delivered. He studied, it carefully, a second and a third time; then handed it to Hepburn.
“Any comments?”
Mark Hepburn took the letter and read:
Weaver’s Farm,
Winton, Conn.
Dear Sir Denis:
Something so strange has occurred that I feel you should know at once.
(
I regret to say that my telephone is again out of order.
)
A man called upon me early this evening who gave the name of Julian Sankey. Before this, he made me promise to tell no one but you what he had to say. He implied that he had information that would enable us to locate Orwin. He was a smallish, dark man, with very spruce lank black hair and the slyly ingratiating manners of an Argentine gigolo. A voice like velvet.
I gave my promise, which seemed to satisfy him, and he then told me that he was a reluctant member of an organization which planned to make Harvey Bragg dictator. He conveyed the idea that he knew the inside of this organization and that he was prepared, on terms, and with guaranteed government protection, to place all his knowledge at our disposal. He assured me that Orwin was a prisoner in New York, and that his
(
Sankey’s
)
safety being assured by you, he would indicate the exact spot. I have an address to which to write, and it is evidently urgent. I shall be in New York tomorrow and will call upon you, if I may, at four o’clock.
What do you think we should do?
Very sincerely yours
,
Sarah Lakin.
Mark Hepburn laid the letter down upon the table.
“The description,” he said dryly, “would fit James Richet as well as any man I know.”
Nayland Smith, watching him, smiled triumphantly.
“I am glad to hear you say so,” he declared. “You order this man’s arrest; he disappears. He is out to save his skin—”
“It may be.”
“If it is Richet, then Richet would be a valuable card to hold. It’s infuriating, Hepburn, to think that I missed grabbing the fellow tonight! My next regret is that our fair correspondent omits the address at which we can communicate with this Julian Sankey. Does any other point in the letter strike you?”
“Yes,” said Hepburn slowly. “It’s undated. But my own sister, who is an honor graduate, rarely dates her letters. The other thing is the telephone.”
“The telephone is the all-important thing.”
Mark Hepburn turned and met the fixed gaze of Nayland Smith’s eyes. He nodded.
“I don’t like the disconnected telephone, Hepburn. I know the master schemer who is up against us…! I am wondering if this information will ever come to hand…”
* * *
A man who wore a plain yellow robe, in the loose sleeves of which his hands were concealed, sat at a large lacquered table in a small room. Some quality in the sound which penetrated through three windows, all of them slightly opened, suggested that this room was situated at a great height above a sleepless city.
Two of the walls were almost entirely occupied by bookcases; the lacquer table was set in the angle formed by these books, and upon it, in addition to neatly arranged documents, were a number of queer-looking instruments and appliances.
Also, there was a porcelain bowl in which a carved pipe with a tiny bowl rested.
The room was very hot and the air laden with a peculiar aromatic smell. The man in the yellow robe lay back in a carved, padded chair; a black cap resembling a biretta crowned his massive skull. His immobile face resembled one of those ancient masterpieces of ivory mellowed in years of incense; a carving of Gautama Buddha—by one who disbelieved his doctrine. The eyes in this remarkable face had been closed; now, suddenly, they opened. They were green as burnished jade under moonlight.
The man in the yellow robe put on a pair of tinted spectacles and studied a square, illuminated screen which was one of the several unusual appointments of the table… Upon this screen, in miniature, appeared a moving picture of the subterranean room where the seven-eyed goddess sat eternally watching. James Richet
“Any comments?”
Mark Hepburn took the letter and read:
Weaver’s Farm,
Winton, Conn.
Dear Sir Denis:
Something so strange has occurred that I feel you should know at once.
(
I regret to say that my telephone is again out of order.
)
A man called upon me early this evening who gave the name of Julian Sankey. Before this, he made me promise to tell no one but you what he had to say. He implied that he had information that would enable us to locate Orwin. He was a smallish, dark man, with very spruce lank black hair and the slyly ingratiating manners of an Argentine gigolo. A voice like velvet.
I gave my promise, which seemed to satisfy him, and he then told me that he was a reluctant member of an organization which planned to make Harvey Bragg dictator. He conveyed the idea that he knew the inside of this organization and that he was prepared, on terms, and with guaranteed government protection, to place all his knowledge at our disposal. He assured me that Orwin was a prisoner in New York, and that his
(
Sankey’s
)
safety being assured by you, he would indicate the exact spot. I have an address to which to write, and it is evidently urgent. I shall be in New York tomorrow and will call upon you, if I may, at four o’clock.
What do you think we should do?
Very sincerely yours
,
Sarah Lakin.
Mark Hepburn laid the letter down upon the table.
“The description,” he said dryly, “would fit James Richet as well as any man I know.”
Nayland Smith, watching him, smiled triumphantly.
“I am glad to hear you say so,” he declared. “You order this man’s arrest; he disappears. He is out to save his skin—”
“It may be.”
“If it is Richet, then Richet would be a valuable card to hold. It’s infuriating, Hepburn, to think that I missed grabbing the fellow tonight! My next regret is that our fair correspondent omits the address at which we can communicate with this Julian Sankey. Does any other point in the letter strike you?”
“Yes,” said Hepburn slowly. “It’s undated. But my own sister, who is an honor graduate, rarely dates her letters. The other thing is the telephone.”
“The telephone is the all-important thing.”
Mark Hepburn turned and met the fixed gaze of Nayland Smith’s eyes. He nodded.
“I don’t like the disconnected telephone, Hepburn. I know the master schemer who is up against us…! I am wondering if this information will ever come to hand…”
* * *
A man who wore a plain yellow robe, in the loose sleeves of which his hands were concealed, sat at a large lacquered table in a small room. Some quality in the sound which penetrated through three windows, all of them slightly opened, suggested that this room was situated at a great height above a sleepless city.
Two of the walls were almost entirely occupied by bookcases; the lacquer table was set in the angle formed by these books, and upon it, in addition to neatly arranged documents, were a number of queer-looking instruments and appliances.
Also, there was a porcelain bowl in which a carved pipe with a tiny bowl rested.
The room was very hot and the air laden with a peculiar aromatic smell. The man in the yellow robe lay back in a carved, padded chair; a black cap resembling a biretta crowned his massive skull. His immobile face resembled one of those ancient masterpieces of ivory mellowed in years of incense; a carving of Gautama Buddha—by one who disbelieved his doctrine. The eyes in this remarkable face had been closed; now, suddenly, they opened. They were green as burnished jade under moonlight.
The man in the yellow robe put on a pair of tinted spectacles and studied a square, illuminated screen which was one of the several unusual appointments of the table… Upon this screen, in miniature, appeared a moving picture of the subterranean room where the seven-eyed goddess sat eternally watching. James Richet
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