The Golden Face: A Great 'Crook' Romance. Le Queux William

often out shooting over neighboring estates, for he was a good shot and highly popular in the neighborhood, while at Overstow itself there was some excellent sport to which now and then he would invite his local friends.

      Rayne possessed a marvelous personality. When at home he was the typical country gentleman, a good judge of a horse and in his “pink” a straight rider to hounds. None who met him would have ever dreamed that he was the shrewd, crafty cosmopolitan whose evil machinations and devilish ingenuity made themselves felt in all the capitals of Europe, and whose word was law to certain dangerous characters who would not hesitate to take human life if it were really necessary to evade arrest.

      His outstanding cleverness, however, was that he never revealed his own identity to those who actually carried out his devilish schemes. The circle of cosmopolitan malefactors who were his cat’s-paws only knew Monsieur and Madame Duperré – under other names – but of Rudolph Rayne’s very existence they were nearly all ignorant. Money was, I learnt, freely paid for various “jobs” by agents engaged by the man I had once known as Captain Deinhard, or else by certain receivers of stolen goods in London and on the Continent, who were forewarned that jewels, bonds or stolen bank-notes would reach them in secret, and that payment must be made and no questions asked.

      Late one evening Duperré returned unexpectedly in a hired car from Thirsk. We had finished dinner, and I chanced to be with Rayne in the library, yet longing to get to the old-fashioned drawing-room with its sweet odor of potpourri, where Lola was, I knew, sitting immersed in the latest novel.

      “Hallo, Vincent! Why, I thought you were still in Aix-les-Bains!” cried Rayne, much surprised, and yet a trifle excited, which was quite unusual for him.

      “There’s a nasty little hitch!” replied the other, still in his heavy traveling coat. Then, turning to me, he said: “Hargreave, old chap, will you leave for a moment or two? I want to speak to Rudolph.”

      “Of course,” I said. I was by that time used to those confidential conversations, and I walked along the corridor and joined Lola.

      “I’m very troubled, Mr. Hargreave,” the girl suddenly exclaimed in a low, timid voice after we had been chatting a short time. “I overheard father whispering something to Madame Duperré to-day.”

      “Whispering something!” I echoed. “What was that?”

      “Something about Mr. Martyn, that American gentleman he met in Edinburgh,” she replied. “Father was chuckling to himself, saying that he had taken good precautions to prevent him proving an alibi. Father seemed filled with the fiercest anger against him. I’m sure he’s an awfully nice man, though we hardly know him. What can it mean?”

      An alibi? I reflected. I replied that it was as mysterious to me as to her. Like herself I lived in a clouded atmosphere of rapidly changing circumstances, mysterious plots and unknown evil deeds – truly a world of fear and bewilderment.

      Some days later I had driven up to London in the Rolls with Duperré, leaving Rayne and Lola at home, Duperré’s wife being away somewhere on a visit. We took up our quarters at Rayne’s chambers, and next day idled about London together. Just before we went out to dinner Martyn called, and after taking a drink Duperré went out with him, remarking to me that he would be in soon after eleven. Hence I went to the theater, and on returning at midnight awaited him.

      I sat reading by the fire and dozed till just past two o’clock, when he returned dressed in unfamiliar clothes: a rough suit of tweeds in which he presented the appearance of a respectable artisan. His left hand was bound roughly with a colored handkerchief, and he appeared very exhausted. Before speaking he poured himself out a liqueur glass of neat brandy which he swallowed at a single gulp.

      “I’ve had a rather nasty accident, George,” he said. “I’ve cut my hand pretty badly. Only not a soul must know about it – you understand?”

      I nodded, and then at his request I assisted him to wash the wound and rebandage it.

      “What’s been the matter?” I asked with curiosity.

      “Nothing very much,” was his hard reply. “You’ll probably know all about it to-morrow. The papers will be full of it. But mind and keep your mouth shut very tightly.”

      And with that he drew from his pockets a pair of thin surgical rubber gloves, both of which were blood-stained, and hurriedly threw them into the fire.

      On the following evening about six o’clock I was alone in Rayne’s chambers when the evening newspaper was, as usual, pushed through the letter-box. I rose, and taking it up glanced casually at the front page, when I was confronted by a startling report.

      It appeared that just after midnight on the previous night the watchman on duty at the Chartered Bank of Liberia, in Lombard Street, had been murderously attacked by some unknown person who apparently battered his head with an iron bar, and left him unconscious and so seriously injured that he was now in Guy’s Hospital without hope of recovery. The bank robbers had apparently used a most up-to-date oxyacetylene plant for cutting steel, and from the strong-room in the basement – believed to be impregnable and which could only be opened by a time-clock, and, moreover, could be flooded at will – they had cut out the door as butter could be cut with a hot knife. From the safe they had abstracted negotiable bonds with English, French and Italian notes to the value of over eighty thousand pounds, with which the thieves had got clear away.

      The bank robbery was the greatest sensation of the moment. The thieves had cleverly effected an entrance by one of them having secreted himself in a safe in the bank when it had closed. In the morning at nine o’clock when the first clerk, a lady accountant, had arrived, she could get no entrance, so she waited till one of her male colleagues arrived. Then they called a constable, and after half an hour the sensational fact of the unconscious watchman and the rifled strong-room became revealed.

      The newspaper report concluded with the following sentences:

      “It is evident that one of the thieves cut his hand badly, for we understand that the detectives of the City police have found blood-stained finger-prints of four distinct fingers upon the door and in other parts of the strong-room. These, of course, have already been photographed, and in due course will be investigated by that department of Scotland Yard which deals with the finger-prints of known criminals.”

      With the knowledge of the injury to Duperré’s hand I felt confident that the great coup was due to him. And I was not mistaken.

      The bank thieves had got clear away, it was true, but they had left those tell-tale finger-prints behind! As everyone knows, the ridges and whorls upon the hands of no two men are alike, therefore it seemed clear that Scotland Yard, now aroused, would very quickly – owing to its marvelous classification of the finger-prints of every criminal who has passed through the hands of the police during the past quarter of a century – fix upon the person who had laid his hands upon the steel safe door.

      An hour after I had read the report in the paper, Duperré rang me up.

      “I’m going to Overstow by the nine-thirty from King’s Cross to-night,” he said. “If you can join me, do. The air is better in Yorkshire than in London, don’t you think so, old chap?”

      “Right-oh!” I replied. “I’ll travel up with you.”

      We met, and early next morning we were back at Overstow. Yet I managed to suppress any untoward curiosity.

      It was only when about a week later I read in the paper of the result of the discovery of Scotland Yard finger-print department and of a consequent arrest that I sat aghast.

      A notorious jewel-thief named Hersleton, alias Hugh Martyn, an American, had been arrested at a hotel at Brighton, and had been charged at Bow Street with the murderous attack upon the night watchman at the Chartered Bank of Liberia, his finger-prints, taken some years before, coinciding exactly with those left at the bank. He had violently protested his innocence, but had been committed for trial.

      At the Old Bailey six weeks later, the night watchman having fortunately recovered from his injuries, Hugh Martyn was brought before Mr. Justice Harland, and though very ably defended by his counsel, he was quite unable to account