The Sins of Severac Bablon Part 6

A motor-car appeared, as if by magic, stopped before them, and was backed right on to the pavement. The chauffeur, mounting on the roof, threw a short rope ladder across the railings.

"Up!" Sheard was directed, and, nothing loath, climbed over.

He was joined immediately by his companion in this night's bizarre adventures; and, almost before he realised that they were safe, he found himself seated once more in the swiftly moving car.

"What's the meaning of it?" he demanded rapidly.

"Fear nothing!" was the reply. "You have my word!"

"But to what are you committing me?"

"To nothing that shall lie very heavily upon your conscience! You have seen, to-night, something of my opportunities. With the treasures of the nation thus at my mercy, am I a common cracksman? If I were, should I not ere this have removed the portable gems of the collection? I say to you again, that no door is closed to me; yet never have I sought to enrich myself. But why should these things lie idle, when they are such all-powerful instruments?"

"I don't follow you."

"To-morrow all will be clear!"

"Why did you blindfold me?"

"Should you have followed had you seen where I led? I wish to number you among my friends. You are not of my people, and I can claim no fealty of you; but I desire your friendship. Can I count upon it?"

The light of a street-lamp flashed momentarily into the car, striking a dull, venomous green spark from a curious ring which Severac Bablon wore. In some strange fashion it startled Sheard, but, in the ensuing darkness, he sought out the handsome face of his companion and found the big, luminous eyes fixed upon him. Something about the man--his daring, perhaps, his enthusiasm, his utterly mysterious purpose--appealed, suddenly, all but irresistibly.

Sheard held out his hand. And withdrew it again.

"To-morrow----" he began.

"To-morrow you will have no choice!"

"How so? You have placed yourself in my hands. I can now, if I desire, publish your description!--report all that you have told me--all that I have seen!"

"You will not do so! You will be my friend, my defender in the Press. Of what you have seen to-night you will say nothing!"

"Why?"

"No matter! It will be so!"

A silence fell between them that endured until the car pulled up before Sheard's gate.

With ironic courtesy, he invited Severac Bablon to enter and partake of some refreshment after the night's excitement. With a grace that made the journalist slightly ashamed of his irony, that incomprehensible man accepted.

Leaving him in the same arm-chair which he had occupied when first he set eyes upon him, Sheard went to the dining-room and returned with a siphon, a decanter, and gla.s.ses. He found Severac Bablon glancing through an edition of Brugsch's "Egypt Under the Pharaohs." He replaced the book on the shelf as Sheard entered.

"These Egyptologists," he said, "they amuse me! Dissolve them all in a giant test-tube, and the keenest a.n.a.lysis must fail to detect one single grain of imagination!"

His words aroused Sheard's curiosity, but the lateness of the hour precluded the possibility of any discussion upon the subject.

When, shortly, Severac Bablon made his departure, he paused at the gate and proffered his hand, which Sheard took without hesitation.

"Good-night--or, rather, good-morning!" he said smilingly. "We shall meet again very soon!"

The other, too tired to wonder what his words might portend, returned to the house, and, lingering only to scrawl a note that he was not to be awakened at the usual time, hastened to bed. As he laid his weary head upon the pillow the cold grey of dawn was stealing in at the windows and brushing out the depths of night's blacker shadows.

It was noon when Sheard awoke--to find his wife gently shaking him.

He sat up with a start.

"What is it, dear?"

"A messenger boy. Will you sign for the letter?"

But half awake, he took the pencil and signed. Then, sleepily, he tore open the envelope and read as follows.

"DEAR MR. SHEARD,--

"You were tired last night, so I did not further weary you with a discourse upon Egyptology; moreover, I had a matter of urgency to attend to; but you may remember I hinted that the initiated look beyond Brugsch.

"I should be indebted if you could possibly arrange to call upon Sir Leopold Jesson in Hamilton Place at half-past four. You will find him at home. It is important that you take a friend with you.

In your Press capacity, desire him to show you his celebrated collection of pottery. Seize the opportunity to ask him for a subscription (not less than 10,000) towards the re-opening of the closed ward of Sladen Hospital. He will decline. Offer to accept, instead, the mahogany case which he has in his smaller Etruscan urn. When you have secured this, decide to accept a cheque also.

Arrange to be alone in your study at 12.40 to-night.

"By the way, although Brugsch's book is elementary, there is something more behind it. Look into the matter.--S.B."

This singular communication served fully to arouse Sheard, and, refreshed by his bath, he sat down to a late breakfast. Propping the letter against the coffee-pot, he read and re-read every line of the small, neat, and oddly square writing.

The more he reflected upon it the more puzzled he grew. It was a link with the fantastic happenings of the night, and, as such, not wholly welcome.

Why Severac Bablon desired him to inspect the famous Jesson collection he could not imagine; and that part of his instructions: "Decide to accept a cheque," seemed to presume somewhat generously upon Sheard's persuasive eloquence. The re-opening of the closed ward was a good and worthy object, and the sum of ten, or even twenty thousand pounds, one which Sir Leopold Jesson well could afford. But he did not remember to have heard that the salving of derelict hospitals was one of Sir Leopold's hobbies.

Moreover, he considered the whole thing a piece of presumption upon the part of his extraordinary acquaintance. Why should he run about London at the behest of Severac Bablon?

"Eleven-thirty results!" came the sing-song of a newsboy. And Sheard slipped his hand in his pocket for a coin. As he did so, the boy paused directly outside the house.

"Robbery at the British Museum! Eleven-thirty!"

His heart gave a sudden leap, and he cast a covert glance towards his wife. She was deep in a new novel.

Without a word, Sheard went to the door, and walking down to the gate, bought a paper. The late news was very brief.

BRITISH MUSEUM MYSTERY

"An incredibly mysterious burglary was carried out last night at the British Museum. By some means at present unexplained the Head of Caesar has been removed from its pedestal and stolen, and the world-famous Hamilton Vase (valued at 30,000) is also missing. The burglar has left no trace behind him, but as we go to press the police report an important clue."

Sheard returned to the house.

Seated in his study with the newspaper and Severac Bablon's letter before him, he strove to arrange his ideas in order, to settle upon a plan of action--to understand.

That the "important clue" would lead to the apprehension of the real culprit he did not believe for a moment. Severac Bablon, unless Sheard were greatly mistaken, stood beyond the reach of the police measures.