are practically little towns on wheels, with their doctors and barbers and two-berthed compartments."
"I've been across to Mukden," said Blake; "and I remember that dreary eight days travelling across the bleak deserts."
"Well," Jack Brearley went on, "Neta felt sure that the men were spies, and when she arrived at Vladivostok there was another message awaiting for her from her father. It ordered her to come to London at once. She went out of the hotel to prepare for her journey, and when she returned she found that someone had been in her room, and had been rifling her trunks. Nothing was missing except the two cablegrams. But that was quite sufficient to frighten the little lady. She left the hotel, taking all her money with her, and had made up her mind to embark on the packet for Tauruga. She would be safer in Japan, and could ship direct to London from there. Unfortunately she was seen to go into the shipping-office, and it was then that these two men approached her. They meant to arrest her, but she eluded them, and made a dash for liberty. That was when I turned up—and the rest you know."
He halted, and looked at Blake.
"Now," he said, "does that clear up matters for you?"
Blake was silent for a moment.
"It helps me considerably," he said; "and I am sure now that you have given me a clue to a mystery which has just presented itself. By the way, did Miss Torkoff communicate with her father at all from the Ikon?"
Brearley nodded his head.
"Yes," he said; "she sent him a wire from Gibraltar, where we stayed to take in some fresh vegetables."
"Did you know what address she sent it to?"
"To his club," said the mate. "I don't know the name of the club, but I remember its telegraphic address. It was 'Reldvara, London?'"
Blake wrote the word down on the edge of his notebook.
"When was the cable despatched?" he asked.
"On the 22nd," said the mate.
The detective's face was very grave.
"The twenty-second was a Thursday," said Blake. "And on the following day, the twenty-third, a man named Ivan Torkoff was found murdered in his offices at St. James's. I'm afraid that there can be little doubt but that the victim was your sweetheart's father!"
The face of the sailor revealed the horror that the news brought to him.
"Dead!" he said. "Murdered! Good heavens! Then what has become of my little girl?"
The detective shook his head.
"That is what we will have to find out," he said sternly. "It is evident that there has been some trick played upon her. And the persons responsible for the death of her father have succeeded in getting her into their power."
Brearley leaped to his feet, and thrust his great arms above his head.
"I knew it," he declared, in his deep, vibrating voice. "I felt that my darling was in some danger. Every night I have dreamed of her, Mr. Blake. Oh, heavens, it will drive me mad!"
Blake came round the desk, and placed his hand on the strong shoulders.
"It is a terrible experience for you, Brearley," he said. "But you must have courage, old chap. This is the time when a man has to pull himself together. You have interested me now, and I promise you that I will do my utmost to trace Neta Torkoff, your missing sweetheart."
Their eyes met, and Jack Brearley was comforted by the steady light in the calm eyes of the great detective. His hand closed around Blake's fingers in a vice-like grip.
"I can trust you, Mr. Blake," he said hoarsely. "I know that you will do all that a man can do. But I want to help, you know. I feel that I'd go mad on board the Ikon. Won't you let me do something—anything. I don't care what it is so long as it keeps me busy."
Blake realised that the stout sailor might prove an able assistant, and was only too glad to take advantage of the offer.
"Where are you living just now, Brearley?" he asked.
The sailor mentioned an address close to the docks, and the detective took a note of it.
"Go back there and pack your traps," he said. "Be ready to come to me at a moment's notice. I'm going now to begin my investigations, and I may need your help at any time."
"That's all I ask," said the mate of the Ikon, as he turned towards the door. "I'm not one of the brainy kind, but I'll stick to any job you put me on until it's done with."
His tall figure went out through the door, and Blake went across to the window, and watched until the big sailor emerged from the house into the street. Jack Brearley was head and shoulders above the average height of man, and Blake followed the tall form until it had vanished in the throng of Baker Street.
"McFadden will be pleased now," he thought, with a grave smile. "The human element has come into this case at last, and I'll make a move on it without delay."
He crossed to the phone, and rang up the Yard. A few words with the superintendent there served to notify the authorities that Blake was prepared to assist them with the Torkoff mystery. The reply came back with official brevity.
"Glad of your aid. Will forward complete report by special messenger."
Blake crossed his room, and called for Tinker. The young assistant hurriedly appeared from an inner room.
"That Torkoff case," his master said quietly. "A development has taken place, and I'm going to take it up. They are sending a report from the Yard, and I want you to run through it when it comes."
"Right you are, guv'nor!" said Tinker.
Blake walked down the passage, and lifted his hat from the peg.
"I'm going to hunt up a telegraphic address. My directory has disappeared," he said. "Wait for me until I return."
"And the development, guv'nor?" the young assistant put in, with not unnatural curiosity.
Blake smiled.
"I'll tell you all about it when I return, old chap," he said. "You can bottle up your curiosity until then."
Tinker went back into the consulting-room, and stretched himself out on one of the easy-chairs.
"I expect that big fellow who saw the guv'nor just now had something to do with this case," he decided. "Looked like a sailor, and talked like one, too. I hope the guv'nor bucks up and gets back here again. I've been worrying to start on the affair ever since old Pedro made his discovery."
Blake went straight to the post-office, and had a word with the official there. That individual promptly gave him the information he sought.
"Clubs do not like their registered addresses revealed as a rule, Blake," he said. "But—well, you are a privileged person so far as I am concerned. Reldvara is the telegraphic address of the Warsaw Club, and its headquarters are at 462, Onslow Square, Mayfair."
"Many thanks!" said Blake, as he scribbled the address down.
The high official regarded him for a moment.
"I don't know much about the club," he went on, "but I believe that it is a favourite rendezvous for the Russian in London. I rather fancy that the members of the Embassy regard it with a certain amount of suspicion."
"I shouldn't be surprised at that," said Blake, as he rose to his feet. "There are many institutions in England that the average Russian Government official hates. There is too much liberty here for them."
"The Slav is a dangerous sort of brute," his friend returned, as he held out his hand. "I need not tell you that, however."
Blake smiled.
"It will not be the first time that I have crossed swords with them," he said slowly, as he shook hands.
He little dreamed how deeply he was to probe into the grim ways of the men he was about to face.
"And now for the Warsaw Club," he thought, as he sauntered out of the building. "That is my next step. But I don't think that it is advisable that I should go there as Sexton Blake."
A remark which suggested that he appreciated the difficulties of the task that he had undertaken, and was already preparing for them.
Prince Krotol.
"AND Mr. Blake, the great detective, ees not at home?"
Tinker shook his head.
"Not yet, sir," he returned. "I'm expecting him every minute, though—if you'd like to wait."
The black-bearded man drew a gold watch from his pocket, and glanced at it.
"I think I will wait," he announced, sinking into a chair beside the desk.
Tinker eyed him with considerable interest. Scotland Yard had rang up the chambers in Baker Street, announcing that a gentleman who was interested in the Torkoff case had called on them, and they had told him of Blake's decision.
The gentleman had at once announced his anxiety to see the famous detective.
"Prince Krotol," Tinker thought, remembering the name on the card. "There are so many princes in Russia that his title doesn't matter much. But he looks as though he was somebody big."
The Russian was exceedingly well-dressed. His clothes were scrupulously cut, and the solitaire diamond he wore in his tie was a gem of dazzling radiance. His face was of the broad Slav type, and his beard, trimmed and well-kept, was jet black.
The eyes had that curious Mongolian slant which so often reveals itself in the Russian.
Altogether, he was a man who was worth a second look at.
And whether he was to be trusted very far was a question which Tinker felt inclined to answer in the negative.
"Your master ees a very great man," the Prince began, crossing his legs, and looking at the keen, alert face of the lad. "We have heard of him even in Russia."
Now, Tinker and Blake both hated being praised—the usual English way, this. And there was something patronising in the man's voice which Tinker promptly resented.
"Mr. Blake is pretty well known," was the young assistant's laconic response.
The Russian smiled.
"It has pleased me ver' much to think that he has taken up the case of my poor friend," he went on slowly. "The mystery has troubled me terribly. I knew Torkoff when—when he was in Russia many, many years ago now. And I was one of the few friends he ever made."
"You might be of some use to my guv'nor, then," said Tinker. "The Yard does not seem to have found out very much about the murdered man. All they can tell us is that he was an exile from his country; and yet most of his business was done there."
Prince Krotol's slant eyes raised a trifle, the quick lift of the upper eyelid which suggests that every nerve is on the alert.
"I know nothing about Torkoff's business," he returned. "I only came to London a few weeks ago. It is my first visit to your splendid country."
Now, Scotland Yard had sent the gentleman to Blake, so Tinker could not be blamed for chatting as he did. The Yard officials are usually very careful, and they are not likely to send a doubtful person to anyone without due warning.
"I believe that Mr. Torkoff was trying to float a big oil company," said Tinker easily. "Papers were found alluding to that, and one or two gentlemen in the City have given evidence that he had approached them on the matter."
"Oil. Oh, yes; there is a lot of money to be made out of that!"
The reply was non-committal, but again the slant eyes blazed with a curiously intent light.
"The evidence at the inquest proved that he had a big concession—I think you call it a 'ukase.'"
"Yes; that is our name for a concession from the Government or the Czar. It simply means a contract—in your language."
"Well, I don't know a great deal about these things," Tinker admitted; "but one of the City financiers stated in his evidence that he thought the concession a very valuable one—if it could be found."
"It was not found?"
"No. His office was searched without result."
There was a moment's silence then.
"And I hear that the police have been unable to find any friends—I mean any relations of the dead man?' said Prince Krotol slowly.
"He had no relatives in England, and they can't find anything to prove that he had relatives in Russia," said the assistant.
He chanced to glance at the bearded face at that moment, and fancied that he saw a quick shade of relief pass across the visitor's face.
"He was a lonely man," the Russian said. "He had no near relatives, so far as I know."
Something seemed to have pleased him. He was leaning back in his chair, and there was a smile that was almost friendly on his hard face.
He changed the subject, and began to chat with Tinker on his life in Russia, proving himself a very mine of information on the subject. The young assistant soon discovered what a fascinating personality was his visitor's. He was surprised to note that it was eight o'clock when the prince arose.
"I am afraid that I cannot wait any longer," he said.
"You will tell Mr. Blake that I called, and will be very pleased to see him at any time. If he writes to me, care of the Embassy, I will be pleased to keep any appointment he may make. I am anxious to clear up zis mystery that ees attached to my friend's death."
He held out a slim hand, and Tinker exchanged grips. The fingers of the Russian were of a curious flabby coldness, something of the touch of dead flesh in them. Despite himself, the young assistant could not repress a shudder which, however, his companion failed to observe.
"Curious beggar that," the lad thought, as he halted in the centre of the room, and stared at the closed door, which had shut behind his well-dressed visitor. "Something fishy about him, and his hand—ugh!"
Tinker went back to the easy-chair, and curled himself up in it again.
"I'm rather inclined to believe that the beggar was pumping me," he said, after a few minutes' quiet thinking. "Not that it matters very much. He could have found out all I told him by reading the papers with the report of the inquest. I wonder how he managed to pick up such good English, considering that he has never been in this country before."
He might have been even more astonished had he been able to follow the movements of the prince after that sinister individual left Baker Street.
Prince Krotol first hired a taxi, which drove him down to a garage in Long Acre. From that establishment he reappeared presently seated at the wheel of a powerful-looking, torpedo-shaped four-seater. He had changed his attire, and was now dressed in the regulation heavy coat and soft cap.
The car hummed down through Whitehall, swung across Westminster Bridge, and went booming along towards Clapham. It thrashed its way past the great wide common, snorted through Balham and Tooting, and presently emerged on the wind-swept spaces of Mitcham Common.
Halfway across that gorse-clad expanse it wheeled abruptly to the right, and drummed down a narrow lane, halting at last in front of a pair of gates which gave access to some well-timbered grounds. The prince sounded a low note on the horn by his side, and a man appeared unlocking the gates.
The car was driven through the gates, and went on up a grass-grown avenue until, turning out of the line of trees, it halted in front of a weather-beaten mansion.
Here another attendant came out and took charge of the car while his master went up the broad steps and through the wide doorway.
An oil-lamp burning in the hall shed a subdued light over the dusty walls. It was evident that the house was only half furnished, and that no attempt at redecorating it had been made.
Prince Krotol turned to a door on the left and strode into the chamber. The oak floor echoed to his tread, and the oil-lamp, placed on a small table close to the wide, empty fireplace, revealed the fact that, save for the table and a couple of chairs, the room was unfurnished.
Seating himself in front of the table, Krotol struck his palms together twice.
"Kalaz!" he called.
A shuffling footfall came to his ears, and presently in the doorway appeared a squat, misshapen form.
A huge bearded head set on shoulders that might have belonged to a prizefighter. Long arms which hung down beyond the knees, a short, stunted body, and warped, twisted legs.
"Well, master?" a guttural voice croaked, as the hideous being came shuffling forward.
"Everything is quite satisfactory," Krotol said, in Russian.
"We have nothing to fear from this Blake. I pumped his assistant, and find that they do not suspect the truth."
The dwarf's hanging lips slipped back, revealing a row of jagged fangs—a wolf's jowl it seemed in the half light thrown by the lamp.
"Master is clever enough to save himself," he said; "master was always clever enough for that."
The prince leaned back in his chair.
"But I have a lot to do yet, Kalaz, before you and I can return to St. Petersburg," he resumed. "That young fool still defies me—still persists in lying to me."
"Hunger will bring her to her senses, master; she begged for a crust from me to-day."
The hideous face glimmered like some baleful beast's, and the long arms were crossed-over the wide, deep chest.
"I told her that she could eat—when my master said the word," Kalaz ended.
Krotol nodded his head.
"You did well, Kalaz," he returned. "I have staked everything on this—I must have that ukase which that fool Torkoff refused to give to me—and I am sure that his daughter Neta knows where it is."
He knitted his dark brows together and drew a savage breath.
"You were impetuous, Kalaz," he went on. "I did not want Torkoff to be killed that night. I could have handled him better. He loved his daughter, and I could have struck at him through her."
The powerful dwarf thrust his heavy head forward.
"I could not help it, master," he said, in a grim whisper. "I was at the safe when that fool came into the room. He recognised me at once, and if I had not used this"—and his fingers touched a sheath at the broad belt he wore above his loose, dark robe—"he would have cried out."
The prince shook his head.
"Better for us if you had simply stunned him for the moment," he went on; "but there is no use of us talking about that. Torkoff is dead, but his daughter remains to us."
Kalaz came up to the side of the table.
"She asked me to tell her about her father," he said, with a meaning smile; "she does not know that he is dead—surely you can make use of that, master?"
"I have decided to do so," said Krotol. "Bring me something to eat, Kalaz, then I will go and see our fair prisoner."
He laughed grimly.
"It was lucky for us that you found the telegram from Gibraltar," he went on; "and we made use of it just in the nick of time."
The hideous dwarf chuckled aloud.
"In the nick of time, master," he agreed.
He went out of the room, and Krotol leaned back in his chair and thought over the events that had occurred.
Prince Alexis Krotol, Governor of Voslagni, had embarked on a mission that would either bring him fortune or disgrace. He had heard that the exile, Ivan Torkoff, had been skilful enough to persuade the government into granting him a concession over a great tract of land in Voslagni, which had proved itself to be oil-bearing, and of untold worth.
The scoundrelly governor had made up his mind that Torkoff would have to give up the ukase, and, to carry out that decision, the prince had come to London to see the exile.
Torkoff had defied him, and after a stormy interview in the little office in St. James's the Governor of Voslagni had retired, vowing vengeance.
Krotol soon found out that Torkoff had a daughter living in St. Petersburg, and it was his agents that had tried to prevent the girl from leaving Vladivostok. When the prince heard that his men had failed, he realised that no time was to be lost if he were to be successful. That was how it came about that Kalaz was sent down to the office in the quiet buildings to try and steal the concession papers. The old Russian had caught the dwarf, and Kalaz had speedily ended the matter in his own fierce way.
But the dwarf's search had been unsuccessful, and the precious ukase was still to be found.
The dwarf, however, had found the cablegram which Neta had sent to her father from the great fortress of the Mediterranean, and instantly Krotol made up his mind to act on it.
He sent a car down to the docks, and for two days waited for the arrival of the tramp vessel. When the broad-shouldered mate of the Ikon saw his sweetheart into the taxi he little dreamed that the hooded car which moved off on the wake of the vehicle belonged to Neta's enemies.
Kalaz was driving the car, and when the taxi was clear of the docks the cunning dwarf drew close to it, and, leaning forward, called to Neta, in the Russian language.
Instantly the girl stopped her own vehicle, and the dwarf hurriedly delivered the message which his scoundrelly master had prepared for him.
It was to the effect that Torkoff was in hiding over something, and he had sent the car down to meet her at the docks.
Knowing the position her father was in, the girl suspected nothing. Her baggage was transferred to the hooded car, and she was driven to the lonely house on the great common. It was only when she found herself confronted by the sinister face of the Governor of Voslagni that the unfortunate girl realised that she had been trapped.
"She does not know that her father is dead," the scoundrel thought, with a grim smile. "I ought to have remembered that. I must make use of it now."
His fists clenched until the veins stood out like whipcords.
"She must know where the papers are," he muttered aloud. "Torkoff told me that he was really working so that his daughter might be left with a fortune. She acted as his agent in St. Petersburg—and she must know what he has done with the papers."
He leaped to his feet and brought his fist down with a crash on the table.
"And, by heavens, I will make her reveal the secret to me," he went on, an ugly light in his slanting eyes, "if I have to torture the truth out of her!"
He looked at that moment the embodiment of all that was fiendish and vile, capable of any atrocity—the real Russian.
Presently Kalaz appeared with a tray full of viands, and his master made a hearty meal. As the dwarf cleared away the empty plates, Krotol arose.
"Give me the key, Kalaz," he said, holding out his hand; "I will go and see our prisoner now."
The dwarf handed him a key, which he removed from his breast, and Krotol, lifting the lamp from the table, stalked out of the chamber.
He went up the broad, uncarpeted stairs, and at the second floor turned down a wide corridor. At the end of the corridor he halted, and, inserting the key in the lock, turned it and entered.
At his coming there was a faint creak from the far corner of the room. The governor held the light above his head and came forward slowly:
Shading her eyes from the light, the slender form of Neta Torkoff stood, swaying slightly, beside the miserable bed she had flung herself upon.
"Have mercy on me!" she cried, her white lips trembling. "I—I am so hungry, and—and the darkness terrifies me! Oh, if you have any pity in your heart, let me go—let me go!"
Neta in Prison.
THE hard, mocking laugh of her captor rang out as he placed the lamp on the dusty mantelpiece.
"I am quite ready to let you go," he said, with cruel emphasis. "I have no desire to keep you here, but I must have an answer to my question."
The pallid face of the girl twitched for a moment.
"And I cannot give you an answer," she returned. "I promised that I would not betray my—my father. Surely you would not ask me to do that?"
"I ask you to do more than that," the steely voice went on. "You say that you will not betray your father. I tell you that it is only by your giving me the secret that your father will be saved!"
Neta drew a short, quavering breath, and sank on to the miserable bed.
She was weak with hunger, and the terrors of the darkness had chilled her young heart. Only a soulless brute could have stood as that man stood-watching her misery.
"My—my father in danger?" she said, in her weak voice. "That is not true. My father is an Englishman now, and he is safe in his own country, thank Heaven!"
Krotol took a pace forward.
"Your father may be an Englishman in England," he said slowly, "but in Russia we still claim him as a servant of the Tsar. You, too, Neta, although you claim to be English, are under the law of the Tsar."
"No, no!" the girl protested indignantly. "My mother was English, and my dear father had taken out his papers years before I was born, I am English—and proud of it!"
The prince's face darkened, and he came slowly forward until he was close to the cot. Then he folded his arms and stared down at the white, thin face of his victim.
"Well," he said, "and if you are English, has that fact saved you? You are here in my power—and I tell you that were you in the wilds of Siberia, your prison could not be safer."
He laughed, a low, mocking chuckle.
"English or Russian, you are my prisoner," he grated, "and I will deal with you as we do our slaves of the mines. And your father—"
"Yes, yes!" Neta broke out, clasping her hands. "What of him?"
The glimmerings of a plan came to the prince, and he voiced it at once.
"Is very anxious about your non-arrival," he said, lying easily; "he cannot understand it. And I am going to make use of that."
He leaned forward, his cruel eyes fixed on her pale face.
"A messenger will call on him at his office, with a proof that he comes from you—that locket which you wore around your neck, and which contains your father's photograph, will do very well," he said. "The message will state that you are waiting for him at Vladivostok. Your father will risk the entry into the country he has so many enemies in—and Siberia will have another inhabitant!"
"You brute—you cruel, heartless wretch!" the girl cried, leaping to her feet. "You would not dare to do such a thing. England can protect its subjects in any part of the world."
Her tormentor smiled again.
"England will never know," he said. "There are hundreds of foolish British wearing their hearts out in the mines; but England will never hear of them."
A quick doubt came to the tortured girl, and she voiced it suddenly.
"My father will not be deceived," she said, little dreaming that her unfortunate father was beyond all human deceits and tricks. "He received a cablegram from me from Gibraltar. He will know that your messenger is lying!"
There were proofs of a shrewd brain behind the quick doubt, but the Russian was ready for that.
"Your father never received that cablegram!" he said, with a sneer. "My spies saw to that. Look!"
He thrust his hand into his pocket, and withdrew a bulky book. The cablegram was withdrawn from a neatly-folded bundle.
"There is your message!" he said grimly.
Neta's eyes swam with sudden tears as she read the words.
She had been so happy when she had written them. The memory of the tanned face of the gallant young sailor arose into her brain, and a great sob broke from her lips.
"Does that satisfy you?" the prince asked.
Perhaps his cunning was too obvious—there might have been a shade too much of anxiety in his tones, but from whatever cause, Neta suddenly felt a thrill of suspicion run through her.
"I am satisfied that you are a scoundrel," she blazed, with sudden fury, "and I will not tell you anything! I defy you, beast that you are. You may kill me if you like, but I will not speak!"
Her voice had suddenly grown strong and clear, and the last words rang out in the chamber like the high, sweet notes of a silver bell.
A devilish hate leaped suddenly into the eyes of the Russian, and he leaped at her and caught her by the throat.
"Curse you!" he hissed, all his ungovernable rage seething through him. "You defy me?"
Sick and dazed at the numbing pressure of the cold fingers, Neta felt her weakened frame give way suddenly. She dropped in a heap on the narrow cot, and with an oath the prince released his grip.
"For a moment he stood above her, staring down at her limp frame, his breath coming and going in thick, angry gasps. Then, afraid to trust himself further—afraid that his rage might urge him to kill this defenceless woman, even though her death meant the concealing of the hiding-place of the papers for ever—Krotol leaped away from the cot and crossed to the mantelpiece.
"Listen to me!" he harshed. "I will give you until tomorrow night to think over matters. If you do not reply to my question by then, the messenger will go to your father, and Siberia will close on him just as surely as the door of this chamber closes on you. I swear that you will be allowed to go free if you will only reveal the secret, and if you are wise you will do as I ask."
Among those who knew him, Krotol went by the name of "The Wolf," and as he crossed the chamber at that moment there was much of that treacherous animal's manner about his tread and poise of body.
At the door he halted for a moment, and flung a glance back at the dark corner. The girl was lying on her side, her face buried in her hands. The coils of her rich hair trailed over the dirty blankets, and lay in gleaming ripples on the unswept boards.
No stir of pity came to the wretch's heart as he looked. Misery of that human type could not touch the soul of the Governor of Voslagni, who had sent so many poor wretches to their doom in his hunger for wealth.
"Until tomorrow!" he said, in a low, threatening voice.
The door boomed behind him, and Neta heard the key rasp in the lock. A torrent of tears came to her then, and she sobbed her heart out in the dark loneliness.
She was weak and faint from hunger, the darkness of the room seemed to thrust cold, numbing fingers into her brain.
"Heaven help me! Heaven help me!" she breathed over and over again.
Half an hour later there came faintly to her ears the drumming of a motor-car. She staggered to her feet, and crossed the room towards the small window. It was guarded by heavy iron bars, but she could see the dark outlines of the grounds far below. The white headlight of a car shone out, and she followed it as it crawled like a wraith down the long avenue between the trees.
"He has gone!" she thought, clasping her hands over her breast. "Thank Heaven for that! The hideous dwarf is vile enough, but he is not so vile as his master!"
She turned away from the window, and rested against it for a moment.
"Jack, Jack!" she cried aloud, stretching her hands out in sudden longing. "Oh, if you only knew what I am suffering, you would come to me! Oh, Heaven, if you only knew!"
The rasp of the key brought her suddenly back from her dreams.
The ugly face of Kalaz appeared in the doorway. In his long arms was a tray, covered with a white napkin.
A strangled cry broke from the girl's lips, and she swayed forward.
"Master said that you could eat," the guttural voice proclaimed, "and Kalaz always obeys the word of his master."
He came into the room, and placed the tray on the cot.
Neta touched him on his shoulder.
"And—and may I have a light?" she said, with a little pathetic note of pleading in her young voice. "It is so dark here, I—I always feared the dark."
Kalaz moved abruptly to one side so that Neta's hand fell away from his shoulder.
"Master said nothing about a light," came the grating tones. "You must be content."
He shuffled across the room, and went through the doorway, locking the heavy barrier behind him. Neta seated herself on the cot, and felt for the tray with hands that trembled.
A jug of water came beneath her groping fingers, and she took a long, delicious draught of the cold fluid.
Then, in the darkness, she began to eat ravenously, as a caged creature might have done.
When she had removed every fragment of food from the tray, Neta Torkoff felt a different woman. She leaned back against the hard pillow of the cot, and in her pale face a grim, determined light glowed.
"My father told me to guard the secret as the most sacred thing," she thought, "and I will do it. That man is a rogue and a bully, and I feel that he is lying to me. I will not speak!"
Her English mother had given the young girl her unconquerable spirit. Alone, and at the mercy of her enemies, Neta Torkoff was still able to face them with fearless spirit.
"I wish Jack knew," she thought, her small hands clasping together. "He is so big and strong and brave. He would make these cowards realise that I am not quite friendless."
She little dreamed that at that very moment another man—a more capable, cleverer man than her lover, was stirring himself on her behalf.
For as Prince Krotol was hurried westward in his car, Sexton Blake was also moving for the same rendezvous—the rooms of the Warsaw Club.
A Grim Struggle.
"I DON'T say that you will be in any danger, Mr. Blake," the Foreign Office official said; "but it is always best to go prepared for—er—any contingencies."
The great detective smiled.
"I will attend to that, Sir Rupert," he returned, as he arose to his feet; "and I must thank you for the trouble you have taken."
"Don't mention it," his host returned. "Glad to be of any assistance to you. And now, when would you like my man to meet you?"
Blake glanced at his watch.
"I am going back to Baker Street," he said, "and I will be ready within an hour."
"Very well. De Valoux will meet you on the steps of the club at, say, nine o'clock."
"That will do excellently," Blake said.
He walked out of the big office in Whitehall, and turned towards Baker Street. He had gone straight to the Foreign Office from the General Post Office, and had quickly arranged about his visit to the Warsaw. Sir Rupert Hetherington, one of the under-secretaries, had been only too pleased to arrange that the famous detective should be taken into the club by a member.
De Valoux, the member in question, was one of the secret service agents attached to the Foreign Office, and a word on the 'phone with him had speedily arranged about the visit.
As the detective entered his chamber he found Tinker waiting for him. The young assistant hurriedly recounted the interview he had had with Prince Krotol, and Blake took a mental note of the name.
"What sort of man was he, Tinker?" he asked.
The shrewd, young assistant gave a graphic description of the Governor of Voslagni.
"Good!" said his master. "I don't think I could mistake him now.'
"What do you think about it, guv'nor?" the lad asked.
They were chatting together in Blake's bed-room, where the detective was engaged in dressing himself for the part he was about to play.
"I can't say that I like it altogether, Tinker," Blake admitted. "If this prince was such a friend of Torkoff's, why didn't he appear at the inquest and give evidence that would serve to identify the man?"
"I never thought of that," said Tinker. "Besides, he said that Torkoff had not got a relative in the world."
Blake smiled.
"Lie number two," he said. "I have had proofs given to me that Torkoff has a daughter alive, and, as far as I know, she is in England at this very moment."
Tinker's eyes widened.
"You didn't tell me that, guv'nor," he said, in a rather injured tone.
"I hadn't got time to tell you, old chap," his master returned; "and I don't think I have time to do so now. But I can do something else for you."
"What is that?"
Blake took out his pocket-book and produced a scrap of paper.
"There is the address of a person who can give you all the details," he said, handing Tinker Brearley's address. "If you like to run down there to-night, you could have a chat with the man. And, at the same time, you might find out if he had ever heard of this Prince Krotol."
"Right you are, guv'nor," said the young assistant, pocketing the slip. "I'll do that."
Blake was poised above his make-up box; and when he turned his head, Tinker smiled at the extraordinary difference that was revealed in the features. Blake had fixed a straggly beard to his chin, and had stained his cheeks until they were a deep tan. The loose-fitting suit, with the padded shoulders, and the peg-top trousers, completed his disguise.
He looked like a wanderer from the States—a typical example of the Yankee visitor who flocks to our shores.
"Where are you going, guv'nor?" the lad asked.
"Warsaw Club," said Blake. "I find that Torkoff must have been a member there. I may be able to find out something more about him."
Tinker's shrewd face was a trifle grave.
"These foreign clubs are usually unholy sort of places to get into," he said; "and a thundering sight worse to get out of. Sure you won't need me, guv'nor?"
"Not this time, old chap," Blake returned quietly. "I'm going to lie very low. It is only a watching game that I am on this time. Later, perhaps, we may have to step out into the open."
He left his chambers, and a taxi carried him to the quiet street in which the Warsaw Club was situated. As he alighted from the cab, a dapper little gentleman, in correct evening attire, came down the steps of the club, and held out his hand.
"How do you do?" he said, in a high voice. "I thought that you would never come."
It was De Valoux, the Foreign Office spy, and Blake quickly fell into the man's manner. He made some drawling reply, and they both sauntered through the open doorway and into the club.
Blake found himself presently in a big smoke-room in which a few men were seated in little groups. De Valoux found a small table in one of the windows, and, having called for drinks, he and the detective began to chat together.
"I shall have to be careful," De Valoux began. "One or two of the members rather suspect me, and I can't afford to take any risks, Mr. Blake. If you have any arresting to do—well, I'd rather be out of the way when it happens, if you don't mind."
Blake smiled. He quite appreciated the little spy's attitude.
If it ever leaked out that De Valoux was a spy the doors of the club would undoubtedly be closed to him at once.
"I don't think I'll play a very active part," he returned; "but, still, you can leave me just whenever you like. I only want to find out about Torkoff. You read about that case, of course?"
The spy nodded.
"So it's the Torkoff affair you are on," he said slowly. "Sir Rupert did not mention that to me. What has the Warsaw Club to do with that?"
"I believe that Torkoff was a member," said Blake.
De Valoux shook his head.
"I've the list of names at my finger-tips," he said, "and Torkoff is not among them. That I will swear."
"He might have joined under another name, though," Blake hinted.
"Very likely," said the spy. "In fact, it is more than likely that he did. Very few of the members care to register under the names that their fathers gave them." And his little, bright eyes lighted up with grim mirth.
"And there's another man I'm rather interested in," Blake went on; "Prince Krotol. He's a member, I suppose?"
It was only a chance shot, but it hit the mark. De Valoux removed his cigarette from between his lips and stared hard at Blake.
"What do you want with the 'Wolf?'" he asked, in a very different tone.
"Is Krotol the 'Wolf'?" Blake asked.
De Valoux nodded.
"That is the name we give him," he said, in a low voice; "and he has earned it, too."
"Who is he?"
The little spy leaned forward.
"One of the most unscrupulous blackguards that ever lived," he said. "He is the governor of a big province in Russia, and if half the tales that are told about him are true he deserves to be hung, drawn, and quartered."
"Humph! That's pretty interesting," the great detective returned. "'You would not believe that Krotol was capable of taking a friendly interest in a fellow-countryman, then?"
"He never took an interest in anyone, except his very precious self," the spy assured Blake. "He has hosts of enemies, but no friends."
Blake was silent. He felt that he had heard as much from De Valoux as was necessary, and he did not want to bring the little spy into his business. De Valoux's time was at the disposal of the Foreign Office, and Blake was already in the little man's debt for what he had done.
"Does Krotol come here often?" he asked.
The spy jerked his thumb at a closed door covered with green baize.
"They are inveterate gamblers, these Russians," he said. "You'll probably see the prince come in here about midnight, and he'll go straight into that room."
Blake rose to his feet.
"Then if you'll just take me in there," he said grimly, "I won't trouble you any longer. Just fix me up, and leave me."
"You are sure that you won't mind?" the spy asked.
"I would prefer it," said Blake.
De Valoux led the way across the smoke-room into the deep room beyond, Although it was early in the evening, there was already a fair gathering of gamblers in the smoke-laden room. Blake marked the presence of a roulette table, and sauntered across to it, followed by the little spy.
They watched the game for a moment; then Blake, as if suddenly tempted by the little ball, staked a coin. He lost, and staked another. The group made way for him, then, and De Valoux, with an expression of relief on his face, sauntered away from the fascinating board. He knew that Blake had deliberately taken part in the game so that his presence there might be taken as a proof that he was of the same gambling habits as the others.
"If it was any other man I might be afraid to leave him," the Foreign Office man thought; "'but I can safely leave Sexton Blake to look after himself."
An hour passed, and then another, and still Blake hung around the roulette. He had chosen that spot as it was exactly opposite the green-baized door, and his eyes went towards the doorway every time it opened.
At last the man he was waiting for appeared. The saturnine features of the tall Russian prince came through the doorway, and, thanks to Tinker's keen description, Blake recognised Krotol at once. The detective studied the face quietly, and the slant eyes and cruel, hawk-like nose told him that here was a man who would stop at little so long as he gained his own ends.
Krotol came slowly into the room with an undisguised swagger. He was a big man in the Warsaw Club, and made no attempt at concealing that fact.
His slant eyes shot round in a circle, examining the various groups, and presently they turned on the roulette table.
Blake deliberately drew from his pocket a large bundle of banknotes and placed one of them on the red.
He did not glance at Krotol, but he knew that the Russian was watching him—watching him with the hungry eye of the gambler. The ball clinked slowly, and fell with a little thud in its place. Red won, and Blake raked in the little heap of coins which the croupier counted out.
Suddenly Blake felt a touch on his elbow, and found one of the servants of the club by his side.
"Prince Krotol's compliments, sir," the man said, "and would you care to join him in a game? He is just making up a party."
It was exactly the invitation that Blake had been waiting for, and he followed the servant at once.
The Governor of Voslagni was seated at a small table in one corner of the room, and there were two other pallid-faced men seated with him.
There was little of the introduction ceremony attempted.
The men knew that they were there simply to pass the night in the evil habit that swayed them. Blake evidently had money, and that was quite enough for them.
For two hours the men played, and at the end of that time Krotol found that the calm stranger was not to be easily disturbed. Sexton Blake had won something like a hundred pounds, and the Russian governor was almost beside himself with annoyance.
"Let us go to my flat," he said, rising to his feet, and talking in a thick voice. "This cursed place annoys me! There are too many people about."
One of the men at the table refused his invitation, but Blake and the fourth man accepted.
They left the club, and Krotol chartered a taxi, which speedily carried them to his flat. A grim smile flickered on the great detective's face when he noted that the flat was situated in St. James's Square—within a stone's throw from the building in which Torkoff had met his fate.
The Governor of Voslagni entered his rooms and switched on the electric light. It was a handsome apartment that Blake found himself in, lavishly furnished and decorated. A manservant came forward, and at a word from his master prepared the table for cards.
On one side of the room stood an immense sideboard laden with decanters and glasses. Blake sauntered across to it, and suddenly, on a small silver tray, he noted a little object.
A gold locket attached to a thin gold chain. On the locket, in tiny diamonds, were the initials "N.T."
A mirror in the sideboard gave the detective a chance of watching the movements of Krotol.
The prince was busily engaged in removing the wrappings from a pack of cards.
Quickly Blake lifted the locket and touched the spring.
The halves flew open, and he saw two miniatures—one of a fair, beautiful girl, the other of a man. And the face of the man was that which he had seen at the Yard as being the features of Ivan Torkoff.
Instantly into the detective's brain the truth leaped.
Prince Krotol knew where Neta Torkoff was!
For a moment the discovery took him by surprise, and he forgot his usual caution. He was staring at the locket when he suddenly heard a footfall by his side. Glancing up, he encountered the slant eyes of the Governor of Voslagni fixed menacingly on his face.
"Pretty woman, that," said Blake, with his assumed drawl, as he dropped the locket again, and turned away. "Guess she's not English, though."
The Governor of Voslagni hurriedly lifted the locket, and thrust it into his pocket.
"She is a—a niece of mine," he said, in a gruff voice, as he turned away.
The third man of the party had already taken his place at the card-table, and was idly shuffling the cards. Blake drew a chair forward, and was about to take his seat, when suddenly on the outer door of the flat a loud knocking began.
Krotol started, and an oath broke from his lips.
Crossing to the door of the room he opened it, and called to his servant, speaking in the harsh, guttural tongue of his race.
Blake heard the man walk down the corridor, and the bolts on the outer door of the flat were shot back.
Crash!
The door was flung heavily aside, and the sound of a quick scuffle came to the ears of the listeners.
Blake leaped to his feet, an action which the other man at the table followed.
"Out of the way, you skunk!" came a deep, booming voice—a voice which the great detective recognised at once. "I want a word with your master, and, by thunder, I mean to have it!"
A second later the door of the room was flung aside, and the giant form of Jack Brearley appeared.
The sailor's strong face was as grim as a vice, and the blue eyes were flaming with some fierce passion.
Krotol had backed away from the door as the sailor entered, but, recovering his nerve, he came forward slowly.
"What is the meaning of this?" he asked, in his cold, flexible voice. "How dare you thrust yourself into my rooms in this manner? Who are you?"
The sailor placed his brawny hands on his hips and eyed the evil face of the prince.
"I'll tell you who I am when I know who you are," he said slowly. "I am looking for Prince Krotol."
"That is my name," said the Russian.
"Ah!" Brearley took a pace forward, and his clenched fists slid in front of his body. "Well, my name is Brearley, and I want to know what you have done with Miss Torkoff."
Blake came forward slowly, his eyes fixed on the tense figure of the giant Russian. The sailor, in his impetuous way, had thrust himself into a situation which might have disastrous results.
Krotol, however, was a master of cunning. He did not allow a sign to escape him.
"I do not understand you, my man," he said, with a slight shrug of his shoulders. "You must be mad—or drunk. If you do not leave my flat at once I will have to send for the police. Your English law does not allow madmen like you to thrust themselves into gentlemen's private apartments and create disturbances."
Jack Brearley drew a deep breath.
"You can't fool me, you skunk!" he broke out, his blue eyes flashing dangerously. "I've just left a man you know well enough—Darovitch is his name. The last time I saw him was in Vladivostok, and he was flat on his back from a punch with this"—and he held up a huge fist.
The slant eyes of Krotol gleamed with a sudden fury. He knew that Darovitch—one of the two spies who had tried to prevent Neta from leaving Russia—was now in London.
It was evident that Darovitch had betrayed him to this fierce sailor.
"You speak in riddles, my man," the Russian returned. "If you have any grievance against me call and see me tomorrow. It is now past midnight—not the usual hour for calling in this country."
"I don't leave here until I get the truth out of you!" Brearley roared. "That spy of yours told me that you were at the bottom of this business, and, by heavens, I mean to make you speak!"
He seemed oblivious of the fact that there were other men in the room. The white fury he was in made the prince take a pace backwards.
"You are mad—" he began.
With a muffled shout of rage Brearley threw himself forward. Blake saw Krotol's brown hand slip like a snake into his pocket. Quick as a flash the detective leaped across the room, and as the revolver flashed in the man's hand, he struck hard at the tough wrist.
Crack!
The report of the weapon rang out, followed by a sharp tinkle of glass, and the room was plunged into darkness.
A guttural oath sounded, and Blake felt Krotol lunge forward, madly striking at the face of the sailor. A shout came from the corridor and the doorway was blocked suddenly by a couple of forms.
The servants of the prince were coming to the aid of their evil master.
Instantly Blake knew that they were in a tight corner, and although Brearley had practically brought his fate on himself, Blake could not let him face the odds single-handed.
A couple of powerful figures came reeling against him, and he knew that the prince and the sailor were at each other's throats. Blake stooped, and thrusting his shoulder forward, wedged it against the back of one of the antagonists. A mighty lunge saw the two wrestlers forced across the room and into the doorway, where they thudded against the forms of the servants.
A torrent of guttural words broke out, and Blake saw the men in the doorway leap back. There was a light in the passage, and as Krotol and Brearley reeled out into the narrow corridor, Blake followed them.
The Russian was clinging to his great antagonist like a panther, and try though he did, the sailor could not loosen the grip on his arms.
To and fro they reeled and at last Jack's feet were jerked away from beneath him and he went crashing on the thick carpet beneath. That seemed to be a signal to the servants, for one of them, with a shout of satisfaction, flung himself forward. Blake saw a thick club appear in the man's hand as he swung it above his head.
Krotol was kneeling on the writhing form of his opponent and he turned his slant eyes towards his servant.
"Quick!" he cried.
The cudgel poised for a moment, and the powerful hands tightened their grip. But before it could descend on Brearley's head—
Crack!
From the doorway of the inner chamber a little spiteful blue flame leaped, and with a yell of pain the brawny servant dropped his weapon and reeled back with his shattered hand dangling uselessly from his wrist.
Crack!
Another shot sent the electric bulb into a thousand splinters, then Blake, with the smoking revolver still in his hand, darted down the corridor. The second servant aimed a blow at him as he came, but the detective's wiry fist shot out and the man went down like a felled ox. Krotol, startled at this sudden attack, found a steel-like arm slipped suddenly around his bull-throat, and with a jerk he was flung bodily clear from the body of his opponent.
He went thudding against the wall of the passage, and collapsed with a gasping moan.
"Now, old man," Blake's cool voice whispered into the ear of the sailor. "Up and follow me—as sharp as you like."
He caught at Brearley's arm and lifted him to his feet, then sped on towards the outer door, with the dazed sailor lumbering at his heels.
When they emerged into the quiet square they caught sight of a uniformed figure hurrying towards them from the other end of the pavement. Linking his arm into that of Brearley's, Blake set off at a swinging trot. The policeman called to them, but the detective only quickened his pace, and a few minutes later the two men found themselves in the Mall.
"I—I recognised your voice, Mr. Blake," Brearley gasped. "What—what does it mean?"
The great detective smiled grimly.
"It means that we were both on the same errand—but your way was the least artistic," he said. "I have spent the last two hours with Krotol—and I think he is the man I have been looking for."
The sailor's grim jaw set with a snap.
"I'm sure of that," he said. "I had proofs of it this evening. By jiminy, I feel half inclined to go back now and tear the truth out of him."
"A very foolish inclination," said Blake slowly. "He is a sly, dangerous rogue. And I am sorry that you told him as much as you did. He will be doubly on his guard now."
"He knows where my beloved Neta is," said Jack, passionately. "I know that much. It was only a piece of blind luck that sent me down to the docks this afternoon; when I saw the face of that spy, I could have killed him."
"What happened?" asked Blake.
The mate of the Ikon hurriedly gave a brief account of the strange circumstances that had led to his seeking out Krotol at his flat. It appeared that the spy, Darovitch—whom Brearley recognised at once as being one of the two rascals who had pursued Neta—had been loafing about the quay where the Ikon was being unloaded. The mate had waited his chance and had tackled the ruffian.
"I had him on his back, hanging over the dock," said Brearley, with a fierce breath; "and, by George, I'd have drowned the beggar like a rat if he hadn't told me the truth."
"What did he say?"
"He said that it was Prince Krotol who had sent him down to spy on the Ikon," said Brearley. "I tried to set out of him the whereabouts of Neta, but I'm convinced now that the beggar did not know. All he could tell me was that Krotol was at the bottom of it all—and he gave me his address. I was standing in the square when you drove up in the taxi—but I didn't recognize you, Mr. Blake, or I might have waited."
Blake was silent for a moment.
Brearley's action had probably set Krotol on his guard, and it would be a difficult matter to catch the wily Russian napping again.
"Did Miss Torkoff have a small gold locket?" he asked, presently; "a locket on a thin gold chain, with initials in diamonds on it?"
Brearley caught him by the arm.
"Where did you see it?" he asked eagerly. "She always wore that locket. She treasured it above everything else in the world."
"Krotol has it in his possession at this very moment," said Blake slowly; "and that means that he knows where Miss Torkoff is."
The sailor came to a halt.
"Then, by Heavens, I'm going back," he proclaimed fiercely. "I'll drag the truth from him, or die!"
Blake caught at his muscular arm.
"If you want to see your sweetheart in the flesh again," he said slowly; "you will do no such thing. You must remember that Krotol has played his cards very well. Not a breath of suspicion has been heard against him. He will have taken care to cover his tracks well—you can trust to a Russian for that."
"But you will not leave my sweetheart in his hands," the mate went on; "the man is an utter fiend! There is nothing too vile for him to attempt. My Heaven, Blake, I—I cannot bear the thought of it—it drives me mad!"
Blake's face was stern and grim.
"I will not leave your sweetheart," he returned. "I feel sure that there is something at the bottom of all this. There is a reason for the murder—as there is a reason for the disappearance of your betrothed. It is not merely revenge that drives Krotol—a man of his stamp has only one passion—the greed of gold. He is a confirmed gambler—I have proved that."
"But Neta was poor—at least she told me that she was," said Jack Brearley. "Her father had a terrible struggle in this country."
They were walking along quietly now, and the sailor's voice had lost its note of alarm. Blake's cool, quiet tones, had brought a certain amount of comfort to him.
"Scotland Yard sent me a report," said the great detective; "and it appears that Ivan Torkoff was about to bring off a very big stroke of business. It had something to do with the flotation of a huge oil company, to develop a new field. And the people he had approached stated that he had mentioned the province in which the field was situated; it was Voslagni."
"Neta mentioned that place to me," said Brearley suddenly; "she said that she was going to her father because there was something big going to happen, and Voslagni was the name of the place."
Blake nodded his head.
"And Prince Krotol is Governor of Voslagni," he said.
"You are sure?" the sailor ejaculated.
"Quite," came the reply; "and you see now how the puzzle begins to shape itself." He enumerated the points slowly.
"Torkoff has a big deal on, in which Voslagni plays a large part," he began; "and Torkoff is murdered suddenly, and under mysterious circumstances. His office is disarranged, and everything points to the fact that the murderer was making a search for something. That search must have been unsuccessful, for—Neta Torkoff vanishes as soon as she arrives in London. That indicates that the murderer of her father is still unsatisfied—has still to gain possession of the object he was in search of."
"And while he is unsatisfied, Neta will remain a prisoner?" Jack Brearley broke out.
Blake turned to him.
"While he is unsatisfied, Neta's life is safe," he put in; "that is the better way of explaining the situation."
"And what are we going to do?" the lover asked helplessly. "I can't sit still and think that my darling is suffering somewhere. If I don't do something, I shall go mad."
"There will be plenty for you to do, Brearley," the detective returned grimly. "We will move, and move quickly, too. You can trust me."
The huge fist was reached out, and Blake's fingers closed on it.
"Yes," said the bluff sailor, with a sudden sob in his throat; "I—I will trust you, Mr. Blake. I never really doubted you, you know, only—well, I love my little girl better than life."
It was almost two o'clock in the morning before they reached the chambers in Baker Street, and Blake insisted on Brearley stopping there for the night.
Tinker had returned from his fruitless search for the sailor and was waiting for his master, curled up in the deep chair in front of the fire.
The old landlady, grumbling loudly at the hour, insisted on preparing supper for her guests, and over the meal the three men discussed the events of the evening.
Blake speedily arranged the plans for their future movements.
"We will have to start all over again," he said; "and the first thing to do is to try and find the taxi that took Miss Neta away from the docks. That will be a job for you, Brearley."
"I never thought of looking at the number," the mate confessed; "but I think I would recognise the man again. the cab had a yellow-painted body, too—I remember that."
"If it came from the rank you have a good chance of finding it again," said Tinker."These fellows usually stick to certain districts now. They find that it pays them better."
"When you find the man," said Blake; "get his story. She may have gone to some other hotel—changing her mind after she had left you, you know. You will have to trace her step by step, old chap."
Brearley's bronzed face lighted up.
"I'd follow her over the world," he said slowly. "I'm not much of a detective—a bit too hot-headed, I'm afraid—but I'm a sticker when I start; and I've got two of the best instructors in the world."
There was something pathetic about the man as he sat there, so big, and strong, and capable—and yet so very humble in his claims as to his own capabilities.
"Every man to his trade," said Tinker, with a smile.
"If detectives had to work a vessel off a lee shore—I think I'd trust to you—even if the guv'nor was on board."
Brearley heaved a sigh.
"I wish I was back on the old Ikon, with my little sweetheart by my side," he said.
"Your wish may be granted before very long," Blake put in quietly.
A prophecy that was soon to be fulfilled.
Kalaz Undertakes a Mission.
"KALAZ!"
The harsh, angry voice of Prince Krotol echoed and re-echoed through the silent house. The tall Russian had just arrived in his car, and was standing in the hall, shouting for his faithful slave. The short pat, pat of hurrying feet came to him, and the stunted shape of the hideous dwarf appeared from some room in the basement.
"Yes, master?" came the guttural voice.
Kalaz came on down the passage, and presently he caught sight of the prince's face. The dwarf halted, and stared at the bruised features.
Krotol had suffered severely at the hands of the brawny sailor. One of his slant eyes was puffed and swollen, and there was a red, angry bruise on his swarthy forehead. But if was the expression on the prince's face that brought his servant to a halt. It was a mask of evil rage and hate.
"Kalaz," Krotol hissed, stepping forward, and gripping the dwarf by the arm, "I want you to do something for me."
"My master has only to speak," the stunted being returned.
The prince bent his head forward.
"I want you to kill a man!" he said. "While he lives we have everything to fear. He knows that Neta Torkoff is in London, and last night he forced himself into my flat, and demanded to know where she was."
The face of the dwarf widened with surprise.
"Who is he, master?" he asked.
"He told me his name, and where he came from," the prince said, with a grim smile. "He is the mate of the steamer that our prisoner came to England in."
Kalaz nodded his head.
"And his name, master?"
"Brearley," said Krotol. "You will not forget that, Kalaz. Brearley."
The dwarf repeated the name over and over again beneath his breath.
"Brearley, Brearley! I will not forget, master. Kalaz never forgets."
Krotol moved on down the passage.
"He has to be silenced at once!" he said, his brows meeting in a dark frown. "Something has happened last night that has made me afraid of what may happen, Kalaz. A man at the Warsaw played cards with me, and he came back to my flat. I cannot find out who he was; nobody seems to know him."
"But if he was in the club, surely he was safe, master?"
The prince shook his head.
"It was he who saved that fool Brearley from getting his deserts," he went on. "I had the madman at my mercy, Kalaz, when this stranger fired a revolver, hitting Muila on the wrist, and breaking the electric bulb. I was flung aside, and the two escaped. I would give much to find out who the second man was, Kalaz!"
He stalked into the sparsely-furnished room on the left of the corridor, with the dwarf shuffling along at his heels.
"How is our prisoner?" he asked.
"She sleeps, master," said the dwarf. "I gave her food as you bade me. An hour ago I looked at her. She sleeps."
Krotol threw himself in a chair, making it creak beneath his heavy frame.
"We will not waken her yet," he said. "She is safe here for a time. And, if you play your part well, we may yet win the game."
Kalaz took a pace forward, and his shrewd eyes held a curious light in them.
"Might it not be wise to speak to her, master?" he said.
"If this sailor—this Brearley knows so much about her, may she not know something about him?"
The prince darted a quick glance at him.
"What do you mean, Kalaz?" he asked. "You always were a shrewd rogue. What have you in your mind?"
The dwarf's pendulous lips lifted in a hideous smile.
"I think that Miss Neta has hopes of being rescued," he said. "Why should she show such courage against you, master? If she was alone and friendless in this strange country she would not defy you as she does?"
The eyes of the prince scintillated suddenly.
"By the Tsar, I believe you are right!" he broke out. "This mate of the Ikon was frantic with rage. Perhaps they are lovers, Kalaz?"
"Neta is a fair woman," said the dwarf mockingly; "and sailor is always ready to fall in love with a beautiful face."
Krotol leaped to his feet.
"I will make use of this," he said. "But not just now. I want you to go and find this sailor, this mate of the Ikon, and I want you to silence him for ever."
The dwarf bowed, and turned on his heel.
"When I return, master," he said, in a low, grim voice, "it will be to tell you that your desire has been accomplished."
He shuffled out of the room, and the Governor of Voslagni watched the stunted shape until it vanished through the doorway.
"I can trust to Kalaz," he thought, settling himself in his chair. "I saved his neck from the noose once, and he has always been grateful to me. I only wish that all my servants were as faithful as he."
A twinge of pain made him lift his hand to his bruised forehead, and he swore softly to himself.
"That strange man," he muttered aloud. "I must find out who and what he was. A bold man to do what he did, and, therefore, a dangerous one!"
Fear had dogged his feet during the whole of that morning, and presently he sprang out of his chair, and began to pace to and fro across the floor of the room. The boom of the door brought him to the window, and he had just time to see the misshapen form of the dwarf vanishing through the trees of the grass-grown avenue. Kalaz glided from tree to tree like a creature of the forest, and there was something grim and purposeful about the poise of his stunted body.
"Kalaz will find that hulking fool!" Krotol thought, a sudden smile flickering across his dark face. "And when he does Neta will lose her champion!"
Yet still the fear of discovery brooded like a cloud over the man's mind. Brearley he could account for, but the nameless stranger who had walked so boldly into his flat was the menace to his plans.
"The dog was strong," Krotol thought. "I feel the grip of his arm around my throat now. Who could he be?"
And then, by one of those curious tricks of conscience, a name came to him.
He had heard that Sexton Blake had taken up the case.
The world-wide reputation of that master of the art of tracking criminals was well known to the Russian.
A bead of sweat came out and hung like a diamond on his black brow.
"Blake," he thought, his lean brown hands clenching together. "By heavens, I believe that it was Sexton Blake."
The more he thought of it the more likely did it seem.
He had called on Blake on the previous day, and the young assistant had told him that his master was already out investigating.
Turning away from the window, the prince resumed his restless tramping up and down the echoing room.
"It is impossible!" he muttered, trying to persuade himself. "How could he find out anything about my share in this matter? Who could couple Ivan Torkoff's fate with my name? And how did Blake find out that I was a member of the Warsaw? Neither my name nor that of Torkoff appeared on the list of members."
He resumed his musing for a moment, trying to solve the riddle, but it escaped him.
"Fear is making a fool of me!" Krotol said aloud. "One moment I feel sure that it was Blake who helped that sailor to escape, and then how could it be?"
But so persistent was the warning whisper that, at last, the man had to listen to its warnings.
"I must take no chances," he muttered. "This stubborn woman will not speak, and I dare not kill her now, while the secret hiding-place of these papers is known only to her. I must have that ukase. It means everything to me!"
He was on the verge of ruin, of bankruptcy, and he knew that the concession could be sold for a huge sum to a company. Already he had entered into negotiations with a group of financiers, who only awaited proofs that he was able to sell them the concession. But the concession would have to be produced, and Neta Torkoff was the only living person who could produce it.
"I must take her back to Russia," the rogue thought, his slant eyes lighting up suddenly. "This cursed country is too full of police and interfering fools! Only let me get her to Voslagni, and I will soon force her into speaking."
His mind fastened on that idea, and he realised that it was the only solution of the problem. In England he was in a strange country. In a country where neither prince nor commoner dared interfere with the life or liberty of the subject. But in bleak Voslagni, where he was a monarch almost, he could do as he chose with any unfortunate wretch whom he might have in his power.
"Yes," he decided, "we must move to Voslagni, and we cannot move too quickly."
Then the thought followed.
"But I must wait until I hear how Kalaz has fared."
For the warped dwarf was Krotol's right hand in all the vile schemes which the prince had planned, and without his servant the big Russian would many times have failed.
And while his master thought of Kalaz, Kalaz was hurrying by tram and tube and 'bus to the scene of his new adventure—the great docks of London.
The dwarf was only able to speak a few words of English, but they were quite sufficient to carry him to his destination.
About lunch-time he passed through the gates of Tilbury, and found himself in the quiet docks. It was the dockers' dinner hour, and the place was practically deserted.
Kalaz made a few guttural inquiries, and presently found himself on the quay beside the weather-beaten old tramp-steamer that he was in search of. The Ikon was still unloading its cargo, and the marks of the Russian customs on the bales told the dwarf that he had not made a mistake.
Beneath his blue robe the sheath-knife pressed against his flank, and his small eyes were full of a deep purpose as he leaned against the shed, a queer, outlandish figure in his strange garb and sheepskin cap.
A man in his shirt-sleeves came up out of the galley of the Ikon, and emptied a bucket of water out over the side.
Kalaz came forward, and signalled to the cook.
His movement caught the man's eye, and he halted for a moment. The dwarf, with a start of delight, saw that the cook was of the same swarthy skin and heavy features as himself.
"I am hungry, brother," said Kalaz, speaking in Russian.
The cook answered him in the same tongue.
"Come and eat!" he said.
Little did Brearley dream when he picked up the half-starving, whining fellow at Port Arthur, and gave him a job in the galley, that his action was one day to bring him close to the jaws of death. Kalaz shuffled along the plank, and dropped on to the deck of the tramp. The cook was waiting for him at the head of the narrow companionway, leading down to the galley, and they exchanged the guttural greetings of their race.
"This is an accursed country for a man to starve in, brother," said Kalaz, as he stepped into the badly-lighted galley. "You are fortunate to be here."
"I do not complain," the cook returned, as he filled a tin pannikin with soup, and cut a huge wedge of new bread for his visitor. "I am alone here, and they have all taken their discharges. I, being a stranger, have been allowed to remain. Wait, my brother!"
His journey across London had made the dwarf hungry, and he did ample justice to the simple fare placed before him. The cook also seated himself, and made a meal.
Little by little Kalaz gathered his information. Every man on board the Ikon had noted the lover-like attitude of their brawny mate towards the mysterious passenger. Kalaz chuckled grimly as he heard how near surmises had been to the truth.
Presently the clanking of the donkey-engine and winch told them that the unloading was going on again. Then the cook arose to his feet, and looked at Kalaz doubtfully.
"You cannot remain here, brother," he said. "It is not allowed. If the mate found you he would be wroth with me.
"The mates come on board, then?' said the dwarf.
"Yes; they take their turn," said the cook. "Brearley will be here this evening."
"And they sleep on board?"
"Until the cargo is removed," said his informant.
"I will go," said the dwarf. Then, as though struck by a sudden thought. "But I would like to see where the mate sleeps. It must be a comfortable place."
"Not so comfortable but what he would gladly sleep on shore," the cook returned with a smile. "Come with me, and I will show you his cabin. Then—and do not think me unfriendly—you must go."
He led the way aft, and presently Kalaz found himself glancing into a small cabin at the end of a short galleyway.
He fixed the position of the place in his mind, and turned away with a grunt of satisfaction.
"Good-bye, brother," he said, shaking hands with his unsuspecting companion. "You have done me a great service; I am grateful."
He left the ship, and went on down the quay, shuffling along with his great head bent and his long arms swinging by his side. He looked peaceful enough then—a type of stranded foreigner whom one can always meet around the docks. His curious shape and appearance might have caused comment in any other part of London, but in the docks it passed without raising any comment.
Kalaz made a half-circuit of the dock before he came to a pause. He was now standing on the edge of the quay at a vacant berth. Across the dock, on the opposite side, he could see the iron hull of the Ikon, and his quick eye measured the distance which lay between him and the ship.
It was just about three hundred yards across the still water. Apparently the dwarf was content, for he turned away and slunk into the empty sheds.
A brief search discovered a safe hiding-place— an old packing-case, into which Kalaz slid his stunted form.
And so the hours passed slowly, and at last the shrill whistles sounded, marking the close of the working day. Presently the dusk began to settle over the docks, yet Kalaz still remained in his hiding-place. He heard the heavy footfalls of the watchman as he passed through the empty sheds, then an unbroken silence ensued.
It was dark when Kalaz ventured to leave his hiding-place at last, and when he did so he was carrying the top of the case with him. He went to the edge of the quay, and walked along until he found a set of iron rungs which ran down the stones into the waters of the dock.
With a quick thrust of his powerful arms the dwarf threw the top of the case into the dock, and then in his lithe, quick way he lowered himself down the rungs until he was standing up to his waist in the water.
The top of the case floated some few feet away from him, and Kalaz, striking out leisurely, gained the top and pulled his stunted frame on to it. The buoyant wood gave slightly, but still it was quite sufficient to support the misshapen form. Lying on his breast on the fragile platform, Kalaz began his voyage across the dock. He used his arms as one might use a pair of paddles, and the ease with which he propelled himself and his curious craft over the still surface suggested that it was not the first time he had attempted such an enterprise.
He made no sound as he moved onward, and a quick smile slid across his face as he saw the hull of the Ikon looming in front of him at last.
"There may be spies on the dock," he thought grimly, "but they will not expect an attack to be made from my side."
His cunning had its reward. He steered the platform on which he rested until it hung beneath the stern of the tramp steamer. The rudder-chains hung above his head, and his long, powerful fingers reached up and found a hold. Then, hand over hand, like the great monkey he was, Kalaz came swarming up out of the dock, while his float sagged away into the darkness again.
Foot by foot the tireless dwarf fought his way upwards until at last he was clinging to the projecting stern. He reached up and caught at the broad taffrail, then, with a easy swing, he was over the side and had dropped on his hands and knees on to the iron deck.
For a few moments he lay quite still, drawing deep breaths into his mighty lungs, for the climb had been a severe one. Where he lay, the water from his clothes made a pool, and presently he shifted his position slightly and looked around him.
Immediately in front of him bulked the square shape of the chart-room, and beyond it he saw the glass-covered roof of the saloon.
There were a couple of lights hanging from the rigging of the stunted mast, and their feeble gleams allowed the squat dwarf to pick his way through the blocks and ropes that littered the deck.
At last he gained the glass roof of the saloon, and, flat on his chest, he drew his head forward and peered down into the lighted interior.
There was only one man in the cosily-furnished saloon—his friend, the cook.
The man was removing the remains of a meal, and as Kalaz watched him the cook lifted a huge tray and went across the saloon, to vanish through a narrow doorway. Presently the scraping of his feet on the brass-covered treads of the companionway told that he was coming up to the deck.
With a quick, gliding movement the dwarf withdrew from the glass roof. A moment later the cook passed him and went along the deck towards the fo'castle with the tray of dirty plates.
The small eyes of the dwarf followed the stout figure until it disappeared.
"He is in the way," Kalaz muttered, plucking at his lower lip with his long fingers. "I cannot move while he is here. I will follow him first."
Like a shadow he passed along the deck on the heels of the cook. The man went on through the narrow galley beside the engine-room and then passed into the well-deck. Kalaz, waiting until his quarry had passed down the companionway, into the cook's galley, followed him.
"The cook had placed the tray of dishes down, and was reaching for a kettle of hot water when he saw the stunted form of the dwarf appear suddenly in the doorway of his quarters. An expression of dismay broke from the man's lips, and he started forward.
"You must not stay here," he said, beckoning to Kalaz to retire. "I will get into trouble if you are found here. How came you to remain behind?"
Kalaz came forward slowly, and held out his arms.
"I have fallen into the dock, my brother," he said slowly. "I want to dry myself here at your fire."
The cook, however, still stood between him and the interior of the little galley.
"It is impossible, brother," he said. "Mr. Brearley is on board, and if he find you here, by heavens, he will throw us both out of the ship!"
"Is Mr. Brearley alone?" the dwarf asked.
"Yes; but he is strong enough to handle you and I," the cook returned. "And, besides, I have no wish to lose my work."
"But surely a moment will not harm you?" began the dwarf.
The cook betrayed his annoyance.
"This is a poor return for the kindness I showed to you," he said in a surly tone. "I gave you food and drink, and you return it by coming here and trying to injure me."
He took a pace forward, and placed his hand against the broad, damp chest of the dwarf.
"You are a small man, and I have no wish to be hard on you," the cook went on, "but if you do not go off this ship at once, then, by heavens, I will have to use force!"
The rat-like eyes of the stunted being in front of him suddenly leaped into a red, glaring light.
"You would throw me off the ship?" Kalaz hissed, his heavy lips lifting like those of a hungry wolf. "I doubt if you could do such a thing—and I dare you to try."
The cook's stout body fairly quivered with honest indignation. He was a simple fellow, and certainly he had treated Kalaz well. It angered him now to find the way in which the dwarf returned his kindness.
"On your head be it!" he cried, making a leap forward, and with his hands stretched out to grip at the stunted shape.
Kalaz waited until the stout fellow was close to him, then, just as the cook's fingers groped at his throat, the dwarf leaped suddenly to one side.
The cook went blundering forward, and fetched an against the door of the galley with a thud which well nigh winded him. Before he could recover and turn again, the hideous dwarf, with a hoarse chuckle of delight, had flung himself forward.
One leap carried the stunted shape on to the cook's back. The long arms closed around the startled man's throat; and with one mighty jerk Kalaz drew his opponent clean off his feet. The cook's head went back with a wrench, and a strangled scream broke from his lips. Kalaz clapped one great palm over the fellow's mouth, then, as he crashed to the floor, the dwarf completed his task by driving his fist hard into the astounded face beneath him.
With a groan the cook turned slightly, then his limbs relaxed, and his head fell back with a thud on the iron floor of his little galley.
Panting slightly, Kalaz arose to his feet, and, folding his long arms, grinned down at the face of his vanquished opponent.
"I am only a small man," he said, "but ten of thy kind could not master me, thou fool!"
He stepped back a pace, and cast a quick glance around the galley. A length of rope lying in one corner caught his eye, and he picked it up, and, kneeling beside the unconscious man, he tied him up securely, gagging him with a piece of rag.
Behind the galley was a door, which led into a small cabin used for keeping the crew's stores. Kalaz picked up the cook as though he was a child, and, crossing the galley, flung his burden into the dark space beyond it.
"Someone will come along and release you in the morning," he muttered aloud; "and by that time I will have done that which I came to do."
He went back to the galley, and, reaching the narrow companionway, mounted it slowly.
There was no sign of anything moving on the deck and it was evident that the slight scuffle in the galley had not been overheard.
Kalaz halted for a moment and took his bearings. He remembered the position of Brearley's cabin, and presently, with light, soundless footsteps, he began his journey towards it.
As he entered the galleyway it seemed to him as though he heard the soft sound of a human breath close to him. With every nerve on the alert, the little murderous ruffian listened, poised like a beast, with his long fingers clutching at the heavy knife.
A moment passed, and there was no sound.
"My imagination begins to play tricks with me," the dwarf thought, as he moved on. "There is no one here."
A few minutes' stealthy creeping brought him to the door which he knew gave access to the cabin of the mate of the Ikon—the man that his master had told him had to die.
The door was closed, but there was a faint bar of light showing at the bottom of it. Kalaz leaned his head against the panels, and listened intently.
There was no sound.
For ten minutes the dwarf stood there, listening. He had all the patience of his terrible race, and meant to be sure before he struck.
Satisfied at last that the cabin was either empty or else the occupant was asleep, the dwarf began to turn the handle slowly.
He used both hands, so that he could control any sudden movement, and between his jagged teeth the knife hung like a bone.
Presently he found the door move at his touch, and he pressed it forward just far enough to allow his great head to enter.
On the small pedestal table beside the bunk a tiny night-light was glowing in a glass shade. On the table lay an opened book, and the half-smoked stump of a cigar.
Beyond the pedestal table loomed the bunk, and on it lay the figure of a man.
An evil light leaped into the dwarf's face, and he pressed the door open and stepped noiselessly into the cabin.
The figure on the bunk was lying with its back to the door. A blanket was drawn up, almost concealing the head, but the feeble glimmer from the night-light revealed a few close curls above the blanket.
Like a baleful shadow the dwarf tip-toed across the cabin. Beside the table he stopped for a moment, and the knife was gripped in his terrible fingers.
There could be no doubt about it; in the bunk lay the form of the man whom his prince hated and feared—the man who had to die.
Without a sound, without the slightest sign of hesitation; Kalaz threw himself forward, and, raising the shining blade, brought it down with all his strength.
But instead of yielding flesh, the knife struck hard against some hard substance, and the blade broke into fragments. So powerful had been the blow that Kalaz was carried forward; and went crashing against the back of the bunk.
A cry of fury broke from the misshapen-wretch's lips as he discovered that a trick had been played upon him.
He leaped back on to the floor the cabin, and the useless knife was cast at his feet.
He had failed. He had been tricked-made a plaything of.
All that was vile and evil blazed in the hideous face. The hands clasped and unclasped convulsively, and the features twitched with demoniacal rage.
Pad, pad, pad!
Down the galley he heard coming towards him the sound of running feet. Quick as a flash Kalaz leaped towards the table and struck the light to the floor. Then, with a snarl of fury, he darted at the door and threw himself into the passage.
A man's huge frame was lumbering towards him just as he appeared.
He heard a shout ring out, and behind him there came an answering one. For a moment the dwarf stood still, pressing himself flat against the side of the galley. It seemed to him that a trap had been laid for him into which he had foolishly stepped.
The man running down the galleyway came nearer and nearer, until he was only a few paces away from Kalaz. The dwarf made a slight movement, and he saw through the darkness the great form of the sailor turn towards him.
With all the power he was capable of exerting, Kalaz threw himself straight at the tall form.
Brearley heard the deep breath, and saw the warped shape start out suddenly. With his clenched fist, he aimed a swinging blow at the lurking rascal as he came.
"I've got you, you skunk!" he roared.
And had Kalaz been of ordinary height the blow would have felled him like an ox. But as it was, the great fist whizzed harmlessly over his head, and in another second the dwarf had wrapped his arms around Brearley's legs, and with one quick lift had swung the sailor off his feet. Brearley yelled aloud as he felt the mighty swing, then he went clean over the squat rascal's shoulders and thudded on the deck with a force that made the iron sides ring again.
A shrill chuckle of delight broke out from Kalaz as he darted off down the galleyway.
He leaped into the open deck, and found himself beneath the light of one of the hanging lamps.
As he appeared a slim lad came pelting forward, followed by a dark hound.
The dwarf broke into a fury of curses as he saw the newcomers. With a mad rush the hound had cleared the deck and was leaping at his throat. A swing of the dwarf's fist sent Pedro sprawling on the deck, then before Tinker could reach him the warped figure had swung itself up into the rigging with one hand. Tinker leaped, and tried to grip at the legs of the dwarf as they swung above his head, but Kalaz could climb like a great ape, and with a couple of mighty pulls of his arm he was ten feet above the level of the deck.
For a moment Tinker and the dwarf exchanged glances, then the young assistant saw the misshapen form poise itself suddenly on one of the ratlines.
"Stop, stop, you fool!" the lad cried, throwing his hands out.
Kalaz dropped like a plummet clean beyond the deck, and vanished with a loud splash into the water beneath.
A deep bay sounded from the great throat of Pedro, and Tinker had to fling himself on the hound to prevent it from following the reckless rogue into the dock.
Hurried footfalls sounded, and there came sprinting out of the galley two forms. One the lithe, active figure of Sexton Blake, and the other that of the mate.
"He's gone, guv'nor," said Tinker, looking over the side—"went down like a shot!"
Blake leaped forward, and, hanging over the side, peered into the dock. It was too dark, however, for him to pick any traces of the fugitive, and he turned to Brearley.
"Did you recognise him?" he asked.
The mate placed his hand against his forehead and groaned.
"Can't say that I did," he groaned. "The beggar must have been crouching in the passage waiting for me. I swung a blow at him, but it went clean over his head."
"He was a dwarf!" Tinker broke out. "I had a good look at him. More like a monkey than a man. And, by Jove, he's strong, too! He swung himself up into the rigging with one hand."
"Let us follow the skunk," the mate broke out; "he can't get very far away. By Jove, Blake, I've got to thank you again! If it hadn't been for you I would have been a dead man by now!"
They hurried across the deck and gained the quay. The great detective realised that it was little use searching for the fugitive then, and he allowed Brearley and Tinker to set off by themselves. It was an hour later before they returned from their fruitless task.
"He is either drowned, or he's got clear away," said the mate of the Ikon, mopping the sweat from his broad, handsome face. "Confound the little skunk! I wish I could lay my hands on him!"
"It was useless to search for him here," said Blake, waving his hand at the dark outlines of the vessels; "and I don't think that a man of that type drowns very easily."
Brearley shrugged his shoulders.
"I suppose not," he said slowly. "He must have been as strong as a lion. I am no light-weight, but he simply threw me like a sack of hay!"
Blake was silent for a moment.
"The visit has proved one thing," he said at last, "and that is that my theory was correct. It is dangerous for you to sleep on board the Ikon—or anywhere else where an attack could be made upon you. I told you that you were unwise to give Krotol that information—and this proves it."
The burly mate nodded his head.
"I have only you to thank," he said, with a slight shudder.
"I had a look into my cabin before I came out of the galley, and that oil-drum has a dent as big as my fist in it."
"Krotol would give much to get rid of you, my friend," said Blake grimly. "I realised that—and as you insisted on taking your turn of duty, I thought I would test my theory."
They went on board the Ikon again, and, after a glance at the cabin in which the tell-tale fragments of steel still lay on the floor, went back to the wheel-house, in which they had been seated when the dwarf had made his attack.
It was Blake who had arranged the trap, a simple one in its way. An electric wire had been connected with a bell in the wheel-house, and had been laid across the bunk on which the dummy had been arranged. The dwarf's fierce thrust had set the bell whirring, and the watchers had darted out in answer to the signal.
"And now," said Brearley grimly, "I'm going to hunt for that rascally cook. I still believe that he must have taken part in this, and I doubt if we'll find him on board."
He was gone for the better part of ten minutes, and when he returned his face had cleared.
"I was wrong," he said, dropping into a chair beside the detective; "I found the poor beggar trussed up like a fowl inside the stores. But I've pretty well frightened the life out of him, and he'll never entertain any stray countrymen again."
"What is that?" Blake cried.
Brearley smiled.
"The dwarf was on board during the lunch-hour," he announced "and that fool-cook went and gave him some grub."
He related the history of the affair as he had heard it from the lips of the wrathful cook, and Blake leaned back in his chair when the recital came to an end.
"We may profit out of this after all," he said. "By all accounts if appears that this dwarf must be a conspicuous sort of person. Under ordinary circumstances it would be impossible to trace him, but if he is to be found in London, I think I will be able to find him."
"How?" asked the mate.
"Send a description of him to every police-station in the metropolis," Blake returned. "This is where our police are invaluable. They will help me to trace him on every stage of his journey. The London police are trained to use their eyes nowadays, you know."
Brearley started to his feet.
"Why not start right out to trace him now?" he asked, his blue eyes kindling. "I'll risk leaving the old hooker to-night; I think I'm entitled to put a watchman on board—and hang the cargo!"
He glanced appealingly at Blake.
"It's not very late," he went on, with an eager air, "and—and we might be able to—to find Neta!"
Blake arose.
"Find me the nearest telephone-box, and I'll do my best for you," he said. "It'll be a long job—"
"I can give you a hand at that, guv'nor!" Tinker put in.
"Let us each get a telephone and ring up different stations. We can use your name in every case."
Brearley rubbed his great palms together joyfully.
"And even old Pedro here can help," he said, "for the cook gave me this." And he held out a round object—the black sheepskin cap which Kalaz had worn.
Blake took the head-covering and put it into his pocket.
"Yes," he said slowly, "if we can get anywhere near to our dwarf's hiding-place, Pedro will certainly come in useful." A remark which the hound was to substantiate.
The Bay of a Hound.
SHORTLY after ten o'clock one of the trams that rattle along the lines from Mitcham to Croydon stopped halfway across Mitcham Common and allowed a stunted, broad-shouldered figure to descend.
Kalaz, for it was he, waited until the brilliantly-lighted car had gone on down the dark roadway, then, hunching his shoulders up, he trudged off down the side-road which led to the lonely house in which, he knew, his master was waiting his coming.
The dwarf was showing signs of exhaustion now.
He had spent a labourious and exciting day, and tough though he was it was beginning to have its effects upon him.
When he had plunged into the dock from the side of the Ikon, he had headed straight across for the other side. It was this act that had saved him from the searchers. Brearley and Tinker had never dreamed that the dwarf would face such a long swim in the darkness; but Kalaz had all the utter fearlessness of his Cossack people.
He was a scoundrel, but he had the saving grace of being a brave one.
Yet he found himself very close to death before his numbed fingers touched the iron rungs of the ladder which ran up the granite side of the quay. The dwarf had to cling to the rungs for five or six minutes before he could find strength enough to face the short climb.
He finally escaped from the docks by dropping over the high wall into one of the quiet river-side streets.
He knew that he would have to find his master at once and tell him of his failure, and he began his long journey across London, heading for the distant suburb.
Prince Krotol had warned his servant that his appearance was such as would cause comment, and therefore Kalaz as a rule avoided meeting people.
But he was so utterly exhausted that he forgot his usual caution this time, and he entered the lighted tram at Merton terminus, seating himself in one corner of it. He had lost his cap, and his matted hair, coupled with the ferocious expression of his huge face, and the strange garb he wore, was certainly calculated to make his personality one that few would forget.
The conductor eyed him curiously as he took the fare from the long, powerful fingers, but he did not make any remark.
The tramwayman, however, was to remember his strange passenger before very long.
At the end of the dark roadway Kalaz turned abruptly into a narrow lane that ran beside the high wall of the grounds of his master's house. He went on down the lane until he came to a small door set in the masonry. A key, attached to a cord around his thick throat, was produced, and the door opened.
Kalaz stepped into the grounds, closing the door behind him. He was now in the garden behind the house. It had once been used as a market-garden, but the beds were covered with weeds, and the paths were a riot of wild vines.
Trudging through the rustling stuff, the dwarf reached the house at last and let himself into the paved kitchen. He struck a match and lighted a candle. Finding his way to the larder, he pulled the top off a loaf, broke a wedge of cheese from a huge round that stood on one of the shelves, then, munching hungrily at the food, the stunted being left the kitchen and went in search of his master.
Krotol was not in the room beside the hall, but the lamp had been lighted, and the room was heavy with the smoke of Turkish tobacco.
The prince's cigarette-case lay on the table, and Kalaz grunted as he glanced at it.
"Master would not leave without that," he muttered to himself. "I will go and look for him."
He went out of the room, and halted beneath the wide staircase.
"Master! Master!" he called.
His deep voice boomed out through the lonely house; and then, as its echoes died away, he heard another voice reply:
"Kalaz?"
"It is I, master."
"You have succeeded?"
A moment's pause, then:
"No, master; I have failed."
A curse came down to the dwarf's ears.
"Come up, you fool!" came the harsh voice. "Come and let me know the extent of your folly."
Slowly Kalaz mounted the stairs, and presently found himself on the top landing—the floor on which Neta Torkoff's prison was situated.
Krotol, with a lamp above his head, and his slant eyes glimmering with rage, met him as he cleared the last step of the stairs.
"You have failed!" the Governor of Voslagni said, in a cold voice.
Kalaz bent his head.
"Ay, master, it is so."
The prince drew back his arm, swish.
Twice the knotted thongs of the heavy knout fell across the shoulders of the dwarf.
Kalaz neither moved nor spoke, but his shoulders were drawn a little closer together.
The broad-shouldered prince dropped his arm, and a curse broke from his lips.
"How came you to fail?" he broke out, cowed by the dumb attitude of his faithful slave. "You have never failed me before. What happened to you?"
Kalaz raised his heavy head, and stared into the pallid, bearded features of his companion.
"You did not tell me that the man whom I went to kill had wits," he said grimly. "You said, master, that he was just a common sailor. But that is not so. He has the cunning of a fox, and I was not prepared for that."
Krotol laughed sneeringly.
"Then you have tried to kill the wrong man," he broke out; "for this Brearley is a fool—a hulking sailor, with a child's brain."
The dwarf doggedly stuck to his guns.
"You are mistaken in him, master," he said. "I found the Ikon, and found your man. Yes; and I would have killed him had he not played a trick upon me—a cunning trick."
Krotol turned on his heel, and began to stalk down the dark corridor. Reaching the door, he turned into it, and the light from the lamp revealed the fact that the room was used as a store-room, for a pile of trunks and portmanteaus was heaped in the centre of it. Waving his hand at one of the trunks, the prince seated himself on the pile, then turned towards his servant.
"Let me have the history of your failure," he said, as he placed the lamp on the floor; "and be quick. We have much in front of us to-night."
The dwarf swiftly gave an account of his adventures, and when he mentioned the appearance of Tinker and Pedro a sudden light flashed into the eyes of the prince.
"You say that he was little more than a youth who tried to prevent you from leaving the Ikon?" Krotol repeated.
"Was he slim and dark-haired, with two quick, shrewd eyes?"
Kalaz gave a brief description of Tinker, and the prince recognised the lad at once.
"Then I have not been mistaken," he broke out, his face clouding suddenly. "That lad is the assistant whom I saw at Blake's chambers. And I can see now whose hand it was that prepared that trap for you, Kalaz."
He leaned forward, and stared at his warped companion.
"Brearley is a sailor, and a fool," he hissed; "but behind him there is a man who is worthy of our steel. His name is Sexton Blake, and if he was on board the Ikon it means that he knows everything—knows that Neta Torkoff is here in London—knows that I lied to his assistant!"
With a bound he was on his feet, and his slant eyes were alight with something that was close to fear.
"We must get away from here at once," he breathed. "Every moment's delay may be dangerous."
Kalaz looked at his master.
"And what of the woman, master?" he asked.
Krotol smothered an oath.
"She is still obstinate," he grated. "I threatened her with the knout, but she defied it."
The dwarf's heavy lips lifted in an evil grin.
"She might not defy you after she had tasted of the knout," he murmured.
The prince shook his head, and strode towards the door.
"We have not time to do that now, Kalaz," he said. "I have made up my mind what has to be done. Here in England I am cramped, and at a disadvantage. I will take her back with me to Voslagni—and, by heavens, she will receive no mercy from me when I have her under my thumb out there!"
The dwarf arose, and shuffled after his tall master into the corridor.
"How shall we escape from England, master?" he asked.
Krotol halted, and turned to him.
"The car will carry us to Dover," he said, "and the Volaga awaits us there. When we get our prisoner on board we can start for the Black Sea at once."
The Volaga was Krotol's steam yacht, and it had lain at anchor in the harbour of Dover during the time that its master was carrying out his evil schemes in London.
"It is well," Kalaz grunted. "I am ready to help you, master."
"Go and prepare for the journey," said the prince. "Pack my clothes, and take the bags down to the car. See to it that the car is ready for the run, then come to me, I will have this vixen ready for you when you come."
Kalaz turned and went off down the stairs, while Krotol stalked along the corridor towards the room where Neta was confined.
As he turned the key in the lock and opened the door, the girl raised herself from the cot, and stared at him through the gloom.
Krotol lighted the lamp which stood on the broad mantelpiece, then turned, and fixed his sardonic eyes on the weary face of the beautiful prisoner.
"I am sorry to disturb you again," he said, "but I find it necessary to do so."
Neta did not speak, but she watched the cruel face closely.
Krotol looked around the room, and saw the little row of pegs on which the girl had hung her hat and cloak. Striding up to them, he took the articles from their supports, and came towards his prisoner.
The action was unmistakable, and Neta sprang to her feet.
"You—you are going to let me go?" she broke out, voicing the desire in her heart, even although the cruel face gave little promise of such sudden mercy.
Krotol laughed.
"Who knows?" he rasped. "Perhaps your luck has turned. Anyhow, I am going to take you away from here. You do not seem to have appreciated your quarters."
He glanced round the dismal room with a shrug of his broad shoulders. There was something incalculably evil in his mocking tone—something which struck a chill finger of terror into the heart of the girl.
"Here is your hat and cloak," he said. "You had better put them on."
Neta leaped back until she was pressed against the wall.
"I will not!" she screamed, "You have some vile design in your brain. I will not fall in with your plans."
The lowering face of the scoundrel loomed above her.
"You defy me?" he hissed. "You had better be careful. You will come with me now, and—"
He had thrust his heavy face towards her, and suddenly there came to the shrinking girl a great wave of courage.
She saw the evil eyes glaring into hers, and, clenching her tiny fists, she struck madly at the pallid face.
"You fiend!" she breathed, starting forward. "You heartless fiend!"
The slim, rounded arm was no weak one. Neta Torkoff had always loved healthy exercise, and the tiny fist was capable of dealing no light blow.
As it landed full on the sneering mask, it sent the huge Russian, burly rogue though he was, reeling backward.
A torrent of curses broke from his lips, and, recovering his balance, Prince Krotol lunged forward with his hands outstretched to grip his plucky victim. But Neta was strung up to the highest pitch now, and, with a quick movement, she slid beneath the groping fingers, darted beneath the outstretched arm, and fled across the room towards the mantel-piece.
As Krotol, snarling like a wild beast, turned to follow her, the panting girl snatched the lamp up and held it above her head.
"Back!" she cried, her young voice ringing out clearly.
"Back, or I swear I will kill you!"
She made a movement as though to throw the deadly lamp at the enraged prince, and Krotol, halting dead in his tracks, gave vent to a hoarse shout of fear.
"For Heaven's sake be careful!" he roared, not daring to move a pace. "You will set fire to the place!"
Neta Torkoff laughed aloud.
"I don't care if I do!" she returned, her eyes blazing with dauntless courage. "I would rather die than remain in the power of a cur such as you! If you make a single movement, I will throw this lamp at you, and your fate will be on your own head!"
Rigid and tense she stood, defying the foiled ruffian.
Krotol, almost beside himself with rage and fear now, glared at her in baffled despair, he saw that the frail girl was at least his match in courage if not in strength. The white, beautiful face was full of a firm resolve, and he realised that a single movement in her direction would bring the deadly missile down on him.
"Are you mad?" he broke out hoarsely. "Put down that lamp. I—I swear that I do not mean to harm you. I—I was going to set you free!"
The lie came haltingly from his lips, and Neta Torkoff laughed.
"The oath of a Russian," she said tauntingly—"taken to-day, and forgotten tomorrow. Oh, no, Prince Krotol, you cannot trick me now!"
With a quick movement she began to back towards the doorway, the lamp still poised ready in her slender hands.
"If you meant to let me go free," she went on tauntingly, "I will test you by going now."
Step by step she went backwards, watching the posed, impotent blackguard in front of her.
Neta was now close to the door, which was standing open, and suddenly the prince saw a dark shadow move across the corridor. Into his heart a fierce throb of delight leaped, and he watched the doorway carefully.
The girl dared not remove her eyes from the face of her gaoler, and so the grim retreat went on. At last Neta found the open door by her elbow, and she paused for a moment.
"You will—" she began.
Before she could say another word, she saw a quick gleam leap into Krotol's eyes, and he leaped forward.
"Now, Kalaz!" his hoarse voice yelled.
With a cry of despair, Neta threw the lamp forward, but her moment's delay was fatal. The long, sure arm of the dwarf shot past her, and gripped at the lamp as it swung from her slender fingers.
With a chuckle of joy, Kalaz darted past her into the room, bearing the lamp in his hand. Then Krotol, echoing his servant's shouts, flung himself at the girl in the doorway.
Beneath his powerful hands Neta dropped on her knees, crushed down by the brute strength of her attacker.
"A very good attempt, my lady," hissed Krotol, his fingers tightening around the slender throat; "a very good attempt indeed! And now, by heavens, I will see to it that you never have another opportunity of that kind."
His evil face was murderous as it glared down into Neta's white one. One piercing shriek broke from the girl's lips as she sank to the floor—a shriek that echoed and re-echoed in the stillness of the house until it died away in a long, thin wail.
"Quick master," Kalaz breathed; "silence her. Someone may hear, and—"
A curious sound came to Krotol. A sound that made him jerk his head back and listen.
"What was that?" he breathed, turning his red-rimmed eyes towards his servant.
Kalaz was close to the barred window now, and he laid his great head against the dirty panes.
There was a moment's silence, then through the quiet night there came to the ears of the two ruffians a keen, full-throated cry.
The bay of a bloodhound.
The stunted form of the dwarf leaped away from the window, and Kalaz lunged forward to where his master knelt.
"The hound, master," he broke out, his fingers plucking at Krotol's sleeve; "the hound that leaped at me as I fled from the Ikon. It gave tongue then, and I recognise its call."
In a sudden and nerveless terror the two miscreants stared at each other, incapable of movement or speech.
And once again through the quiet night there came that low, booming note—the note of a hound on the scent.
It was nearer this time, and with a groan of despair Krotol leaped forward.
"They are close to the grounds," he broke out. "We have not a moment to spare, Quick, Kalaz, take her down to the car, and I will follow."
The dwarf swung the unconscious girl up on his great shoulder, and darted out of the room, bearing Neta as though she was a babe in his powerful arms.
The Governor of Voslagni darted towards the lamp, and with a quick movement extinguished the flame. Then, feeling his way blindly, he ran down the long corridor, and went leaping down the broad staircase.
The sweat was pouring from his heavy features, and his breath was coming in quick, thick sobs.
As he reached the wide hall he lifted his heavy cloak from the stand; then, with one last look around him, darted for the front door.
The quick pad, pad, pad of soft paws came to him, and he turned his head.
Trotting towards him with his great red tongue hanging from its loose muzzle, and its wide, brown eyes fixed on him, came a great brown bloodhound.
Pedro had found the trail.
The Capture of Kalaz.
"CONSTABLE on duty Merton terminus reports noticing individual who answers to your description, Mr. Blake," came the message over the telephone.
"The man took the tram that runs to Croydon."
That was the final reply which Blake received, and he instantly acted upon it. A taxi took him and Brearley and Tinker and Pedro across London, and deposited them at the terminus of the trams.
Luck was with them then, for it chanced to be the very tram that had taken Kalaz to the side road which was at the terminus when they arrived.
The conductor at once remembered the strange passenger, and Brearley's bronzed face showed its grim delight as they boarded the tram and started off for the common.
The conductor duly stopped the tram at the cross-road, and when the car moved off Blake took the sheepskin cap in his hand and held it out to Pedro.
"Seek, old boy!" he said.
At the word the hound nuzzled the cap for a moment; then, as a silence fell on the three men, Pedro began his search.
He was freed from the leash, and presently from the dark road he sent up that half-sniffing whimper which tells that the trail has been found.
"Good boy!" Brearley murmured. "Best dog in the world! Good old Pedro!"
Quickly the three men began to follow the dog, who was now moving at a rapid jog-trot down the road. The scent was hot, for it was hardly an hour previous that Kalaz had passed down the road.
"Keep as close to him as you can," Sexton Blake murmured, as he hurried along. "He is rather apt to crack the pace on when he gets close to his quarry."
Pedro faltered a moment at the place where Kalaz had turned sharply to his left to follow the wall, but a moment's search set the hound off again, and presently they heard his deep bay sound.
It was that bay which had first come to the ears of the scoundrels in the room with the barred windows. Sprinting forward, Blake found the great dog standing on its hind legs against the narrow door in the wall.
Brearley came up to his side, and tried the door with his shoulder.
"It's locked," he said, stepping back a pace and eyeing the dark wall. "I suppose Pedro hasn't made a mistake? It looks as though this place was deserted. No, look! There is a light!"
It was the faint glow of the lamp in the dwarf's hand that caught the sailor's quick eye. There was a jangling sound, and Blake produced a bunch of skeleton-keys.
Tinker nudged the sailor on the arm.
"There never was a lock made that could baffle the guv'nor," he murmured softly.
The click of the bolt as it shot back indicated that his statement was correct.
Blake pushed the door inward, and there was a sudden scuffle.
"Pedro, come here!" the great detective cried, making a snatch at the hound.
But the great bloodhound was in a mutinous mood that evening. He evaded the extended hand of his master, and leaping through the doorway vanished from their sight.
They heard his leaping body rustle as it lashed through the overgrown weeds, and Blake, with a slight exclamation of annoyance, stepped into the doorway.
"I'm afraid that Pedro will give us away," he said. "It was our fault, however. We ought to have slipped the leash on him again."
They hurried into the grounds, and began to move forward slowly, heading towards the dark bulk of the house which cast a great outline ahead of them.
They had almost reached the back entrance of the building when suddenly there came to their ears the rapid, jarring note of a motor-engine.
"This way, Blake!" Brearley yelled, turning sharp to his right, and darting off along the side of the house.
"Hark! That's Pedro!" Tinker cried, as a muffled bay came to them.
The note of the car had died down to that rumbling purr which indicates that the throttle has been closed and the car is ready to start. Putting out every ounce of his strength, the tall sailor fairly flew over the rough ground.
He rounded the corner of the house, and saw the hooded shape of the car looming in front of him.
Without pausing to think Brearley darted forward, shouting as he went.
"Stop! Stop!" he roared.
The car wheels scrunched as they bit into the gravel and with a quick sweep the vehicle turned. Brearley's tall form stood out clearly in the centre of the avenue, and the hunched dwarf at the wheel, recognising the sailor, sent the car full tilt at him.
It would have gone badly with Brearley if Blake had not come up at that moment. He saw the trick that the driver was about to play, and with a quick bound darted at the sailor with outstretched hands.
The sudden attack sent Brearley reeling half across the avenue, and he went down on the gravel with a thud that well-nigh knocked the breath out of his body. The car roared past him, sending a hail of sharp splinters into his face, and went on down the avenue at full speed.
Brearley struggled up to a sitting position, and as he did so a lithe shape bounded past him and went off on the trail of the car.
"Bravo, Pedro!" the sailor gasped, as he stood up. "Follow the beggars, my son!"
There was a thick pungent cloud of petrol smoke hanging above the avenue, and he began to plunge through it, coughing as he went. Presently he cleared the fumes, and found himself close to Blake, who was also running down the track between the trees.
"Not much good, I'm afraid," the detective broke out. "They—they've got the heels of us."
There was a sound of quick footfalls behind them, and Tinker came up with a rush.
"The—the dwarf is at the steering-wheel," the young assistant broke out. "I recognised him as he passed me."
They sprinted on down the avenue, and presently entered the final straight which led towards the gates.
A shout went up from Brearley, and he flung an arm forward.
"The gate!" he broke out suddenly. "Look! The car has stopped!"
There was a gas-lamp beyond the gate, and it gave sufficient light to enable them to see what was happening.
"Yes; there goes the dwarf," Tinker gasped. "He is going to open the gate."
The squat form of Kalaz dropped from the car, and darted forward to the gate. They saw the man struggle with the bolt, then the gate opened slowly outward.
Doubling his fists, the sailor began a desperate effort to reach the end of the drive. Blake also cracked on speed, and they tore along side by side.
Suddenly across the front of the gateway a black shape darted, and from Tinker's lips a yell of delight went up.
"Pedro, you brick!" he yelled. "Stick to him, my son!"
The hound went straight for the warped figure of the dwarf, and the pursuers saw man and dog go down in a heap beside the opened gate.
"Now we've got them," Brearley yelled, a note of delight in his voice.
But as the words left his lips he saw a movement from the car. A tall figure leaped out from beneath the hooded seats behind, slipped into the place behind the steering-wheel, and one jar of the lever as it was forced into first speed came to them.
"Oh, hang the luck!" the sailor roared, beside himself with anger.
The car shot forward, swung through the gateway, and turned into the road.
A mocking laugh came ringing back to them, and then the speedy vehicle, gathering up its pace, went snorting away down the roadway at full tilt.
By the time the running men reached the gate the note of the car had died away. Blake darted across to the struggling heap, and flung himself on them.
Pedro, with his great paws resting on the dwarf's body, was lying with all his weight on the man's stunted frame.
The heavy jowl and blood-shot eyes of the dog had frightened the Russian dwarf, to whom the bloodhound was a strange species, Kalaz had covered his face with his arms, and as Pedro moved away from his body, a smothered gasp of relief broke from the dwarf.
"Take the cursed brute away," he muttered, in Russian; "take it away, and I will struggle no more!"
Brearley knew the guttural tongue of the Slav, and he stalked towards the muttering figure.
"Where is thy master, thou dog?" he asked sternly.
Kalaz raised his begrimed face, and stared into the bronzed, stern features.
"My master has gone where thou wilt have a difficulty of finding him," he returned, with savage emphasis. "Ay, and he has taken thy sweetheart with him."
"You evil beast!" the sailor broke out, clenching his fists. "I will have the truth out of you; or know the reason why!"
The stunted creature shot a grim, challenging glance at the face of his enemy, then he raised his long arm and pointed down the road.
"My master has gone to Voslagni," he said; "and this is the first stage of his journey. If you can stop him now, you are wiser than I take you to be."
Brearley staggered back with a faint cry of despair.
"He has taken my poor darling back to Russia!" he broke out. "Then Heaven help her!"
Blake came forward slowly, and touched him on the arm.
"There is no need for despair yet," he said, in his quiet, cool tones. "Prince Krotol may be a powerful man in Russia, but he cannot kidnap a Britisher and get off scot-free."
Then he stepped up to the dwarf, and laid his hand on the broad shoulder.
"You are a good servant of an unworthy master," he said, glancing down at the broad, ugly face. "In the hour of need he left you. A poor reward for your services."
"I expect no other," came the response from the strange creature. "I am my master's slave."
Blake turned to Tinker.
"Go and try to get a conveyance, old chap," he said. "I'm afraid that we have nothing further to do here. Brearley and I will search the house, but I expect that it is hardly worth while."
Kalaz was placed between the two men, and Pedro followed at the dwarf's heels as they went back along the avenue towards the house.
The stunted being seemed to have made up his mind as to what was going to happen to him. He had all that deep fatalism which makes the Russian peasant such a good fighter.
His master had left him; and he was in the hands of his enemies, in a strange land.
He led Blake and Brearley through the house, grunting out his information to the sailor. The room which Neta had occupied held the mate of the Ikon in a moody dream for a moment.
"I wish I had known!" he muttered; his blue eyes glittering feverishly. "Poor little girl! I wonder if I will ever see her again?"
Sexton Blake glanced at him quietly.
"You will see her again, Brearley," he said. "I pledge my word on that. If I have to follow that blackguard into his own country and take your sweetheart away from him, I will bring her back to you!"
Brearley held out his hand.
"I trust to you, Blake," he said simply.
They had just completed the tour of the lonely building when the sound of wheels on the gravel heralded the return of Tinker. Blake had collected a few things which would serve to prove his story—namely, that the Governor of Voslagni had kidnapped and kept in custody a British woman.
And with that story to back him up, the famous detective was about to enlist the services of another Power—a Power that the world held in respect and envy.
The King's Navy would take a hand in the game, for Voslagni stood on the borders of the Black Sea, and a gunboat is the international type of policeman.
The detective outlined his scheme to Brearley, and the sailor's face lighted up with satisfaction.
"Thank Heaven that Neta Torkoff is British!" he breathed. "That fact alone can save her now."
"As it has saved many others," Blake ended, with a grave smile. "One never knows how fine a thing it is to be a Britisher until he has found himself beneath another country's laws."
The Navy Takes a Hand.
"YOUR proofs appear ample enough, Mr. Blake," the clean-shaven statesman said, as he glanced across his table at the detective; "but you realise, of course, that we have to move cautiously in these matters?"
Blake nodded his head.
"I have also heard that the Volaga—Prince Krotol's yacht—left Dover two days ago," he said, "and that means that if you do not help me, the girl will never be heard of again."
The man who held supreme command over the great Navy of Britain leaned his strong chin on his palm. He was young, was this Lord of the Admiralty—young and capable, with much of the fire of his old fighting days still in his body.
"Officially," he said, with a slow smile, "I ought to take this matter up in the usual routine manner. You know what that is, I suppose?"
"Yes," said Blake; "an exchange of useless letters between London and St. Petersburg—weeks lost in useless correspondence; and by the time we are able to get in touch with Krotol he will have accomplished his villainy, and can laugh at us."
The detective arose to his feet.
"I have been of service to you in the past," he said, his fine face very grave, "and I am always ready to help my country in any cause she may have. This time it is I who want help, and yet it is for the sake of a countrywoman. Neta Torkoff is just as British as you or I, despite her Russian name, and the Tsar has no authority over her, although his servants may persuade him into believing that he has.
"I have heard of Krotol," said the youthful-looking statesman, "and the accounts have been by no means flattering. Voslagni, as you are aware, is a small province on the borders of the Black Sea. It has been rumoured that oilfields have been discovered there—"
"The rumour is correct," said Blake quietly. "I have proved that Ivan Torkoff had a concession from the Government over a great tract of land in Voslagni. He was about to sell his concession to a syndicate for a large sum of money when he was murdered. I met a couple of the financiers interested in the syndicate, and they assure me that they have seen the 'ukase' in Torkoff's possession. It cannot be found now, and until it is found the syndicate cannot move."
The statesman listened intently.
"And you think that Krotol—" he began.
"I think that the Governor of Voslagni wants to get possession of that concession," Blake returned, "and Neta Torkoff is the only one who can tell him where the papers are hidden. In all probability her father communicated the hiding-place to her. She seems to be a clever little woman, for she acted as her father's business agent in St. Petersburg. This rascally prince hopes to force Neta into revealing the secret, and you know as well as I do how far a Russian will go in that business. He will not stop at torture."
His listener's face twitched for a moment.
"Poor girl!" he said, half to himself.
Blake leaned forward.
"There is yet time," he put in. "The Volaga is a swift yacht, and has two days' start; but a destroyer would pick her up long before she reached the Dardanelles."
The head of the Navy was silent for a moment.
"There are grave complications likely to result," he murmured.
"Not if the situation is carefully handled," Blake went on quietly. "No one need know a word about it. The destroyer could sail with sealed orders, and we could choose our time for boarding the Volaga."
"It is almost piracy, my dear Blake."
"And what is the action of that scoundrel?" the detective resumed.
"Two blacks do not make one white," the great man went on, evidently trying to reason against his secret wishes.
"Krotol will not dare to mention a word of the incident," Blake said. "If we manage to run down on his yacht, and make him give up the girl, he will accept his defeat without further comment; I am sure of that. He would gain nothing by revealing the story to his superiors at St. Petersburg. Indeed, he might get into serious trouble over it were it made public."
He glanced again at the intellectual face of his listener.
"Surely the life of an innocent girl is as great a treasure for the British Fleet to guard as any other!" he urged.
Down came the Lord of the Admiralty's fist on the table.
"By heavens, it is, Blake!" he cried. "I'll do it! I rely on your entire discretion—you must choose your time for holding up the Volaga very carefully. If you promise to do that, the destroyer will be at your disposal within twenty-four hours."
Blake's eyes blazed suddenly with a satisfaction that he made no attempt to conceal.
"There will be no witnesses to our act of piracy," he said grimly; "I give you my word on that."
The head of the Admiralty turned and consulted a number of printed sheets at his elbow. They were the stations of the Fleet in every part of the world. At last his finger settled on a line, and he looked up at Blake.
"The Chariot is at Plymouth just now," he said. "It is one of the latest types of sea-going destroyers. It is coaling there. Its speed is something like thirty knots."
Blake smiled.
"And the Volaga can only reel off twenty," he said grimly. "Yes, the Chariot will make an excellent policeman!"
His listener smiled at the quaint expression, then, drawing a pad of paper towards him, he began to scrawl a few notes in his large, round scrawl.
"How many passengers will there be?" he asked.
"Three," said Blake.
He could not leave Tinker out of this final scene—it would have broken the youngster's heart. And, of course, the mate of the Ikon would have to join them.
"When can you reach Plymouth?"
"I promise to be there by six o'clock this evening," said the detective.
"Very well. Report to Commander Kebbel when you arrive. I will have arranged everything by then."
Blake stepped forward, and held out his hand.
"I can hardly find words to express my thanks—" he began.
The clean-shaven face of the statesman widened into one of his bright, boyish smiles.
"Not another word, Blake," he said, grasping the outstretched palm; "for, strictly between ourselves, I'd give anything to be able to go with you!"
A confession which Blake knew was quite sincere.
When the detective left the Admiralty offices he headed at once for Baker Street. Brearley had gone down to the Ikon, but a long telegram was despatched to him which brought the broad-shouldered sailor hot-foot to the chambers.
When the Plymouth express steamed out of Paddington on its two hundred odd mile flight to the glorious South of Kingland, Blake, Tinker, and Brearley were among the passengers.
"What about that little ruffian, Kalaz?" the mate asked. "Is he still at Brixton?"
The detective nodded.
"Yes," he returned; "I arranged about a remand. He is charged with an assault upon you on board the Ikon."
"That is only the least of his misdeeds," said Brearley.
Blake smiled.
"Quite enough to justify the authorities in keeping him in custody," he said, "and that was all I wanted them to do. You see, I had to be careful that no word of this matter got into the papers. They would make a great noise about this if they got wind of it."
Brearley glanced out of the window at the landscapes scurrying past them.
"I can hardly believe it yet," he breathed—"going on board a first-class destroyer to follow that evil hound! By heavens, it seems incredible! I have always thought that the Government were too busy with red-tape to worry much about a humble subject."
"The Government is always ready to move—if they get a hint from the proper quarter," said Blake laconically.
Promptly at six o'clock the train halted at Millbay, and the three men alighted. They were travelling "light"—a small portmanteau each, containing a change of linen was all that Blake had allowed them.
They reached the world-famous port, and presently found themselves striding down a narrow plank gangway on board the Chariot.
A short, thick-set man, in the gold lace of his rank came forward as they halted on the deck.
"Commander Kebbel?" Blake asked.
The little officer bowed.
"I am pleased to meet you, Mr.—Mr.—er—Smith!" he said, with an intonation which made his listeners smile.
"Come, and I'll show you your quarters!"
He signalled to one of the crew, who promptly possessed himself of the visitors' baggage, then Kebbel led the way down to the cosy little mess.
"We'll have dinner," he said. "I understand that you are prepared to start at once?"
"As soon as you like, commander," said Blake.
The little officer rubbed his hands.
"We will slip out when it is dusk," he said. "Not a soul knows about our going yet, except the crew, and I've got 'em all on board, with a sentry on the gangway to see that they don't slip ashore again just to have a last word with some chattering girl. That's how half the secrets of manoeuvres are given away, you know."
They joined in his laugh at his joke, then another officer came into the mess, and was introduced to the visitors.
The table was spread for dinner, and presently the party sat down to the first meal together. There were about half a dozen officers at the table, and there was an air of keen excitement about them.
Sealed orders is always a startling command to receive, and the younger members of the commissioned ranks hung round Tinker to try and fathom the mystery.
But when it was needed, Tinker could be as close as the proverbial oyster—a fact which the youngsters soon discovered.
"I suppose you do know what's on?" one light-haired, lanky youth remarked when they found themselves in a quiet corner of the narrow deck together.
Tinker grinned.
"I have got a sort of hazy idea," he admitted, "but I'm afraid I can't tell you. All I can say is that, if things turn out all right, you're in for as decent a trip as you'll ever have—one with a bit of excitement at the end of it."
The middy drew a breath of keen delight.
"You—you mean a fight?"
The young assistant nodded his head.
"Something like that," he said.
"Thank goodness!" came the fervent reply.
At nine o'clock the sleek black hull of the Chariot glided away from its moorings, much to the astonishment of the guard on watch at the pier.
The little destroyer had to thread its way through the gunboats that lay like sleeping giants on the unruffled surface of the bay. Presently the wireless apparatus on the short mast of the destroyer began to spit and sputter with frantic energy.
Blake was standing beside Kebbel when the telegraphist came up to the officer.
"Message from the Balra, sir," he said, saluting.
"What is it, Howard?"
The telegraphist smiled.
"Captain Hamrish's compliments to Commander Kebbel, and what the deuce is he doing?" the man reported.
Kebbel grinned in the darkness.
"There's no reply, Howard," he said.
The man hesitated for a moment.
"There's half a dozen of 'em calling to us, sir," he said apologetically.
"Not the flagship?" the commander put in.
"Oh, no, sir!"
The admiral, of course, knew that the Chariot was sailing, but the news had to be kept from the rest of the fleet.
Kebbel was silent for a moment, then he turned to the telegraphist.
"Answer 'em all," he said, with a chuckle, "and tell them that Commander Kebbel is—is going to pick strawberries, and would they kindly arrange to have a good supply of cream when he returns with cargo."
The destroyer was trembling now to the thrust of her powerful turbines, and the sharp nose cut a five-feet furrow, in the dark waters. It began to snore away into the darkness of the Channel, and in his neat little cabin the telegraphist, grinning to himself, rattled the key of his sender.
"Going to pick strawberries—going to pick strawberries!"
And from behind them the fleet at anchor sent little fervent curses back on the spluttering wires.
But the Chariot did not mind that.
Its bows were headed for the long slant that would carry it across the Bay of Biscay, along the coast of Portugal, and round the great fortress that guards the entrance of the Mediterranean.
It was out for "business," and it knew that green-eyed jealousy hung like a cloud above its less-fortunate friends behind. So the wireless sparkled and jeered until the fleet gave up the job in despair, and settled down to wait for the return of the broad-shouldered little commander. They would have something to say to him then!
The Capture of the Volaga.
THE Volaga was steaming away from Constantinople, having safely negotiated the difficult passage of the Dardanelles—difficult because the war still blazed between Turkey and Italy, and the Dardanelles was a network of mines.
On the bridge, beside the black-bearded captain, Prince Krotol stood, with his hands on the rail and his eyes staring ahead of him.
"That is the end of our danger," he said. "We are in the Black Sea now, and within three days from home. You will not be sorry when you see the roofs of Voslagni, captain?"
The captain grunted.
"Humph! It has been a difficult voyage, your Excellency," he said. "Every gunboat was a menace, and coaling a torment. Yes, I shall be glad to drop anchor at Voslagni, and get rid of my passenger."
"She is safe enough now," said the prince, with a grim smile; "her English lover will not follow her here. There is a big reward awaiting you, captain, and you have earned it."
The face of the governor had become haggard and drawn through the constant anxiety of the voyage. Through the Mediterranean he had hourly expected that some man-of-war would come seething up and demand the return of the captive.
The capture of Kalaz had made him afraid. He knew that the dwarf was faithful, but be also knew and feared the keen brain of the great detective who had come so near to capturing him in the lonely house on Mitcham Common.
The thought of Sexton Blake had haunted him day and night like a grim, terrible shadow, and it was only now, when his yacht was churning her way through the waters of the sea that lapped the shores of his own country, that Krotol could find the fear dying away from him.
"She is still obdurate, our passenger?" the black-bearded captain said.
"As a mule, curse her!" the prince returned. "But I have not troubled to bring her to terms yet—that can wait until I get her into the palace on the cliffs."
A terrible smile crossed his lips, and his slant eyes gleamed with menace.
"I have often persuaded the most obstinate to speak—in the palace," he went on. "A hint of torture first, then torture itself. Oh, they soon find out that it is wiser to loosen their tongues."
The man by his side shrugged his shoulders.
"The jade has given your Excellency enough trouble," the captain returned. "She is of the determined kind."
"It is a great prize I am fighting for, captain," came the reply. "It will make me a rich man. I will go back to St. Petersburg, and live as a man ought to live."
Night found them thrashing their way through a lonely sea, and at midnight someone entered the captain's room and touched his arm.
"The light is behind us again, captain," the sailor reported, in a guttural tone.
The black-bearded man swung himself out of his bunk, with an oath on his lips.
"His Excellency," he said, "is he in his cabin?"
"Yes, captain," came the reply.
Hurriedly the huge captain dressed himself and swung up the narrow companionway on to the deck of the slender yacht.
On the horizon behind them glowed a white light—an unwavering, cold beam, just above the level of the sea.
It had first appeared there as the Volaga reached the Dardanelles, and after vanishing for three days, was now back again in its old position.
The black-bearded captain had not mentioned the nightly visitor to his employer, but it had sent a dim foreboding into the man's heart.
"It is a masked searchlight," he muttered, eyeing the little circle with troubled eyes. "What does it mean? Why should it hang there, never coming nearer, always disappearing in the dawn?"
He ran his short fingers through his beard, muttering to himself as he did so.
A voice came to him from the wheel.
"It is coming nearer, captain," the sailor whispered.
The light was growing larger, looming higher and higher above the dark skyline.
The captain went forward to the stern, and with his night-glasses stared across the dark waters at the light.
"A destroyer," he said aloud, as he began to pick out the lines of the lean, shapely hull, with its dark, squat funnels.
"Perhaps it is one of our own making for Odessa."
A sudden plan came into his head, and he hurried forward again.
A soft command to the three men who formed the night-watch saw them tear forward, and presently the lights on the bows and the mast of the Volaga vanished.
Then the captain deliberately thrust the spokes of the wheel round, and the slender yacht went off at a long slant from its original course.
The light was now hanging over the port side of the vessel, and the captain watched it with unwavering eyes.
If it remained there he would know that it was not following his charge; if it turned and wheeled slowly to its original quarter behind the stern—
A gasping breath broke from his lips as the deck of the yacht was bathed suddenly in a stream of white light.
The searchlight of the destroyer was directed full on the Volaga. The pursuers had noted the vanishing of the headlights on the yacht, and were now following its track with their own great light.
Doubt became certainty then, and with a muffled gasp the captain turned and darted across the deck.
Leaping down the companionway, he thundered on the door of the prince's cabin.
"Your Excellency—your Excellency!" he called, in his deep tones.
There was a stir within the cabin, and Krotol's heavy face appeared in the doorway.
"What is it?" he asked, in an anxious voice.
The captain flung his arm above his head.
"We are being followed by a gunboat!" he gasped, his black eyes wide with dismay. "See! There is the searchlight!"
He pointed over Krotol's shoulder at the porthole of the cabin.
The prince wheeled round, and saw the white glare on the sea beyond. Quick as a flash the prince darted back into his cabin, and hurriedly dressed himself. When he emerged on the deck he found the whole crew gathered in a whispering circle in the stern.
About a mile away from them, but coming up hand over fist, lay the sinister shape of a four-funnelled destroyer. The searchlight was now glaring like the eye of an avenging spirit, and the forced draught of the war-vessel's engines was sending showers of sparks up into the night sky.
Krotol staggered across the deck to where the captain was standing.
"Do you recognise her?" he asked.
The man shook his head.
"There is none like her in the Black Sea, Excellency," he muttered. "The Volaga is at full speed—and she can do her twenty-two knots. Yet this cursed boat is coming up to us as though we were at anchor."
"You—you think that she is—is English?"
There was a moment's silence, then:
"I fear she is, Excellency!'" came the grim reply.
Krotol stamped his foot with impotent rage.
"Is there nothing we can do?" he broke out, in desperation. "Think, man! I have promised you a great reward; I will double it if you bring me safely through this—"
The hoarse report of a gun shattered the silence, and far ahead of the white-painted yacht a column of water spouted out of the sea.
The world-old signal to stand-by.
The captain turned and raised his arm, but with an oath the prince caught at it.
"Not yet!" he broke out, his heavy face working convulsively. "Run for it! They—they have no right to stop us!"
The captain pointed to where the foam from the shell lay on the dark surface.
"They have the right of might, Excellency," he said, "but I will do as you desire."
He sent a signal down to the engine-room, and the hull of the Volaga began to tremble as the pace was cracked on.
A mad, breathless chase took place, and for twenty minutes it seemed to the Russian that his vessel was holding its own. Then suddenly he glanced again at the destroyer, and saw that it was now within a thousand yards from them. Nearer and nearer it drew until, at last, he could distinguish the dark figures of the crew at their stations, and the outlines of the officer on the bridge.
With a frantic curse he raised his clenched fists, and shook them at the speeding vessel.
"Curse you! Curse you!" he roared aloud, in baffled rage.
Suddenly the destroyer seemed to leap forward out of the water. The waves roared up until they smothered the hooded bows in a welter of flying spume. In five minutes the sleek war-vessel was running side by side with the Volaga, and the crews of the vessels stared at each other across the narrow space of sea which lay between them.
"Volaga, ahoy!" came a deep, manly voice.
The captain rushed to the side of the rail, and stared at the low-lying vessel, whose decks were only a foot or so above his own.
"What does this mean? This is an outrage!" he roared, in guttural English.
"We are coming on board," came the response, "and we are coming now!"
At the word the destroyer veered suddenly, and instantly the space between the two vessels vanished. They were moving at a tremendous pace, and it was only by a miracle of clever seamanship that they did not foul each other.
As the Chariot swung alongside the Volaga, there leaped from her decks a handful of men, with a rousing British cheer, as the old boarding parties might have given vent to in the fighting days.
At the same time there shot across the space stout ropes and strong steel hooks. They lodged on the rails of the Volaga, and held there. And so, linked now together, the two vessels went seething forward.
The boarders came rushing aft, led by a tall, lithe man in a suit of plain serge.
Krotol stared for a moment at the leader, then a cry of rage broke from his lips.
"Sexton Blake!" he broke out, staggering away from the rail.
The cry came to the ears of the detective, and he leaped at the tall scoundrel.
The prince thrust his hand into his breast, but before he could withdraw the hidden weapon Blake had closed with him.
One mighty pull saw the blackguard swung clear from the deck, then together the two men went down in a heap, fighting fiercely.
Instantly pandemonium broke loose on the quivering deck.
The gallant bluejackets accepted the fall of their leader as a signal for battle.
One great red-haired A.B. dashed at the black-bearded captain, and flung his mighty arms around him.
"Catch-as-catch-can, me jewel!" the tar yelled. "And the first man down stays down, begorra!"
Commander Kebbel had been wise when he had insisted that the boarding-party should attempt their task without arms.
The crew of the Volaga had little time to make up their minds what to do, for the tars were all over them like a swarm of little monkeys.
The captain of the Volaga had made a desperate effort to escape from the bear-like hug which the Irish sailor had cast about him, but the man was full of fight, and the black-bearded Russian went down on the dock with a thud that fairly shook the wits out of him.
"Boarders ahoy! Tumble down to the engine-room, and stop 'em!" came the deep voice of Kebbel from the bridge of the destroyer.
Two lads detached themselves reluctantly from the healthy fight that was raging on the narrow deck, and darted for the steel stairs that led down to the engine-room.
A few moments later the thudding of the Volaga's screw ceased, and, the Chariot slackening speed, the vessels drifted together for a few hundred yards, then lay still.
Meanwhile, Blake had mastered the powerful prince, and was now kneeling above him. A pair of handcuffs clinked for a moment, then, with a quick movement, Krotol found his hands linked together.
Blake arose to his feet, and allowed his breathless opponent to do likewise.
"You will pay dearly for this, curse you!" the Governor of Voslagni hissed. "And your country will pay for it, too. This is piracy on the high seas against a country that is at peace with you."
The great detective met the rage-filled eyes quietly.
"That is a point which you can decide about later, Prince Krotol," he said. "Meanwhile, you are my prisoner."
"You dare not arrest me!" the baffled man hissed. "What charge can you make against me?"
"I charge you with being implicated in the murder of Ivan Torkoff!" came the grave voice. "Ivan Torkoff, naturalised Englishman, remember."
"It is a lie!" screamed Krotol, tugging at his manacled wrists. "I defy you to prove that I had anything to do with it."
A sudden rush among the fighting crews carried the two men apart for a moment. With a quick swing Krotol turned, and, manacled though he was, darted down the deck. The mob of struggling men prevented Blake from following the infuriated ruffian for a moment, and when the detective did succeed in winning his way through the seething mass of human beings, he found that the scoundrel had vanished.
Someone came running towards him, gasping for breath, and Blake recognised the bronzed face of Brearley.
"I—I cannot find Neta," he said. "She is not in the cabins aft."
Blake caught him by the arm, and pointed towards the bows in the direction that Krotol had taken.
"Quick!" he breathed. "Krotol has gone down there! Come along! Follow me!"
They shot forward, and finding the companionway which led into the fo'c's'le head, rushed down it.
A shrill scream came to his ears, sending a thrill of fear through them.
"Neta! Neta!" Brearley called aloud, darting forward.
Suddenly he saw a wide space in the hull of the yacht, through which he could see the dark sea beneath. As he caught sight of it, a second scream rang out, and the mate of the Ikon saw a woman's figure go reeling out from the darkness, and fall through the gap into the sea.
With a shout of despair, Brearley fairly threw himself along the galleyway, and, without a moment's hesitation, went head-first out of the gap!
When Blake reached the spot he found the tall figure of Krotol leaning against the side of the yacht, and the grim chuckle which broke from the ruffian's lips hinted of what had happened.
"You cold-blooded brute!" Blake said, as he caught at the blackguard's arm. "You have added another murder to your list!"
Krotol turned towards him, and a snarling breath broke from his lips.
"I have taken care that you would not win so easily, you cursed spy!" he said.
The sound of hurrying feet came to them, and a couple of tars appeared.
Blake called to the man, and pointed at the prince.
"Take this man on board the Chariot!" he said sternly. "And see to it that he does not escape."
The bluejackets gripped at Krotol, then a cry of surprise broke from their lips, for Sexton Blake, darting across the valley, went out through the gap into the sea.
"Man overboard! Man overboard!" the tars bawled, as they tugged at the arms of their big captive.
The cry reached the deck of the now peaceful Volaga, for the tars had quickly cleared the decks of the scowling crew, and was taken up, and repeated over and over again.
"Man overboard!"
Krotol Accepts the Terms.
WHEN Brearley came up, gasping, to the surface he found that the two vessels, linked together as they were, had passed away from him. He could see the great white light of the Chariot glaring from its stubby mast, and, guided by it, he began to swim away from it slowly, searching the surface of the sea as he went.
The big sailor was almost beside himself with fear. He had heard the last despairing scream that his sweetheart had given as the dastardly prince pushed her to her fate, and it rang in his ears like the voice of doom.
"Neta, my darling!" he called, straining his eyes to pierce the curtain of darkness that hung above him.
The sailor was a splendid swimmer, and he moved at a good pace through the warm sea. But it was the darkness that made him afraid. He might pass his beloved without knowing that he did so.
Again and again he called aloud, his voice hoarse with dread.
Suddenly from his right it seemed to him as though an answer came.
With a quick swirl Brearley was round and plunging through the water with great sweeps of his strong arms.
"Where are you—where are you?" he cried.
A throb of joy struck through his heart as he heard the faint response.
A little choked cry.
Something soft touched his hand, and he tried to grasp at it, but it slipped through his fingers, and went down into the heart of a wave. Drawing a deep breath, Brearley dived, thrusting his body deeper and deeper into the rustling waters with powerful kicks of his strong limbs.
Again he felt the touch of floating hair against his fingers, and this time he caught the thick tresses. His arm went round the shoulders of the drowning girl, and he turned sharply, and went beating his way back to the surface, with his sweetheart clasped close to him.
"Thank Heaven! Thank Heaven!" the man breathed, as he felt the cool night air on his wet cheeks. "I do not care now that I have found you. If we are to die we will die together, beloved!"
Neta rested so limply on his arm that, for a moment, Brearley thought that life had gone from her slender frame. But presently he heard a soft fluttering sigh, and a small hand touched his face in the darkness.
"Jack!" the girl whispered. "Oh, my darling, it is you!"
Brearley leaned forward, and pressed his face against hers.
"Yes," he said quietly; "I have found you at last, and we will never be parted again!"
Again a soft sigh came to him.
"I—I am so happy now I am with you, my beloved!"
A silence fell on them then. Brearley was swimming strongly with slow, steady sweeps of his arm. He found that the girl was a very light burden to support, and hope began to rise in his heart again.
He looked around him anxiously, trying to discover the position of the Chariot and its unwilling companion.
The white light of the searchlight was no longer visible.
"What is it, Jack?" Neta asked, as she heard the low groan which came from her lover's lips at the dread discovery.
"Nothing, dear," he returned, "We will have to call out. They must be searching for us. Call, dear!"
"Help! Help!"
Across the quiet sea their united voices went up, and quite close to them there came an answer.
Brearley turned in the direction of the sound, and there came sliding down to him over the ruffled top of a long wave the head of a man.
"Have you found her?" came a well-known voice.
"Blake!" Brearley gasped. "You!"
The detective swam towards him, and their hands met in a quick pressure.
"Why not?" Blake said. "I couldn't let you go alone, could I?"
"But you—you have sacrificed your life!" Brearley began, struck to the heart by the unselfish devotion of this man who, after all, was practically a stranger to him.
Blake swam to the side of Neta Torkoff, and lent his aid in supporting her.
"I'm not so sure about that," he said, in his easy voice.
"I heard the cry of 'Man overboard!' go up as I went in, and I think we can trust to Kebbel."
He raised his hand above his head, and a faint click sounded.
Between his fingers a tiny white bulb glowed.
It was the electric torch that he always carried, and tiny though the light was, it shone clearly above the surface of the sea.
A hail came rattling out of the darkness towards them—a hail which Brearley's deep voice returned.
The swift sweep of oars sounded, and, pulling for all they were worth, the boat's crew drove their craft towards the faint beam.
The round nose of the boat came down a wave, and Brearley caught at the side of it.
"Steady all!" came the quiet command, and the thin young lieutenant, standing in the stern, gave a few quick orders.
Neta was lifted out of the water, then Brearley, with a quick heave, pulled himself into the boat, followed by Blake.
"That torch saved you, sir," the young lieutenant said, as he made room for the detective by his side. "We had taken a wrong course, and were yards out when it suddenly appeared."
Blake returned the long tube into his dripping pocket.
"And the Chariot," he asked—"what has happened there?"
The youngster grinned.
"Our battle is over, sir," he said; "and I suppose we've got to pay for it now."
Blake nodded his head.
"Someone has to pay for it," he said quietly, "but I don't think that it will be our side."
The boat was turned, and began its swift journey back to the destroyer. When it reached the dark side and headed for the little gangway, the face of Commander Kebbel appeared beneath the light above the gangway.
"All right, sir," the young lieutenant reported. "Found them all!"
A ringing cheer went up from the sailors lining the side of the destroyer at his words, and as Kebbel stepped back a knot of willing tars flung themselves down the gangway to help the rescued trio from the beat.
Kebbel held out his hand to Blake as the detective stepped on to the deck.
"I don't know how it happened," the commander said grimly, "but I'm jolly glad to see you again. I was in a bit of a funk."
He stepped forward and bowed to Neta Torkoff. Blake had told the commander the whole story of the girl's adventure, and Kebbel's eyes were very friendly as they rested on the pale face.
"Welcome to the Chariot, Miss Torkoff!" he said. "You will find it a kindlier ship than the one you have just left."
Neta's brave lips quivered for a moment.
"I am never afraid when that flag is flying," she said, pointing to the ensign which hung above the stern pale face. "I know that I am safe now."
A cabin had been set apart for the girl, and a kindly steward assisted her to it. Blake and Brearley also retired to make a necessary change of clothing, and when the detective returned to the mess-room he found the whole of the officers of the destroyer waiting for him.
Blake seated himself beside the commander and a silence fell over the room.
"Well, Blake," Kebbel said at last, "we have done what we set out to do, and now we want to get safely out of it."
He smiled at the faces of his companions.
"In cold print," he went on, "our little action to-night is perilously near to an act of piracy—and that means war. I don't suppose you want to bring that about."
Blake's stern features relaxed a trifle.
"I think that some of you would be jolly pleased if it did result in that," he said, with a smile at the eager faces of the younger officers; "but I cannot oblige, I'm afraid. I came to the Black Sea to rescue an English girl from the hands of a despicable blackguard. With your aid I have accomplished that—and there the matter ends."
Kebbel pointed to the door.
"And what about Krotol?" he asked. "He's in chains, and raving like a madman."
Blake arose to his feet.
"Where is the rest of the Volaga's crew?" he asked, turning to the commander.
"Locked up in their own fo'c's'le," a young lieutenant reported, "and the captain is in his cabin. He seems to take it rather well—all he wants is another go at some red-haired lad of ours who cross-buttocked him a bit too severely."
A general laugh went round at this, in which the commander and Blake both joined.
"The captain will have to do without his revenge, I'm afraid," said the detective. "If you will release the crew and get clear from the Volaga, I will attend to Krotol."
"You mean to put him back on his yacht?" Kebbel said.
"Yes," said Blake; "and that is the last you will see or hear of him."
"That's a bargain," the destroyer-commander said.
There was a sentry on guard over the cabin where Krotol was confined, but Blake was allowed to enter.
He found the slant-eyed ruffian sitting on the edge of his bunk, with his arms folded across his broad chest.
Krotol glanced up as his visitor entered, and a vicious scowl slid across his face.
"I had hoped that you were drowned, you dog!" he breathed.
"I am sorry to disappoint you," came the cold reply. "It is only another disappointment—and you have suffered quite a few recently."
The Governor of Voslagni glared at the face of the man who had proved himself his master.
"What have you come to me for?" he asked.
Blake took a pace forward.
"I have come to tell you that you can go to Voslagni a free man," he said quietly—"that within ten minutes you can be on board your yacht and free to go where you choose under one condition."
"And that?"
"That you forget what happened to-night," the detective said slowly; "and also that you never return to England again."
"A curse on your England!" snarled the Russian, "I never want to see it again!"
"England can do very well without you, prince," said the detective.
Krotol arose to his feet.
"You—you have saved Neta Torkoff?" he said.
"We were all rescued," Blake returned.
He saw the face of the Russian fall at that announcement, and his quick brain realised what it meant. Prince Krotol would have reported the incident to his government, and there would have been an International question made of it—but there was always Neta Torkoff's story to consider.
Had she been drowned the only witness against the rascal would have vanished, and it could never have been proved that the girl had been actually kidnapped or carried away on board the Volaga.
But knowing that she was alive, the rascally governor realised that his vengeance might recoil on his own head.
"And if I keep silent on—on what has happened?" he said slowly, his slant eyes fixed on Blake's face.
"There will be nothing more said about it," said Blake. You must not think that this suggestion is mine. I can assure you that had I only myself to consider I would drag you back to England and have you placed on trial for the murder of an unoffending old man."
"I did not murder Ivan Torkoff!" Krotol broke out sharply. "He would have been alive now had he not aroused the anger of—of a servant of mine."
"Meaning Kalaz," said Blake slowly. "Well, I believe you. But you were responsible for the crime—you and your rapacious desires."
He stepped back a pace.
"However," he said, "the gentlemen who aided me to save Neta Torkoff and I must stick to my bargain. That is my offer to you—your silence for your freedom. Choose!"
The tall Russian took a pace forward and shrugged his shoulders.
"There is no choice in the matter," he said. "I will go on board the Volaga; and for my own sake I will keep my peace."
What the crew of the Chariot thought of the incident was difficult to say. But they watched the tall prince step into the boat and be carried to the white-painted yacht in silence.
Even when the Volaga, began to move forward again on her journey towards Voslagni leaving the little destroyer alone on the scene, the honest tars could do little else but stare and wonder.
The bows of the Chariot were turned homewards, and the special commission having successfully achieved its mission, became an incident of the past.
Blake and Brearley and Tinker, with Miss Torkoff were landed at Brindisi, where they entrained for the long train journey to London.
It was a joyous home-coming for them all, and Neta then revealed the secret; which she had guarded so carefully and well.
The precious plans were in a common brown hand-bag, locked away in a safe deposit, of which she and her father had each a key.
One item of news awaited the returned detective. It was from Brixton Prison, and it was to the effect that the little dwarf had died there, of what could only have been a broken heart.
"Poor little chap!" said Brearley, when he heard the news. "He must have been fond of that blackguard. Murderer though he was, there was some good in the stunted fellow—he was a loyal servant."
Neta and Jack were married quietly, and live now in a fine house at Golder's Green. The concession was bought for a sum large enough to keep them in comfort for the rest of their days, and so ends the great "Miss Torkoff Conspiracy," which threatened once to cause a great European war.
Don't forget that next week's story will be entitled, THE LAW OF THE SEA, introducing Sexton Blake, Tinker and Pedro.
It will be full of excitement from beginning to end. One of those yarns that seem to hold one's attention from the first word.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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