The Just Men of Cordova. Edgar Wallace

have harmonized, there is harmony enough in great age. A bright fire was burning in the grate, for the night was bitterly cold. Fellowe stopped before the mantelpiece to examine two letters which stood awaiting him, replaced them from where he had taken them, and passed through the folding doors of the room into a tiny bedroom.

      He had an accommodating landlord. Property owners in Somers Town, and especially the owners of small cottages standing on fairly valuable ground, do not as a rule make such renovations as Fellowe required. The average landlord, for instance, would not have built the spacious bathroom which the cottage boasted, but then Fellowe’s landlord was no ordinary man.

      The young man bathed, changed himself into civilian clothing, made himself a cup of tea, and, slipping into a long overcoat which reached to his heels, left the house half an hour after he had entered.

      Frank Fellowe made his way West. He found a taxi-cab at King’s Cross and gave an address in Piccadilly. Before he had reached that historic thoroughfare he tapped at the window-glass and ordered the cabman to drop him.

      At eleven o’clock that night Sergeant Gurden, relieved from his duty, left the station-house. Though outwardly taciturn and calm, he was boiling internally with wrath.

      His antipathy to Fellowe was a natural one, but it had become intensified during the past few weeks by the attitude which the young man had taken up towards the sergeant’s protégé.

      Gurden was as much of a mystery to the men in his division as Fellowe, and even more so, because the secrecy which surrounded Gurden’s life had a more sinister import than the reservation of the younger man.

      Gurden was cursed with an ambition. He had hoped at the outset of his career to have secured distinction in the force, but a lack of education, coupled with an address which was apt to be uncouth and brusque, had militated against his enthusiasm.

      He had recognized the limitations placed upon his powers by the authorities over him. He had long since come to realize that hope of promotion, first to an inspectorship, and eventually to that bright star which lures every policeman onward, and which is equivalent to the baton popularly supposed to be in every soldier’s knapsack, a superintendentship, was not for him.

      Thwarted ambition had to find a new outlet, and he concentrated his attention upon acquiring money. It became a passion for him, an obsession. His parsimony, his meanness, and his insatiable greed were bywords throughout the Metropolitan police force.

      It had become a mania with him, this collecting of money, and his bitterest enmity was reserved for those who placed the slightest obstacle between the officer and the gratification of his ambitions.

      It must be said of Colonel Black that he had been most kind. Cupidity takes a lenient view of its benefactor’s morals, and though Sergeant Gurden was not the kind of man willingly to help the lawless, no person could say that an outside broker, undetected of fraud, was anything but a desirable member of society.

      Black had made an appointment with him. He was on his way now to keep it. The colonel lived in one of those one-time fashionable squares in Camden Town. He was obviously well off, ran a car of his own, and had furnished No. 60 Serrington Gardens, with something like lavish comfort.

      The sergeant had no time to change. There was no necessity, he told himself, for his relations with Black were of such a character that there was no need to stand on ceremony.

      The square was deserted at this time of night, and the sergeant made his way to the kitchen entrance in the basement and rang the bell. The door was opened almost instantly by a man-servant.

      “Is that you, sergeant?” said a voice from the darkness, as Gurden made his way upstairs to the unlighted hall above. Colonel Black turned on the light. He held out a long muscular hand in welcome to the police officer. “I am so glad you have come,” he said.

      The sergeant took the hand and shook it warmly. “I have come to apologize to you. Colonel Black,” he said. “I have severely reprimanded Police-Constable Fellowe.”

      Black waved his hand deprecatingly. “I do not wish to get any member of your admirable force into trouble,” he said, “but really this man’s prying into my business is inexcusable and humiliating.”

      The sergeant nodded. “I can well understand your annoyance, sir,” he said, “but you will understand that these young constables are always a little over-zealous, and when a man is that way he is inclined to overdo it a little.”

      He spoke almost pleadingly in his desire to remove any bad impression that might exist in Black’s mind as to his own part in Police-Constable Fellowe’s investigations.

      Black favoured him with a gracious bow.

      “Please do not think of it, I beg of you,” he said. “I am perfectly sure that the young constable did not intend willingly to hurt my amour-propre.” He led the way to a spacious dining-room situated at the back of the house. Whisky and cigars were on the table. “Help yourself, sergeant,” said Colonel Black. He pushed a big comfortable chair forward.

      With a murmured word of thanks, the sergeant sank into its luxurious depths. “I am due back at the station in half an hour,” he said, “if you will excuse me then.”

      Black nodded. “We shall be able to do our business in that time,” he said, “but before we go any further, let me thank you for what you have already done.”

      From the inside pocket of his coat he took a flat pocket-book, opened it and extracted two bank-notes. He laid them on the table at the sergeant’s elbow. The sergeant protested feebly, but his eyes twinkled at the sight of the crinkling paper. “I don’t think I have done anything to deserve this,” he muttered.

      Colonel Black smiled, and his big cigar tilted happily. “I pay well for little services, sergeant,” he said. “I have many enemies—men who will misrepresent my motives—and it is essential that I should be forewarned.”

      He strode up and down the apartment thoughtfully, his hands thrust into his trousers pockets.

      “It is a hard country, England,” he said, “for men who have had the misfortune to dabble in finance.”

      Sergeant Gurden murmured sympathetically.

      “In our business, sergeant,” the aggrieved colonel went on, “it frequently happens that disappointed people—people who have not made the profits which they anticipated—bring extraordinary accusations against those responsible for the conduct of those concerns in which their money is invested. I had a letter to-day”—he shrugged his shoulders—“accusing me—me!—of running a bucket-shop.”

      The sergeant nodded; he could well understand that aspect of speculation.

      “And one has friends,” Black went on, striding up and down the apartment, “one has people one wants to protect against similar annoyances—take my friend Dr. Essley—Essley, E double s ley,” he spelt the name carefully; “you have heard of him?”

      The sergeant had not heard of any such body, but was willing to admit that he had.

      “There is a man,” said the colonel, “a man absolutely at the head of his profession—I shouldn’t be surprised to learn that even he is no safer from the voice of slander.”

      The sergeant thought it very likely, and murmured to the effect.

      “There is always a possibility that malignity will attach itself to the famous,” the colonel continued, “and because I know that you would be one of the first to hear such slander, and that you would moreover afford me an opportunity—a private opportunity—of combating such slander, that I feel such security. God bless you, sergeant!” He patted the other’s shoulder, and Gurden was genuinely affected.

      “I can quite understand your position, sir,” he said, “and you may be sure that when it is possible to render you any assistance I shall be most happy and proud to render it.”

      Again Colonel Black favoured his visitor with a little pat.

      “Or