The Complete Master Criminal Series (Illustrated Edition). Fred M. White

mouth drew up in a horribly grotesque manner. A shudder and shiver, and Fort had escaped. He was dead.

      Almost before the police could realise what had happened, Desartes came, hurrying in. His air was elated. His eyes sparkled with triumph.

      “The rascals told the truth,” he exclaimed. “The Emperor has been found concealed in a stone coffin in the vaults below the cathedral. We had a long search for the body. The miscreants removed it by the way of the grating behind the bier. You have the man, and you have recovered the money as well.”

      One of the police explained the new feature of the drama. A search was made, but no gold could be found, nothing but Wrangel in the cellar groaning pitifully and anathematising what had happened. But gold there was none, and to this day the hiding-place of the same is wrapped in mystery. That they had obtained possession of the leading villain in the cast, Desartes never doubted. And he had escaped them.

      * * * * *

      And in the fulness of time Gryde read the “solution” of the mystery comfortably in London. He had his money, he had come out of the danger unscathed. He had coolly and in cold blood betrayed his colleague to save himself, for the champagne had been poisoned to make assurance doubly sure.

      “And how ridiculously easy it was after all,” the master scoundrel muttered as he flung his paper aside. “What a success, too, were those gelatine bombs, exploded by the force of their fall. Neat and not destructive. Police! I could rob the Bank of England itself, and trace the crime to Scotland Yard. Maybe I will some day, before I settle down to growing orchids and courting the gods of the bourgeoisie.”

      AT WINDSOR

       Table of Contents

       CHAPTER I

       CHAPTER II

       CHAPTER III

      CHAPTER I

       Table of Contents

      THE Mahrajah of Curriebad was for the present located in Jermyn Street. On the following day he was commanded to Windsor for the regulation dinner; in the meantime he had practically chartered the hotel.

      Morals the Mahrajah possessed none—they would have been perfectly superfluous in any case—but money he had in plenty. For this reason the India Office people were fond of him.

      At the present moment they were desirous of getting something out of their distinguished visitor: more territory, more men, an extra sack of diamonds; and the Windsor interview was expected to clinch the business. Meantime the dusky potentate winked the other eye. He fully appreciated the meaning of the phrase. He had a private music-hall of his own at Curriebad.

      Incidentally it may be mentioned that a more consummate rascal than Nana Rau never drew the breath of life through shifty lips. Of his early career people knew but little. They noted that he spoke excellent English, and that his knowledge of the Stud-Book was not of a perfunctory character.

      Nana Rau had just dined alone. As he lighted his second cigarette a servant entered with the announcement that a visitor waited below. With rare graciousness the Prince ordered the gentleman to be conveyed into his presence.

      He came, he bowed, he closed the door behind him.

      “My name is Wilfred Vaughan, your Highness,” he said.

      The potentate nodded. The stranger prepossessed him, he was so exquisitely dressed.

      “Sit down, Mr. Vaughan,” he said, “and take a cigarette. Then, if you please, you can proceed to unfold your business.”

      “I am obliged to you. Ah, what it is to be an Eastern Potentate! Now, it would be impossible for me to get cigarettes like these. My good friend, it is possible that you have forgotten the old Oxford days?”

      “That is a long time ago—twenty years,” Nana Rau replied, uneasily.

      He felt uneasy, too. The India Office would have been surprised to hear that Nana Rau had ever been at Oxford. But then he was not Nana Rau at all, and four good lives stood between him and the sacks of Curriebad diamonds. Also incidents had happened at Oxford which it was expedient should remain buried in the silent tomb with the flowers blooming atop, and no white stone to mark their memory. Even now, were those stories told, Nana Rau knew that his connection with the throne of Curriebad would come to an abrupt conclusion.

      “Twenty years are nothing,” Vaughan said sententiously, “and my memory is good.”

      “You are Vaughan of ‘The House,’ of course. What can you remember?”

      “Well, for instance,” Vaughan smiled, “there was a pretty tobacconist’s assistant: she was found dead under very suspicious circumstances. About the same time an Indian student at Christ Church disappeared. The police were anxious to find him—very anxious. Strange to say he was never heard of again; and, until to-day, I haven’t seen him since.”

      Nana Rau recovered his equanimity. His thin lips ceased to twitch. He felt that this was a mere matter of money.

      “Old chap,” he said quite cordially, “what’s the figure?”

      “You always were a sensible man,” Vaughan replied. “Never any dashed Oriental poetry about you. All the same, there is no figure—in money signs, that is.”

      “Then what the deuce do you want?”

      “That I can hardly go into in detail. Let us speak plainly. I’ve got the whip hand of you: a few words from me and your interest in the sovereign lord and ruler business stops. You recognise that, of course. That I require something is obvious. I want you to stay away from Windsor to-morrow.”

      Nana Rau smiled at the suggestion.

      “Absurd,” he said; “you know I dare not do so.”

      “Under ordinary circumstances, no. But these are not ordinary circumstances. You are merely going semi-officially. There will be no State fuss; you will dine at the Castle, and return here next morning. What is intended to take place yonder you know as well as I do.”

      “I don’t want to go. It’s certain to be deuced slow. And if you can only show me some way out of the difficulty without compromising myself—”

      “Of course I have my plans prepared,” Vaughan interrupted.

      “You don’t leave Paddington till a train somewhere about six. Here is my card with my address. My place is out at Epsom. Come out there and lunch with me to-morrow, and bring your suite with you, baggage and all, and if we can’t come to terms, my carriage shall take you to Paddington.”

      “I have only two chaps with me besides my cook,” said the Prince.

      “Good. So much the better. Then you will come?”

      “Well, there is no harm in that,” said Nana Rau. “I will.”

      A few minutes later Wilfred Vaughan, alias Felix Gryde, was placidly walking along Piccadilly. He turned into the Café Soyer, where the other parties to the conspiracy were awaiting him and dinner. They were the tools to be used and to be discarded when the curtain fell.

      “It’s all right,” Gryde proceeded to explain over the bisque. “I told you Nana Rau was the same man I used to be at Oxford with twenty years ago. I spotted him at Ascot, and I never