one keenly interested quarter. Diplomacy supplemented justice and the immediate history of Guido became that of a fox hunted from covert to covert with all the familiar earths stopped against him. From Pardubitz he passed on to Glatz, reached Breslau and went down the Oder to Stettin. Out of the liberality of his employer’s advances he had ample funds to keep going, and he dropped and rejoined his accomplices as the occasion ruled. A week’s harrying found him in Copenhagen, still with no time to spare, and he missed his purpose there. He crossed to Malmo by ferry, took the connecting night train to Stockholm and the same morning sailed down the Saltsjon, ostensibly bound for Obo, intending to cross to Revel and so get back to central Europe by the less frequented routes. But in this move again luck was against him and receiving warning just in time, and by the mysterious agency that had so far protected him, he contrived to be dropped from the steamer by boat among the islands of the crowded Archipelago, made his way to Helsingfors and within forty-eight hours was back again on the Frihavnen with pursuit for the moment blinked and a breathing-time to the good.
To appreciate the exact significance of these wanderings it is necessary to recall the conditions. Guido was not zigzagging a course about Europe in an aimless search for the picturesque, still less inspired by any love of the melodramatic. To him every step was vital, each tangent or rebound the necessary outcome of his much-badgered plans. In his pocket reposed the papers for which he had run grave risks. The price agreed upon for the service was sufficiently lavish to make the risks worth taking time after time; but in order to consummate the transaction it was necessary that the booty should be put into his employer’s hand. Half-way across Europe that employer was waiting with such patience as she could maintain, herself watched and shadowed at every step. The Countess X. was sufficiently exalted to be personally immune from the high-handed methods of her country’s secret service, but every approach to her was tapped. The problem was for Guido to earn a long enough respite to enable him to communicate his position to the Countess and for her to go or to reach him by a trusty hand. Then the whole fabric of intrigue could fall to pieces, but so far Guido had been kept successfully on the run and in the meanwhile time was pressing.
“They lost him after the Hutola,” Beedel reported, in explaining the circumstances to Max Carrados. “Three days later they found that he’d been back again in Copenhagen but by that time he’d flown. Now they’re without a trace except the inference of these ‘Orange peach blossom’ agonies in The Times. But the Countess has gone hurriedly to Paris; and Lafayard thinks it all points to London.”
“I suppose the Foreign Office is anxious to oblige just now?”
“I expect so, sir,” agreed Beedel, “but, of course, my instructions don’t come from that quarter. What appeals to us is that it would be a feather in our caps—they’re still a little sore up at the Yard about Hans the Piper.”
“Naturally,” assented Carrados. “Well, I’ll see what I can do if there is real occasion. Let me know anything, and, if you see your chance yourself, come round for a talk if you like on—to-day’s Wednesday?—I shall be in at any rate on Friday evening.”
Without being a precisian, the blind man was usually exact in such matters. There are those who hold that an engagement must be kept at all hazard: men who would miss a death-bed message in order to keep literal faith with a beggar. Carrados took lower, if more substantial, ground. “My word,” he sometimes had occasion to remark, “is subject to contingencies, like everything else about me. If I make a promise it is conditional on nothing which seems more important arising to counteract it. That, among men of sense, is understood.” And, as it happened, something did occur on this occasion.
He was summoned to the telephone just before dinner on Friday evening to receive a message personally. Greatorex, his secretary, had taken the call, but came in to say that the caller would give him nothing beyond his name—Brebner. The name was unknown to Carrados, but such incidents were not uncommon, and he proceeded to comply.
“Yes,” he responded; “I am Max Carrados speaking. What is it?”
“Oh, it is you, sir, is it? Mr Brickwill told me to get to you direct.”
“Well, you are all right. Brickwill? Are you the British Museum?”
“Yes. I am Brebner in the Chaldean Art Department. They are in a great stew here. We have just found out that someone has managed to get access to the Second Inner Greek Room and looted some of the cabinets there. It is all a mystery as yet.”
“What is missing?” asked Carrados.
“So far we can only definitely speak of about six trays of Greek coins—a hundred to a hundred and twenty, roughly.”
“Important?”
The line conveyed a caustic bark of tragic amusement.
“Why, yes, I should say so. The beggar seems to have known his business. All fine specimens of the best period. Syracuse—Messana—Croton— Amphipolis. Eumenes—Evainetos—Kimons. The chief quite wept.”
Carrados groaned. There was not a piece among them that he had not handled lovingly.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
“Mr Brickwill has been to Scotland Yard, and, on advice, we are not making it public as yet. We don’t want a hint of it to be dropped anywhere, if you don’t mind, sir.”
“That will be all right.”
“It was for that reason that I was to speak with you personally. We are notifying the chief dealers and likely collectors to whom the coins, or some of them, may be offered at once if it is thought that we haven’t found it out yet. Judging from the expertness displayed in the selection, we don’t think that there is any danger of the lot being sold to a pawnbroker or a metal-dealer, so that we are running very little real risk in not advertising the loss.”
“Yes; probably it is as well,” replied Carrados. “Is there anything that Mr Brickwill wishes me to do?”
“Only this, sir; if you are offered a suspicious lot of Greek coins, or hear of them, would you have a look—I mean ascertain whether they are likely to be ours, and if you think they are communicate with us and Scotland Yard at once.”
“Certainly,” replied the blind man. “Tell Mr Brickwill that he can rely on me if any indication comes my way. Convey my regrets to him and tell him that I feel the loss quite as a personal one…. I don’t think that you and I have met as yet, Mr Brebner?”
“No, sir,” said the voice diffidently, “but I have looked forward to the pleasure. Perhaps this unfortunate business will bring me an introduction.”
“You are very kind,” was Carrados’s acknowledgment of the compliment. “Any time … I was going to say that perhaps you don’t know my weakness, but I have spent many pleasant hours over your wonderful collection. That ensures the personal element. Good-bye.”
Carrados was really disturbed by the loss although his concern was tempered by the reflection that the coins would inevitably in the end find their way back to the Museum. That their restitution might involve ransom to the extent of several thousand pounds was the least poignant detail of the situation. The one harrowing thought was that the booty might, through stress or ignorance, find its way into the melting-pot. That dreadful contingency, remote but insistent, was enough to affect the appetite of the blind enthusiast.
He was expecting Inspector Beedel, who would be full of his own case, but he could not altogether
