The Law of the Four Just Men. Edgar Wallace

of their awful doom, The little victims play;'"

       quoted Stedland to himself. It was a favourite quotation of his, and he had used it on many appropriate occasions.

      He passed, a slip of paper across the counter, and the cashier looked at it and raised his eyebrows.

      "Why, this is almost your balance, Mr. Stedland," he said.

      Stedland nodded.

      "Yes, I am going abroad in a hurry," he said. "I shall not be back for two years, but I am leaving just enough to keep the account running."

      It was a boast of Molbury's that they never argued on such occasions as these.

      "Then you will want your box?" said the cashier politely.

      "If you please," said Mr. Noah Stedland. If the Bank passed into the hands of the Receiver, he had no wish for prying strangers to be unlocking and examining the contents of the tin box he had deposited with the Bank, and to the contents of which he made additions from time to time.

      Ten minutes later, with close on a hundred thousand pounds in his pockets, a tin box in one hand, the other resting on his hip pocket—for he took no chances—Mr. Stedland went out again on the street and into the waiting taxicab. The fog was cleared, and the sun was shining at Clapham when he arrived.

      He went straight up to his study, fastened the door and unlocked the little safe. Into this he pushed the small box and two thick bundles of notes, locking the safe door behind him. Then he rang for the faithful Jope, unfastening the door to admit him.

      "Have we another camp bed in the house?" he asked.

      "Yes, sir," said Jope.

      "Well, bring it up here. I am going to sleep in my study tonight."

      "Anything wrong, sir?"

      "Don't ask jackass questions. Do as you're told!"

      To-morrow, he thought, he would seek out a safer repository for his treasures. He spent that evening in his study and lay down to rest, but not to sleep, with a revolver on a chair by the side of his camp bed. Mr. Stedland was a cautious man. Despite his intention to dispense with sleep for one night, he was dozing when a sound in the street outside roused him.

      It was a familiar sound—the clang of fire bells—and apparently fire engines were in the street, for he heard the whine of motors and the sound of voices. He sniffed; there was a strong smell of burning, and looking up he saw a flicker of light reflected on the ceiling. He sprang out of bed to discover the cause. It was immediately discernible, for the fuse factory was burning merrily, and he caught a glimpse of firemen at work and a momentary vision of a hose in action. Mr. Stedland permitted himself to smile. That fire would be worth money to him, and there was no danger to himself.

      And then he heard a sound in the hall below; a deep voice boomed an order, and he caught the chatter of Jope, and unlocked the door. The lights were burning in the hall and on the stairway. Looking over the banisters he saw the shivering Jope, with an overcoat over his pyjamas, expostulating with a helmeted fireman.

      "I can't help it," the latter was saying, "I've got to get a hose through one of these houses, and it might as well be yours."

      Mr. Stedland had no desire to have a hose through his house, and thought he knew an argument which might pass the inconvenience on to his neighbour.

      "Just come up here a moment," he said. "I want to speak to one of those firemen."

      The fireman came clumping up the stairs in his heavy boots, a fine figure of a man in his glittering brass.

      "Sorry," he said, "but I must get the hose——"

      "Wait a moment, my friend," said Mr. Stedland with a smile. "I think you will understand me after a while. There are plenty of houses in this road, and a tenner goes a long way, eh? Come in."

      He walked back into his room and the fireman followed and stood watching as he unlocked the safe. Then:

      "I didn't think it would be so easy," he said.

      Stedland swung round.

      "Put up your hands," said the fireman, "and don't make trouble, or you're going out, Noah. I'd just as soon kill you as talk to you."

      Then Noah Stedland saw that beneath the shade of the helmet the man's face was covered with a black mask.

      "Who—who are you?" he asked hoarsely.

      "I'm one of the Four Just Men—greatly reviled and prematurely mourned. Death is my favourite panacea for all ills … "

      *****

      At nine o'clock in the morning Mr. Noah Stedland still sat biting his nails, a cold uneaten breakfast spread on a table before him.

      To him came Mr. Jope wailing tidings of disaster, interrupted by Chief Inspector Holloway and a hefty subordinate who followed the servant into the room.

      "Coming for a little walk with me, Stedland?" asked the cheery inspector, and Stedland rose heavily.

      "What's the charge?" he asked heavily.

      "Blackmail," replied the officer. "We've got evidence enough to hang you—delivered by special messenger. You fixed that case against Storr too—naughty, naughty!"

      As Mr. Stedland put on his coat the inspector asked:

      "Who gave you away?"

      Mr. Stedland made no reply. Manfred's last words before he vanished into the foggy street had been emphatic.

      "If he wanted to kill you, the man called Curtis would have killed you this afternoon when we played on your cunning; we could have killed you as easily as we set fire to the factory. And if you talk to the police of the Four Just Men, we will kill you, even though you be in Pentonville with a regiment of soldiers round you."

      And somehow Mr. Stedland knew that his enemy spoke the truth. So he said nothing, neither there nor in the dock at the Old Bailey, and went to penal servitude without speaking.

      THE MAN WITH THE CANINE TEETH

       Table of Contents

       "Murder, my dear Manfred is the most accidental of crimes," said Leon Gonsalez, removing his big shell-rimmed glasses and looking across the breakfast-table with that whimsical earnestness which was ever a delight to the handsome genius who directed the operations of the Four Just Men.

      "Poiccart used to say that murder was a tangible expression of hysteria," he smiled, "but why this grisly breakfast-table topic?"

      Gonsalez put on his glasses again and returned, apparently, to his study of the morning newspaper. He did not wilfully ignore the question, but his mind, as George Manfred knew, was so completely occupied by his reflections that he neither heard the query nor, for the matter of that, was he reading the newspaper. Presently he spoke again.

      "Eighty per cent. of the men who are charged with murder are making their appearance in a criminal court for the first time," he said, "therefore, murderers as a class are not criminals—I speak, of course, for the Anglo-Saxon murderer. Latin and Teutonic criminal classes supply sixty per cent of the murderers in France, Italy and the Germanic States. They are fascinating people, George, fascinating!"

      His face lighted up with enthusiasm, and George Manfred surveyed him with amusement.

      "I have never been able to take so detached a view of those gentlemen," he said, "To me they are completely horrible—for is not murder the apotheosis of injustice?" he asked.

      "I suppose so," said Gonsalez vacantly.

      "What started this line of thought?" asked Manfred, rolling his serviette.

      "I met a true murderer type last night," answered the other calmly. "He asked me for a match and smiled when I gave it