_ Two years after the events just described, T. X. journeying up to
London from Bath was attracted by a paragraph in the Morning Post.
It told him briefly that Mr. Remington Kara, the influential
leader of the Greek Colony, had been the guest of honor at a
dinner of the Hellenic Society.
T. X. had only seen Kara for a brief space of time following that
tragic morning, when he had discovered not only that his best
friend had escaped from Dartmoor prison and disappeared, as it
were, from the world at a moment when his pardon had been signed,
but that that friend's wife had also vanished from the face of the
earth.
At the same time - it might, as even T. X. admitted, have been the
veriest coincidence that Kara had also cleared out of London to
reappear at the end of six months. Any question addressed to him,
concerning the whereabouts of the two unhappy people, was met with
a bland expression of ignorance as to their whereabouts.
John Lexman was somewhere in the world, hiding as he believed from
justice, and with him was his wife. T. X. had no doubt in his
mind as to this solution of the puzzle. He had caused to be
published the story of the pardon and the circumstances under
which that pardon had been secured, and he had, moreover, arranged
for an advertisement to be inserted in the principal papers of
every European country.
It was a moot question amongst the departmental lawyers as to
whether John Lexman was not guilty of a technical and punishable
offence for prison breaking, but this possibility did not keep T.
X. awake at nights. The circumstances of the escape had been
carefully examined. The warder responsible had been discharged
from the service, and had almost immediately purchased for himself
a beer house in Falmouth, for a sum which left no doubt in the
official mind that he had been the recipient of a heavy bribe.
Who had been the guiding spirit in that escape - Mrs. Lexman, or
Karat?
It was impossible to connect Kara with the event. The motor car
had been traced to Exeter, where it had been hired by a
"foreign-looking gentleman," but the chauffeur, whoever he was,
had made good his escape. An inspection of Kara's hangars at
Wembley showed that his two monoplanes had not been removed, and
T. X. failed entirely to trace the owner of the machine he had
seen flying over Dartmoor on the fatal morning.
T. X. was somewhat baffled and a little amused by the
disinclination of the authorities to believe that the escape had
been effected by this method at all. All the events of the trial
came back to him, as he watched the landscape spinning past.
He set down the newspaper with a little sigh, put his feet on the
cushions of the opposite seat and gave himself up to reverie.
Presently he returned to his journals and searched them idly for
something to interest him in the final stretch of journey between
Newbury and Paddington.
Presently he found it in a two column article with the uninspiring
title, "The Mineral Wealth of Tierra del Fuego." It was written
brightly with a style which was at once easy and informative. It
told of adventures in the marshes behind St. Sebastian Bay and
journeys up the Guarez Celman river, of nights spent in primeval
forests and ended in a geological survey, wherein the commercial
value of syenite, porphyry, trachite and dialite were severally
canvassed.
The article was signed "G. G." It is said of T. X. that his
greatest virtue was his curiosity. He had at the tip of his
fingers the names of all the big explorers and author-travellers,
and for some reason he could not place "G. G." to his
satisfaction, in fact he had an absurd desire to interpret the
initials into "George Grossmith." His inability to identify the
writer irritated him, and his first act on reaching his office was
to telephone to one of the literary editors of the Times whom he
knew.
"Not my department," was the chilly reply, "and besides we never
give away the names of our contributors. Speaking as a person
outside the office I should say that "G. G." was 'George
Gathercole' the explorer you know, the fellow who had an arm
chewed off by a lion or something."
"George Gathercole!" repeated T. X. "What an ass I am."
"Yes," said the voice at the other end the wire, and he had rung
off before T. X. could think of something suitable to say.
Having elucidated this little side-line of mystery, the matter
passed from the young Commissioner's mind. It happened that
morning that his work consisted of dealing with John Lexman's
estate.
With the disappearance of the couple he had taken over control of
their belongings. It had not embarrassed him to discover that he
was an executor under Lexman's will, for he had already acted as
trustee to the wife's small estate, and had been one of the
parties to the ante-nuptial contract which John Lexman had made
before his marriage.
The estate revenues had increased very considerably. All the
vanished author's books were selling as they had never sold
before, and the executor's work was made the heavier by the fact
that Grace Lexman had possessed an aunt who had most in
inconsiderately died, leaving a considerable fortune to her
"unhappy niece."
"I will keep the trusteeship another year," he told the solicitor
who came to consult him that morning. "At the end of that time I
shall go to the court for relief."
"Do you think they will ever turn up?" asked the solicitor, an
elderly and unimaginative man.
"Of course, they'll turn up!" said T. X. impatiently; "all the
heroes of Lexman's books turn up sooner or later. He will
discover himself to us at a suitable moment, and we shall be
properly thrilled."
That Lexman would return he was sure. It was a faith from which
he did not swerve.
He had as implicit a confidence that one day or other Kara, the
magnificent, would play into his hands.
There were some queer stories in circulation concerning the Greek,
but on the whole they were stories and rumours which were
difficult to separate from the malicious gossip which invariably
attaches itself to the rich and to the successful.
One of these was that Kara desired something more than an Albanian
chieftainship, which he undoubtedly enjoyed. There were whispers
of wider and higher ambitions. Though his father had been born a
Greek, he had indubitably descended in a direct line from one of
those old Mprets of Albania, who had exercised their brief
authority over that turbulent land.
The man's passion was for power. To this end he did not spare
himself. It was said that he utilized his vast wealth for this
reason, and none other, and that whatever might have been the
irregularities of his youth - and there were adduced concrete
instances - he was working toward an end with a singleness of
purpose, from which it was difficult to withhold admiration.
T. X. kept in his locked desk a little red book, steel bound and
triple locked, which he called his "Scandalaria." In this he
inscribed in his own irregular writing the titbits which might not
be published, and which often helped an investigator to light upon
the missing threads of a problem. In truth he scorned no source
of information, and was conscienceless in the compilation of this
somewhat chaotic record.
The affairs of John Lexman recalled Kara, and Kara's great
reception. Mansus would have made arrangements to secure a
verbatim report of the speeches which were made, and these would
be in his hands by the night. Mansus did not tell him that Kara
was financing some very influential people indeed, that a certain
Under-secretary of State with a great number of very influential
relations had been saved from bankruptcy by the timely advances
which Kara had made. This T. X. had obtained through sources
which might be hastily described as discreditable. Mansus knew of
the baccarat establishment in Albemarle Street, but he did not
know that the neurotic wife of a very great man indeed, no less
than the Minister of Justice, was a frequent visitor to that
establishment, and that she had lost in one night some 6,000
pounds. In these circumstances it was remarkable, thought T. X.,
that she should report to the police so small a matter as the
petty pilfering of servants. This, however, she had done and
whilst the lesser officers of Scotland Yard were interrogating
pawnbrokers, the men higher up were genuinely worried by the
lady's own lapses from grace.
It was all sordid but, unfortunately, conventional, because highly
placed people will always do underbred things, where money or
women are concerned, but it was necessary, for the proper conduct
of the department which T. X. directed, that, however sordid and
however conventional might' be the errors which the great ones of
the earth committed, they should be filed for reference.
The motto which T. X. went upon in life was, "You never know."
The Minister of Justice was a very important person, for he was a
personal friend of half the monarchs of Europe. A poor man, with
two or three thousand a year of his own, with no very definite
political views and uncommitted to the more violent policies of
either party, he succeeded in serving both, with profit to
himself, and without earning the obloquy of either. Though he did
not pursue the blatant policy of the Vicar of Bray, yet it is fact
which may be confirmed from the reader's own knowledge, that he
served in four different administrations, drawing the pay and
emoluments of his office from each, though the fundamental
policies of those four governments were distinct.
Lady Bartholomew, the wife of this adaptable Minister, had
recently departed for San Remo. The newspapers announced the fact
and spoke vaguely of a breakdown which prevented the lady from
fulfilling her social engagements.
T. X., ever a Doubting Thomas, could trace no visit of nerve
specialist, nor yet of the family practitioner, to the official
residence in Downing Street, and therefore he drew conclusions.
In his own "Who's Who" T. X. noted the hobbies of his victims
which, by the way, did not always coincide with the innocent
occupations set against their names in the more pretentious
volume. Their follies and their weaknesses found a place and were
recorded at a length (as it might seem to the uninformed observer)
beyond the limit which charity allowed.
Lady Mary Bartholomew's name appeared not once, but many times, in
the erratic records which T. X. kept. There was a plain
matter-of-fact and wholly unobjectionable statement that she was
born in 1874, that she was the seventh daughter of the Earl of
Balmorey, that she had one daughter who rejoiced in the somewhat
unpromising name of Belinda Mary, and such further information as
a man might get without going to a great deal of trouble.
T. X.,refreshing his memory from the little red book, wondered
what unexpected tragedy had sent Lady Bartholomew out of London in
the middle of the season. The information was that the lady was
fairly well off at this moment, and this fact made matters all the
more puzzling and almost induced him to believe that, after all,
the story was true, and a nervous breakdown really was the cause
of her sudden departure. He sent for Mansus.
"You saw Lady Bartholomew off at Charing Cross, I suppose?"
Mansus nodded.
"She went alone?"
"She took her maid, but otherwise she was alone. I thought she
looked ill."
"She has been looking ill for months past," said T. X., without
any visible expression of sympathy.
"Did she take Belinda Mary?"
Mansus was puzzled. "Belinda Mary?" he repeated slowly. "Oh, you
mean the daughter. No, she's at a school somewhere in France."
T. X. whistled a snatch of a popular song, closed the little red
book with a snap and replaced it in his desk.
"I wonder where on earth people dig up names like Belinda Mary?"
he mused. "Belinda Mary must be rather a weird little animal -
the Lord forgive me for speaking so about my betters! If heredity
counts for anything she ought to be something between a head
waiter and a pack of cards. Have you lost anything'?"
Mansus was searching his pockets.
"I made a few notes, some questions I wanted to ask you about and
Lady Bartholomew was the subject of one of them. I have had her
under observation for six months; do you want it kept up?"
T. X. thought awhile, then shook his head.
"I am only interested in Lady Bartholomew in so far as Kara is
interested in her. There is a criminal for you, my friend!" he
added, admiringly.
Mansus busily engaged in going through the bundles of letters,
slips of paper and little notebooks he had taken from his pocket,
sniffed audibly.
"Have you a cold?" asked T. X. politely.
"No, sir," was the reply, "only I haven't much opinion of Kara as
a criminal. Besides, what has he got to be a criminal about? He
has all that he requires in the money department, he's one of the
most popular people in London, and certainly one of the
best-looking men I've ever seen in my life. He needs nothing."
T. X. regarded him scornfully.
"You're a poor blind brute," he said, shaking his head; don't you
know that great criminals are never influenced by material
desires, or by the prospect of concrete gains? The man, who robs
his employer's till in order to give the girl of his heart the
25-pearl and ruby brooch her soul desires, gains nothing but the
glow of satisfaction which comes to the man who is thought well
of. The majority of crimes in the world are committed by people
for the same reason - they want to be thought well of. Here is
Doctor X. who murdered his wife because she was a drunkard and a
slut, and he dared not leave her for fear the neighbours would
have doubts as to his respectability. Here is another gentleman
who murders his wives in their baths in order that he should keep
up some sort of position and earn the respect of his friends and
his associates. Nothing roused him more quickly to a frenzy of
passion than the suggestion that he was not respectable. Here is
the great financier, who has embezzled a million and a quarter,
not because he needed money, but because people looked up to him.
Therefore, he must build great mansions, submarine pleasure courts
and must lay out huge estates - because he wished that he should
be thought well of.
Mansus sniffed again.
"What about the man who half murders his wife, does he do that to
be well thought of?" he asked, with a tinge of sarcasm.
T. X. looked at him pityingly.
"The low-brow who beats his wife, my poor Mansus," he said, "does
so because she doesn't think well of him. That is our ruling
passion, our national characteristic, the primary cause of most
crimes, big or little. That is why Kara is a bad criminal and
will, as I say, end his life very violently."
He took down his glossy silk hat from the peg and slipped into his
overcoat.
"I am going down to see my friend Kara," he said. "I have a
feeling that I should like to talk with him. He might tell me
something."
His acquaintance with Kara's menage had been mere hearsay. He had
interviewed the Greek once after his return, but since all his
efforts to secure information concerning the whereabouts of John
Lexman and his wife - the main reason for his visit been in vain,
he had not repeated his visit.
The house in Cadogan Square was a large one, occupying a corner
site. It was peculiarly English in appearance with its window
boxes, its discreet curtains, its polished brass and enamelled
doorway. It had been the town house of Lord Henry Gratham, that
eccentric connoisseur of wine and follower of witless pleasure.
It had been built by him "round a bottle of port," as his friends
said, meaning thereby that his first consideration had been the
cellarage of the house, and that when those cellars had been built
and provision made for the safe storage of his priceless wines,
the house had been built without the architect's being greatly
troubled by his lordship. The double cellars of Gratham House
had, in their time, been one of the sights of London. When
Henry Gratham lay under eight feet of Congo earth (he was killed
by an elephant whilst on a hunting trip) his executors had been
singularly fortunate in finding an immediate purchaser. Rumour
had it that Kara, who was no lover of wine, had bricked up the
cellars, and their very existence passed into domestic legendary.
The door was opened by a well-dressed and deferential man-servant
and T. X. was ushered into the hall. A fire burnt cheerily in a
bronze grate and T. X. had a glimpse of a big oil painting of Kara
above the marble mantle-piece.
"Mr. Kara is very busy, sir," said the man.
"Just take in my card," said T. X. "I think he may care to see
me."
The man bowed, produced from some mysterious corner a silver
salver and glided upstairs in that manner which well-trained
servants have, a manner which seems to call for no bodily effort.
In a minute he returned.
"Will you come this way, sir," he said, and led the way up a broad
flight of stairs.
At the head of the stairs was a corridor which ran to the left and
to the right. From this there gave four rooms. One at the
extreme end of the passage on the right, one on the left, and two
at fairly regular intervals in the centre.
When the man's hand was on one of the doors, T. X. asked quietly,
"I think I have seen you before somewhere, my friend."
The man smiled.
"It is very possible, sir. I was a waiter at the Constitutional
for some time."
T. X. nodded.
"That is where it must have been," he said.
The man opened the door and announced the visitor.
T. X. found himself in a large room, very handsomely furnished,
but just lacking that sense of cosiness and comfort which is the
feature of the Englishman's home.
Kara rose from behind a big writing table, and came with a smile
and a quick step to greet the visitor.
"This is a most unexpected pleasure," he said, and shook hands
warmly.
T. X. had not seen him for a year and found very little change in
this strange young man. He could not be more confident than he
had been, nor bear himself with a more graceful carriage.
Whatever social success he had achieved, it had not spoiled him,
for his manner was as genial and easy as ever.
"I think that will do, Miss Holland," he said, turning to the girl
who, with notebook in hand, stood by the desk.
"Evidently," thought T. X.,"our Hellenic friend has a pretty taste
in secretaries."
In that one glance he took her all in - from the bronze-brown of
her hair to her neat foot.
T. X. was not readily attracted by members of the opposite sex.
He was self-confessed a predestined bachelor, finding life and its
incidence too absorbing to give his whole mind to the serious
problem of marriage, or to contract responsibilities and interests
which might divert his attention from what he believed was the
greater game. Yet he must be a man of stone to resist the
freshness, the beauty and the youth of this straight, slender
girl; the pink-and-whiteness of her, the aliveness and buoyancy
and the thrilling sense of vitality she carried in her very
presence.
"What is the weirdest name you have ever heard?" asked Kara
laughingly. "I ask you, because Miss Holland and I have been
discussing a begging letter addressed to us by a Maggie Goomer."
The girl smiled slightly and in that smile was paradise, thought
T. X.
"The weirdest name?" he repeated, "why I think the worst I have
heard for a long time is Belinda Mary."
"That has a familiar ring," said Kara.
T. X. was looking at the girl.
She was staring at him with a certain languid insolence which made
him curl up inside. Then with a glance at her employer she swept
from the room.
"I ought to have introduced you," said Kara. "That was my
secretary, Miss Holland. Rather a pretty girl, isn't she?"
"Very," said T. X.,recovering his breath.
"I like pretty things around me," said Kara, and somehow the
complacency of the remark annoyed the detective more than anything
that Kara had ever said to him.
The Greek went to the mantlepiece, and taking down a silver
cigarette box, opened and offered it to his visitor. Kara was
wearing a grey lounge suit; and although grey is a very trying
colour for a foreigner to wear, this suit fitted his splendid
figure and gave him just that bulk which he needed.
"You are a most suspicious man, Mr. Meredith," he smiled.
"Suspicious! I?" asked the innocent T. X.
Kara nodded.
"I am sure you want to enquire into the character of all my
present staff. I am perfectly satisfied that you will never be at
rest until you learn the antecedents of my cook, my valet, my
secretary - "
T. X. held up his hand with a laugh.
"Spare me," he said. "It is one of my failings, I admit, but I
have never gone much farther into your domestic affairs than to
pry into the antecedents of your very interesting chauffeur."
A little cloud passed over Kara's face, but it was only momentary.
"Oh, Brown," he said, airily, with just a perceptible pause
between the two words.
"It used to be Smith," said T. X.,"but no matter. His name is
really Poropulos."
"Oh, Poropulos," said Kara gravely, "I dismissed him a long time
ago."
"Pensioned hire, too, I understand," said T. X.
The other looked at him awhile, then, "I am very good to my old
servants," he said slowly and, changing the subject; "to what good
fortune do I owe this visit?"
T. X. selected a cigarette before he replied.
"I thought you might be of some service to me," he said,
apparently giving his whole attention to the cigarette.
"Nothing would give me greater pleasure," said Kara, a little
eagerly. "I am afraid you have not been very keen on continuing
what I hoped would have ripened into a valuable friendship, more
valuable to me perhaps," he smiled, "than to you."
"I am a very shy man," said the shameless T. X., "difficult to a
fault, and rather apt to underrate my social attractions. I have
come to you now because you know everybody - by the way, how long
have you had your secretary!" he asked abruptly.
Kara looked up at the ceiling for inspiration.
"Four, no three months," he corrected, "a very efficient young
lady who came to me from one of the training establishments.
Somewhat uncommunicative, better educated than most girls in her
position - for example, she speaks and writes modern Greek fairly
well."
"A treasure!" suggested T. X.
"Unusually so," said Kara. "She lives in Marylebone Road, 86a is
the address. She has no friends, spends most of her evenings in
her room, is eminently respectable and a little chilling in her
attitude to her employer."
T. X. shot a swift glance at the other.
"Why do you tell me all this?" he asked.
"To save you the trouble of finding out," replied the other
coolly. "That insatiable curiosity which is one of the equipments
of your profession, would, I feel sure, induce you to conduct
investigations for your own satisfaction."
T. X. laughed.
"May I sit down?" he said.
The other wheeled an armchair across the room and T. X. sank into
it. He leant back and crossed his legs, and was, in a second, the
personification of ease.
"I think you are a very clever man, Monsieur Kara," he said.
The other looked down at him this time without amusement.
"Not so clever that I can discover the object of your visit," he
said pleasantly enough.
"It is very simply explained," said T. X. "You know everybody in
town. You know, amongst other people, Lady Bartholomew."
"I know the lady very well indeed," said Kara, readily, - too
readily in fact, for the rapidity with which answer had followed
question, suggested to T. X. that Kara had anticipated the reason
for the call.
"Have you any idea," asked T. X., speaking with deliberation, "as
to why Lady Bartholomew has gone out of town at this particular
moment?"
Kara laughed.
"What an extraordinary question to ask me - as though Lady
Bartholomew confided her plans to one who is little more than a
chance acquaintance!"
"And yet," said T. X., contemplating the burning end of his
cigarette, "you know her well enough to hold her promissory note."
"Promissory note?" asked the other.
His tone was one of involuntary surprise and T. X. swore softly to
himself for now he saw the faintest shade of relief in Kara's
face. The Commissioner realized that he had committed an error -
he had been far too definite.
"When I say promissory note," he went on easily, as though he had
noticed nothing, "I mean, of course, the securities which the
debtor invariably gives to one from whom he or she has borrowed
large sums of money."
Kara made no answer, but opening a drawer of his desk he took out
a key and brought it across to where T. X. was sitting.
"Here is the key of my safe," he said quietly. "You are at
liberty to go carefully through its contents and discover for
yourself any promissory note which I hold from Lady Bartholomew.
My dear fellow, you don't imagine I'm a moneylender, do you?" he
said in an injured tone.
"Nothing was further from my thoughts," said T. X., untruthfully.
But the other pressed the key upon him.
"I should be awfully glad if you would look for yourself," he said
earnestly. "I feel that in some way you associate Lady
Bartholomew's illness with some horrible act of usury on my part -
will you satisfy yourself and in doing so satisfy me?"
Now any ordinary man, and possibly any ordinary detective, would
have made the conventional answer. He would have protested that
he had no intention of doing anything of the sort; he would have
uttered, if he were a man in the position which T. X. occupied,
the conventional statement that he had no authority to search the
private papers, and that he would certainly not avail himself of
the other's kindness. But T. X. was not an ordinary person. He
took the key and balanced it lightly in the palm of his hand.
"Is this the key of the famous bedroom safe?" he said banteringly.
Kara was looking down at him with a quizzical smile. "It isn't
the safe you opened in my absence, on one memorable occasion, Mr.
Meredith," he said. "As you probably know, I have changed that
safe, but perhaps you don't feel equal to the task?"
"On the contrary," said T. X.,calmly, and rising from the chair,
"I am going to put your good faith to the test."
For answer Kara walked to the door and opened it.
"Let me show you the way," he said politely.
He passed along the corridor and entered the apartment at the end.
The room was a large one and lighted by one big square window
which was protected by steel bars. In the grate which was broad
and high a huge fire was burning and the temperature of the room
was unpleasantly close despite the coldness of the day.
"That is one of the eccentricities which you, as an Englishman,
will never excuse in me," said Kara.
Near the foot of the bed, let into, and flush with, the wall, was
a big green door of the safe.
"Here you are, Mr. Meredith," said Kara. "All the precious
secrets of Remington Kara are yours for the seeking."
"I am afraid I've had my trouble for nothing," said T. X., making
no attempt to use the key.
"That is an opinion which I share," said Kara, with a smile.
"Curiously enough," said T. X. "I mean just what you mean."
He handed the key to Kara.
"Won't you open it?" asked the Greek.
T. X. shook his head.
"The safe as far as I can see is a Magnus, the key which you have
been kind enough to give me is legibly inscribed upon the handle
'Chubb.' My experience as a police officer has taught me that
Chubb keys very rarely open Magnus safes."
Kara uttered an exclamation of annoyance.
"How stupid of me!" he said, "yet now I remember, I sent the key
to my bankers, before I went out of town - I only came back this
morning, you know. I will send for it at once."
"Pray don't trouble," murmured T. X. politely. He took from his
pocket a little flat leather case and opened it. It contained a
number of steel implements of curious shape which were held in
position by a leather loop along the centre of the case. From one
of these loops he extracted a handle, and deftly fitted something
that looked like a steel awl to the socket in the handle. Looking
in wonder, and with no little apprehension, Kara saw that the awl
was bent at the head.
"What are you going to do?" he asked, a little alarmed.
"I'll show you," said T. X. pleasantly.
Very gingerly he inserted the instrument in the small keyhole and
turned it cautiously first one way and then the other. There was
a sharp click followed by another. He turned the handle and the
door of the safe swung open.
"Simple, isn't it!" he asked politely.
In that second of time Kara's face had undergone a transformation.
The eyes which met T. X. Meredith's blazed with an almost insane
fury. With a quick stride Kara placed himself before the open
safe.
"I think this has gone far enough, Mr. Meredith," he said harshly.
"If you wish to search my safe you must get a warrant."
T. X. shrugged his shoulders, and carefully unscrewing the
instrument he had employed and replacing it in the case, he
returned it to his inside pocket.
"It was at your invitation, my dear Monsieur Kara," he said
suavely. "Of course I knew that you were putting a bluff up on me
with the key and that you had no more intention of letting me see
the inside of your safe than you had of telling me exactly what
happened to John Lexman."
The shot went home.
The face which was thrust into the Commissioner's was ridged and
veined with passion. The lips were turned back to show the big
white even teeth, the eyes were narrowed to slits, the jaw thrust
out, and almost every semblance of humanity had vanished from his
face.
"You - you - " he hissed, and his clawing hands moved suspiciously
backward.
"Put up your hands," said T. X. sharply, "and be damned quick
about it!"
In a flash the hands went up, for the revolver which T. X. held
was pressed uncomfortably against the third button of the Greek's
waistcoat.
"That's not the first time you've been asked to put up your hands,
I think," said T. X. pleasantly.
His own left hand slipped round to Kara's hip pocket. He found
something in the shape of a cylinder and drew it out from the
pocket. To his surprise it was not a revolver, not even a knife;
it looked like a small electric torch, though instead of a bulb
and a bull's-eye glass, there was a pepper-box perforation at one
end.
He handled it carefully and was about to press the small nickel
knob when a strangled cry of horror broke from Kara.
"For God's sake be careful!" he gasped. "You're pointing it at
me! Do not press that lever, I beg!"
"Will it explode!" asked T. X. curiously.
"No, no!"
T. X. pointed the thing downward to the carpet and pressed the
knob cautiously. As he did so there was a sharp hiss and the
floor was stained with the liquid which the instrument contained.
Just one gush of fluid and no more. T. X. looked down. The
bright carpet had already changed colour, and was smoking. The
room was filled with a pungent and disagreeable scent. T. X.
looked from the floor to the white-faced man.
"Vitriol, I believe," he said, shaking his head admiringly. "What
a dear little fellow you are!"
The man, big as he was, was on the point of collapse and mumbled
something about self-defence, and listened without a word, whilst
T. X.,labouring under an emotion which was perfectly pardonable,
described Kara, his ancestors and the possibilities of his future
estate.
Very slowly the Greek recovered his self-possession.
"I didn't intend using it on you, I swear I didn't," he pleaded.
"I'm surrounded by enemies, Meredith. I had to carry some means
of protection. It is because my enemies know I carry this that
they fight shy of me. I'll swear I had no intention of using it
on you. The idea is too preposterous. I am sorry I fooled you
about the safe."
"Don't let that worry you," said T. X. "I am afraid I did all the
fooling. No, I cannot let you have this back again," he said, as
the Greek put out his hand to take the infernal little instrument.
"I must take this back to Scotland Yard; it's quite a long time
since we had anything new in this shape. Compressed air, I
presume."
Kara nodded solemnly.
"Very ingenious indeed," said T. X. "If I had a brain like yours,"
he paused, "I should do something with it - with a gun," he added,
as he passed out of the room. _