The Victorian Rogues MEGAPACK ®. Морис Леблан

deception? Charles knew only too well. It was clear it was done to disturb the diamond market, and we realised, too late, that the man who had done it was—Colonel Clay, in “another of his manifold allotropic embodiments!” Charles had had his wish, and had met his enemy once more in London!

      We could see the whole plot. Colonel Clay was polymorphic, like the element carbon! Doubtless, with his extraordinary sleight of hand, he had substituted real diamonds for the shapeless mass that came out of the apparatus, in the interval between handing the pebbles round for inspection, and distributing them piecemeal to the men of science and representatives of the diamond interest. We all watched him closely, of course, when he opened the crucibles; but when once we had satisfied ourselves that something came out, our doubts were set at rest, and we forgot to watch whether he distributed those somethings or not to the recipients. Conjurers always depend upon such momentary distractions or lapses of attention. As usual, too, the Professor had disappeared into space the moment his trick was once well performed. He vanished like smoke, as the Count and Seer had vanished before, and was never again heard of.

      Charles went home more angry than I have ever beheld him. I couldn’t imagine why. He seemed as deeply hipped as if he had lost his thousands. I endeavoured to console him. “After all,” I said, “though Golcondas have suffered a temporary loss, it’s a comfort to think that you should have stood so firm, and not only stemmed the tide, but also prevented yourself from losing anything at all of your own through panic. I’m sorry, of course, for the widows and orphans; but if Colonel Clay has rigged the market, at least it isn’t you who lose by it this time.”

      Charles withered me with a fierce scowl of undisguised contempt. “Wentworth,” he said once more, “you are a fool!” Then he relapsed into silence.

      “But you declined to sell out,” I said.

      He gazed at me fixedly. “Is it likely,” he asked at last, “I would tell you if I meant to sell out? or that I’d sell out openly through Finglemore, my usual broker? Why, all the world would have known, and Golcondas would have been finished. As it is, I don’t desire to tell an ass like you exactly how much I’ve lost. But I did sell out, and some unknown operator bought in at once, and closed for ready money, and has sold again this morning; and after all that has happened, it will be impossible to track him. He didn’t wait for the account: he settled up instantly. And he sold in like manner. I know now what has been done, and how cleverly it has all been disguised and covered; but the most I’m going to tell you today is just this—it’s by far the biggest haul Colonel Clay has made out of me. He could retire on it if he liked. My one hope is, it may satisfy him for life; but, then, no man has ever had enough of making money.”

      “You sold out!” I exclaimed. “You, the Chairman of the company! You deserted the ship! And how about your trust? How about the widows and orphans confided to you?”

      Charles rose and faced me. “Seymour Wentworth,” he said, in his most solemn voice, “you have lived with me for years and had every advantage. You have seen high finance. Yet you ask me that question! It’s my belief you will never, never understand business!”

Colonel Clay in THE EPISODE OF THE ARREST OF THE COLONEL, by Grant Allen

      How much precisely Charles dropped over the slump in Cloetedorps I never quite knew. But the incident left him dejected, limp, and dispirited.

      “Hang it all, Sey,” he said to me in the smoking-room, a few evenings later. “This Colonel Clay is enough to vex the patience of Job—and Job had large losses, too, if I recollect aright, from the Chaldeans and other big operators of the period.”

      “Three thousand camels,” I murmured, recalling my dear mother’s lessons; “all at one fell swoop; not to mention five hundred yoke of oxen, carried off by the Sabeans, then a leading firm of speculative cattle-dealers!”

      “Ah, well,” Charles meditated aloud, shaking the ash from his cheroot into a Japanese tray—fine antique bronze-work. “There were big transactions in live-stock even then! Still, Job or no Job, the man is too much for me.”

      “The difficulty is,” I assented, “you never know where to have him.”

      “Yes,” Charles mused; “if he were always the same, like Horniman’s tea or a good brand of whisky, it would be easier, of course; you’d stand some chance of spotting him. But when a man turns up smiling every time in a different disguise, which fits him like a skin, and always apparently with the best credentials, why, hang it all, Sey, there’s no wrestling with him anyhow.”

      “Who could have come to us, for example, better vouched,” I acquiesced, “than the Honourable David?”

      “Exactly so,” Charles murmured. “I invited him myself, for my own advantage. And he arrived with all the prestige of the Glen-Ellachie connection.”

      “Or the Professor?” I went on. “Introduced to us by the leading mineralogist of England.”

      I had touched a sore point. Charles winced and remained silent.

      “Then, women again,” he resumed, after a painful pause. “I must meet in society many charming women. I can’t everywhere and always be on my guard against every dear soul of them. Yet the moment I relax my attention for one day—or even when I don’t relax it—I am bamboozled and led a dance by that arch Mme. Picardet, or that transparently simple little minx, Mrs. Granton. She’s the cleverest girl I ever met in my life, that hussy, whatever we’re to call her. She’s a different person each time; and each time, hang it all, I lose my heart afresh to that different person.”

      I glanced round to make sure Amelia was well out of earshot.

      “No, Sey,” my respected connection went on, after another long pause, sipping his coffee pensively, “I feel I must be aided in this superhuman task by a professional unraveller of cunning disguises. I shall go to Marvillier’s tomorrow—fortunate man, Marvillier—and ask him to supply me with a really good ’tec, who will stop in the house and keep an eye upon every living soul that comes near me. He shall scan each nose, each eye, each wig, each whisker. He shall be my watchful half, my unsleeping self; it shall be his business to suspect all living men, all breathing women. The Archbishop of Canterbury shall not escape for a moment his watchful regard; he will take care that royal princesses don’t collar the spoons or walk off with the jewel-cases. He must see possible Colonel Clays in the guard of every train and the parson of every parish; he must detect the off-chance of a Mme. Picardet in every young girl that takes tea with Amelia, every fat old lady that comes to call upon Isabel. Yes, I have made my mind up. I shall go tomorrow and secure such a man at once at Marvillier’s.”

      “If you please, Sir Charles,” Césarine interposed, pushing her head through the portière, “her ladyship says, will you and Mr. Wentworth remember that she goes out with you both this evening to Lady Carisbrooke’s?”

      “Bless my soul,” Charles cried, “so she does! And it’s now past ten! The carriage will be at the door for us in another five minutes!”

      Next morning, accordingly, Charles drove round to Marvillier’s. The famous detective listened to his story with glistening eyes; then he rubbed his hands and purred. “Colonel Clay!” he said; “Colonel Clay! That’s a very tough customer! The police of Europe are on the look-out for Colonel Clay. He is wanted in London, in Paris, in Berlin. It is le Colonel Caoutchouc here, le Colonel Caoutchouc there; till one begins to ask, at last, is there any Colonel Caoutchouc, or is it a convenient class name invented by the Force to cover a gang of undiscovered sharpers? However, Sir Charles, we will do our best. I will set on the track without delay the best and cleverest detective in England.”

      “The very man I want,” Charles said. “What name, Marvillier?”

      The principal smiled. “Whatever name you like,” he said. “He isn’t particular. Medhurst he’s called at home. We call him Joe. I’ll send him round to your house this afternoon for certain.”

      “Oh no,” Charles said promptly, “you won’t; or Colonel Clay himself will