CLOWNS AND CRIMINALS - Complete Series (Thriller Classics). E. Phillips Oppenheim

on Rounceby’s knee.

      “My dear friends,” he said, impressively, “if you could have built a model, or conducted these negotiations in the usual way, you might have asked a million. As it is, I think I am the only man in England who could have dealt with this matter—so satisfactorily.”

      Rounceby glanced suspiciously at the young man to whom Miss Brown was still devoting the whole of her attention.

      “Why don’t he come out and talk like a man?” he asked. “What’s the idea of his sitting over there with his back to us?”

      “I want him never to see your faces—to deal only with me,” Cawdor explained. “Remember that he is in an official position. The money he is going to part with is secret service money.”

      The two men were beginning to be more reassured. Rounceby slowly produced a roll of oilskin from his pocket.

      “He’ll look at them as he sits there,” he insisted. “There must be no copying or making notes, mind.”

      Cawdor smiled in a superior fashion.

      “My dear fellow,” he said, “you are dealing with the emissary of a government—not one of your own sort.”

      Rounceby glanced at his companion, who nodded. Then he handed over the plans.

      “Tell him to look sharp,” he said. “It’s not so late but that there may be people in here yet.”

      Cawdor crossed the room with the plans, and laid them down before the writing table. Rounceby rose to his feet and lit a cigar. Marnstam walked to the further window and back again. They stood side by side. Rounceby’s whole frame seemed to have stiffened with some new emotion.

      “There’s something wrong, Jim,” Marnstam whispered softly in his ear. “You’ve got the old lady in your pocket?”

      “Yes!” Rounceby answered thickly, “and, by Heavens, I’m going to use it!”

      “Don’t shoot unless it’s the worst,” Marnstam counselled. “I shall go out of that window, into the tree, and run for the river. But bluff first, Jim—bluff for your life!”

      There were swinging doors leading into the room from the hotel side, and a small door exactly opposite which led to the residential part of the place. Both of these doors were opened at precisely the same moment. Through the former stepped two strong looking men in long overcoats, and with the unmistakable appearance of policemen in plain clothes. Through the latter came John Dory! He walked straight up to the two men. It spoke volumes for his courage that, knowing their characters and believing them to be in desperate straits, he came unarmed.

      “Gentlemen,” he said, “I hold warrants for your arrest. I will not trouble you with your aliases. You are known to-day, I believe, as James Rounceby and Richard Marnstam. Will you come quietly?”

      Marnstam’s expression was one of bland and beautiful surprise.

      “My dear sir,” he said, edging, however, a little toward the window—“you must be joking! What is the charge?”

      “You are charged with the wilful murder of a young man named Victor Franklin,” answered Dory. “His body was recovered from Longthorp Tarn this afternoon. You had better say nothing. Also with the theft of certain papers known to have been in his possession.”

      Now it is possible that at this precise moment Marnstam would have made his spring for the window and Rounceby his running fight for liberty. The hands of both men were upon their revolvers, and John Dory’s life was a thing of no account. But at this juncture a thing happened. There were in the room the two policemen guarding the swing doors, and behind them the pale faces of a couple of night porters looking anxiously in. Vincent Cawdor and Miss Brown were standing side by side, a little in the background, and the young man who had been their companion had risen also to his feet. As though with some intention of intervening, he moved a step forward, almost in line with Dory. Rounceby saw him, and a new fear gripped him by the heart. He shrank back, his fingers relaxed their hold of his weapon, the sweat was hot upon his forehead. Marnstam, though he seemed for a moment stupefied, realised the miracle which had happened and struck boldly for his own.

      “If this is a joke,” he said, “it strikes me as being a particularly bad one. I should like to know, sir, how you dare to come into this room and charge me and my friend—Mr. Rounceby—with being concerned in the murder of a young man who is even now actually standing by your side.”

      John Dory started back. He looked with something like apprehension at the youth to whom Marnstam pointed.

      “My name is Victor Franklin,” that young man declared. “What’s all this about?”

      Dory felt the ground give beneath his feet. Nevertheless, he set his teeth and fought for his hand.

      “You say that your name is Victor Franklin?” he asked.

      “Certainly!”

      “You are the inventor of a flying machine?”

      “I am.”

      “You were in Westmoreland with these two men a few days go?”

      “I was,” the young man admitted.

      “You left the village of Scawton in a motor car with them?”

      “Yes! We quarrelled on the way, and parted.”

      “You were robbed of nothing?”

      Victor Franklin smiled.

      “Certainly not,” he answered. “I had nothing worth stealing except my plans, and they are in my pocket now.”

      There was a few moments’ intense silence. Dory wheeled suddenly round, and looked to where Mr. Vincent Cawdor had been standing.

      “Where is Mr. Cawdor?” he asked, sharply.

      “The gentleman with the grey moustache left a few seconds ago,” one of the men at the door said. Dory was very pale.

      “Gentlemen,” he said, “I have to offer you my apologies. I have apparently been deceived by some false information. The charge is withdrawn.”

      He turned on his heel and left the room. The two policemen followed him.

      “Keep them under observation,” Dory ordered shortly, “but I am afraid this fellow Cawdor has sold me.”

      He found a hansom outside, and sprang into it.

      “Number 27, Southampton Row,” he ordered.

      Rounceby and his partner were alone in the little smoking room. The former was almost inarticulate. The night porter brought them brandy, and both men drank.

      “We’ve got to get to the bottom of this, Marnstam,” Mr. Rounceby muttered.

      Mr. Marnstam was thinking.

      “Do you remember that sound through the darkness,” he said—“the beating of an engine way back on the road?”

      “What of it?” Rounceby demanded.

      “It was a motor bicycle,” Marnstam said quietly. “I thought so at the time.”

      “Supposing some one followed us and pulled him out,” Rounceby said, hoarsely, “why are we treated like this? I tell you we’ve been made fools of! We’ve been treated like children—not even to be punished! We’ll have the truth somehow out of that devil Cawdor! Come!”

      They made their way to the courtyard and found a cab.

      “Number 27, Southampton Row!” they ordered.

      They reached their destination some time before Dory, whose horse fell down in the Strand, and who had to walk. They ascended to the fourth floor of the building and rang the bell of Vincent Cawdor’s room—no answer. They plied the knocker—no result. Rounceby peered through the keyhole.

      “He