In our pursuit of the fantastic being, about whom so many mysteries gathered, we have somewhat neglected the affairs of Sir Richard Haredale. Thanks to Mr. Belford's elusive visitor, these now ran smoothly.

In order to learn how smoothly we have only to present ourselves at a certain important social function.

"These military weddings are so romantic," gushed Mrs. Rohscheimer.

"And so beastly stuffy," added her husband, mopping his damp brow with a silk handkerchief bearing, in gold thread, the monogram "J. R."

"Doesn't Dick look real sweet?" whispered Lady Vignoles, following with admiring eyes the soldierly figure of the bridegroom, Sir Richard Haredale.

Lord Vignoles shouldered his way through the scrum about the door.

"I say, Sheila," he called to his wife, "where's Zoe?"

"She was here a minute ago," replied Julius Rohscheimer, rolling his prominent eyes about in quest of the missing one.

"I mean to say," explained Vignoles, "her father is asking——"

"What! Has uncle turned up after all?" exclaimed Lady Vignoles, and looked quickly towards the door.

Through the crowd a big red-faced man was forging, and behind him a glimpse might be had of the shrivelled shape of John Jacob Oppner.

"Hallo," grunted Rohscheimer, "here's Inspector Sheffield, from Scotland Yard!"—and apprehensively he fingered tie-pin and watch-chain, and furtively counted the rings upon his fat fingers. "What's up?"

The shrewd but not unkindly eyes of the C. I. D. man were scanning the packed rooms, over the heads of the crowd—keenly, suspiciously. With a brief nod he passed the group, and pressed on his way. Mr. Oppner halted.

"What's the trouble, Oppner?" inquired Rohscheimer thickly. "Is there a thief here or something?"

"Worse!" drawled the other. "SÉverac Bablon's here!"

"Oh, Lord!" groaned Rohscheimer, and surreptitiously slipped all his rings off and into his trousers pocket. "Let's get out before we're all held up!"

"He don't figure on a hold-up," replied Oppner; "it ain't a strong line at a matinee. A hop-parade is the time for the crystals. We don't know what he's layin' for, but it's a cinch he's here."

"How do you know?" asked a brother officer of Haredale's, who had joined the group.

Mr. Oppner took a cigarette-case from his tail-pocket and held up between finger and thumb a cigarette stump of an unusual yellow colour.

"We've got on his trail at last!" he said. "He sheds these cigs. like a moulting chicken sheds feathers. This one was in the tray inside a taxi—and the taxi dropped his fare right here!"

He returned the cigarette stump to the case, the case to his pocket, and pushed on after Sheffield. As his stooping form disappeared from view Sheard entered the room. Immediately he was claimed by Mr. Rohscheimer.

"Hallo, Sheard!" called the financier, and for the moment even the imminence of the SÉverac Bablon peril was forgotten—"what's the latest? Is war declared?"

"There was nothing official up to the time I left," replied the pressman; "but we are expecting it every minute. Mr. Belford and Lord Evershed have just been summoned to Buckingham Palace. I met them going as I came in."

Rohscheimer confidently seized the lapel of the journalist's coat.

"What do you think that means, now?" he asked cunningly.

"It means," replied Sheard, "that within the hour Europe may be in arms! Haredale is on duty this evening—so there will be no honeymoon! Everything is at sixes and sevens. I have a couple of cubs watching; and if Baron Hecht, when he leaves the conference at the Palace, proceeds home, there may be no war. If he starts for Victoria Station—war is declared!"

An excited young lady wearing pince-nez, through which she peered anxiously in quest of someone, tapping her rather prominent front teeth the while with an HB pencil, sighted Sheard.

"Oh, there you are!" she cried, in evident relief. "Really, Mr. Sheard, I was despairing of finding anyone to tell me—but you always know everything."

Sheard bowed ironically. The lady represented one of the oldest families in Warwichshire and the Fashionable Intelligence of quite the smartest morning journal in London.

"Sir Richard's best man——" she began again.

"Didn't you know?" burst in Lord Vignoles. "Bally nuisance—I mean to say, inconsiderate of Roxborough; he could have sent some other messenger, and need not have picked Anerly."

"Oh! I know all about that!" snapped the lady impatiently; "but who was the distinguished-looking man who took Maurice's place?"

The Hon. Maurice Anerly, who should have officiated as best man, had received instructions an hour before the ceremony to proceed to the capital of the Power with whom Britain was on the verge of war. Sheard would have given a hundred pounds for a glimpse of the dispatch he carried.

"No idea," said Vignoles; "most amazing thing! Friend of Haredale's, who turned up at the last minute and vanished directly the ceremony was over. Perfect record! Don't suppose it's ever happened before."

"But he came to the house here; several people saw him here. You don't want me to believe that Dick Haredale didn't tell anybody who his best man was!"

"I was not present," said Sheard; "so I cannot help you."

"It's preposterous!" cried the lady. "I never heard of such a thing!"

"What was the gentleman like, miss?" came a quiet voice.

The eyes of all in the little group turned, together. Chief Inspector Sheffield had joined them.

The lady addressed eyed the big man apprehensively. He was outside the experience of Fashionable Intelligence, but there was a quiet authority in his voice and manner which seemed to call for a reply.

"He was the most handsome man I have ever seen!" she answered briefly.

"Thank you!" said Sheffield, with even greater brevity, and turned on his heel.

He went up to a footman, who looked more like a clean-shaven policeman—possibly because he was one.

"You are certain that Miss Oppner and the man I have described actually entered this house?"

"They were talking together in that room by the statue, sir."

"And Miss Oppner came out?"

"Yes, sir."

"But not the man?"

"No, sir."

Inspector Sheffield made his way to the little anteroom indicated. It was quite a tiny apartment, with a divan, two lounge-chairs and a Persian coffee-table. There was no one there.

A faint but very peculiar perfume hung in the air. Turkish tobacco went to the making of it, but something else too. Sheffield bent over the table.

In a little bronze ash-tray lay a cigarette end—yellow in colour.

At about the same moment that Chief Inspector Sheffield was trying to get used to the idea of the notorious SÉverac Bablon's having actually officiated as best man at the wedding of the only daughter of the Marquess of Evershed, Mr. Thomas Sheard also had that astounding fact brought home to him.

For, in the wide publicity of Eccleston Square, the observed of many curious observers, Zoe Oppner stood shaking hands with this master of audacity.

Sheard joined them hurriedly.

"This is the height of indiscretion!" he exclaimed, glancing apprehensively about him. "You compromise others——"

SÉverac Bablon checked him with a quiet smile.

"Have I ever compromised another?"

"But now you cannot avoid doing so. Sheffield is inside! What madness brings you here?"

"In the absence of the Hon. Maurice Anerly, I acted as Haredale's best man."

Sheard literally gasped.

"But you are not——"

"A Christian? My religious beliefs, Sheard, do not preclude my attendance at a wedding ceremony. Some day I may explain this to you."

"You must have been recognised!"

"Who knows SÉverac Bablon?"

"At least four people now in that house!"

"Possibly. But no one of those four has seen me. No one of them was present at the ceremony; and, I assure you, I made myself scarce afterwards."

"You must hurry. You have been traced——"

"Never fear; I shall hurry. But, before I go, Sheard, take this envelope. It is the last 'scoop' that I have to offer to the Gleaner, but it is the biggest of all! Good-bye."

"Do I understand that you are leaving England?"

So sincere was the emotion in the pressman's voice that SÉverac Bablon's own had changed when he replied:

"We may never meet again; I cannot tell."

He laid his hands upon the other's shoulders in a characteristic gesture, and to Sheard, as he met the glance of those fine eyes, this was no criminal flying from justice; rather, a ruler of peoples, an enthusiast, a fanatic perhaps, but a royal man—and his friend.

"Good-bye!" said SÉverac Bablon, and clasped Sheard's hand in both his own.

He turned to Zoe Oppner, who, very pale, was glancing back at the house.

"Good-bye again!"

A cab waited, and SÉverac Bablon, lighting a cigarette, leapt in and was driven away. Sheard did not hear his directions to the man; and Zoe Oppner left him abruptly and ran into the house again. Before he had time to move, to collect his thoughts, a heavy hand was laid upon his shoulder.

He started. Inspector Sheffield stood beside him.

"Who was in that cab?" he rapped.

Sheard realised that the moment to which he had long looked forward with dread was come. He had been caught red-handed. At last SÉverac Bablon had dared too greatly, and he, Sheard, must pay the price of that indiscretion.

"Why do you ask—and in that tone?"

"Mr. Sheard," said the detective grimly, "I've had my eye on you for a long while, as you must be well aware. You may not be aware that but for me you'd have been arrested long ago! I'm past the time when sensational arrests appeal to me, though. I'm out to hide scandals, not to turn the limelight on 'em. You're a well-known man, and it would break you, I take it, if I hauled you up for complicity? But I've got my responsibilities, too, remember; and I warn you—I warn you solemnly—if you bandy words with me now, I'll have you in Marlborough Street inside ten minutes!"

The buttons were off, and Sheard felt the point at his throat. For there was no mistaking the grim earnestness of the man from Scotland Yard. The kindly blue eyes were grown hard as steel, and in them the pressman read that upon his next words rested his whole career. A lie could avail his friend nothing; it meant his own ruin.

"SÉverac Bablon!" he said.

"I knew that!" replied Sheffield; "you did well to admit it! Where has he gone?"

"I have no idea."

"Don't take any chances, sir! I'm tired of the responsibility of shielding the fools who know him! If you give me your word on that, I'll take it."

"I give you my word. I was unable to hear his directions to the driver."

"Very good. There are other things I might ask you—but I know you'd refuse to answer, and then I'd have no alternative. So I won't. Good-day."

"Good-day, Inspector. And thank you." Sheffield nodded shortly and walked up to the driver of the next waiting cab.

"What number was the man who drove away last?"

"LH-00896, sir."

"Know where he went?"

"No, sir; but not far. He told a pal o' mine—the chauffeur of Mr. Rohscheimer's car, there, sir—that he'd be back in seven minutes."

"Good!" said Sheffield.

Matters were befalling as well as he could have hoped; for he had come out too late to have followed the cab. He glanced at his watch. Provided the man picked up no fare on his way back, he was due in three minutes. The detective strolled off towards Belgrave Road. Inside the three minutes a cab turned into the other end of the square.

Inspector Sheffield retraced his steps hurriedly.

Without a word to the man, he opened the cab door. A faint, familiar perfume reached his nostrils. He glanced at the ash-trays, but neither contained a cigarette end. He turned to the driver.

"Where did you take the gentleman you picked up here, my man?"

A newsboy came racing along the pavement, with an armful of sheets, wet from the press. The journal was the Gleaner's most powerful opponent.

"War de-clared, piper! War de-clared, speshul!"

His shrill cries drowned the taximan's reply. As the boy ran on crying his mendacious "news" (for the front-page article was not headed "War declared," but "Is war declared?"), Sheffield repeated his question.

"To Buckingham Palace, sir!" he was answered.

The detective stared incredulously.

"I mean a tall gentleman, clean shaven, and very dark, with quite black hair——"

"Smoked some sort of Russian smokes, sir—yellow?"

"That one—yes!"

"That's the one I mean, sir—Buckingham Palace!"

Sheffield continued to stare.

"Where did you actually drop him?"

"At the gate."

"Well? Where did he go?"

"He went in, sir!"

"Went in! He was admitted?"

"Yes, sir; I saw him pass the sentry!"

Chief Inspector Sheffield leapt into the cab with a face grimly set.

"Buckingham Palace!" he snapped.

Meanwhile, Detective-Sergeant Harborne, following back the clue of the yellow cigarettes, in accordance with the instructions of his superior, who had elected to follow it forward, made his way to a cab-rank at the end of Finchley Road.

To a cab-minder he showed a photograph. It was from that unique negative which the Home Secretary had shown to the pseudo-Inspector Sheffield at Womsley Old Place; moreover, it was the only copy which the right honourable gentleman had authorised to be printed.

"Does this person often take cabs from this rank, my lad?"

The man surveyed it with beer-weakened eyes.

"Mr. Sanrack it is, guv'nor! Yes, he's often here!"

Harborne, who was a believer in the straightforward British methods, and who scorned alike the unnecessary subtlety of the French school, as represented by Lemage or Duquesne, and the Fenimore-Cooper-like tactics dear to the men of the American agencies, showed his card.

"What's his address?" he snapped.

"It's farther down on this side; I can't think of the number, sir," replied the other shakily. (The proximity of a police officer always injuriously affected his heart.) "But I can show you the 'ouse."

"Come on!" ordered Harborne. "Walk behind me; and when I pass it, whistle."

Off went the detective without delay, and walked briskly along the Finchley Road. He had proceeded more than half-way, when, as he came abreast of a gate set in a high wall, from his rear quavered a moist whistle.

"70A," he muttered. "Right-oh!"

He thrilled with the joy of the chase, anticipating the triumph that awaited him. Inspector Sheffield's pursuit was more than likely to prove futile, but SÉverac Bablon, he argued, was practically certain to return to his head-quarters sooner or later.

He thought of the weeks and months during which they had sought for this very house in vain; of the useless tracking of divers persons known to be acquainted with the man of mystery; of the simple means—the yellow cigarettes—by which, at last, they had come to it.

Mr. Aloys. X Alden had been very reticent of late—and Mr. Oppner knew of the cigarette clue. At that reflection the roseate horizon grew darkened by the figure of a triumphant American holding up SÉverac Bablon with a neat silver-plated model by Smith and Wesson. If Alden should forestall him!

Harborne, who had been pursuing these reflections whilst, within sight of No. 70A, he stood slowly loading his pipe, paused, pouch in hand. On one memorable occasion, the super-subtlety of Sheffield (who was tainted with French heresies) had led to a fiasco which had made them the laughing-stock of Scotland Yard. Harborne felt in his breast pocket, where there reposed a copy of the warrant for the arrest of SÉverac Bablon. And before he withdrew his hand his mind was made up. He was a man of indomitable pluck.

Walking briskly to the gate in the high wall, he opened it, passed around a very neat little lawn, and stood in the porch of 70A. As he glanced about for bell or knocker, and failed to find either, the door was opened quietly by a tall man in black—an Arab.

"I have important business with Mr. Sanrack," said Harborne quietly, and handed the Arab a card which simply bore the name: "Mr. Goodson."

"He is not at home, but expected," replied the man, in guttural English. "Will Mr. Goodson await?"

"Yes," said Harborne, "if Mr. Sanrack won't be long."

The Arab bowed, and conducted him to a small but cosy room, furnished simply but with great good taste—and withdrew. Harborne congratulated himself. The simple and direct, if old-fashioned, methods were, after all, the best.

It was a very silent house. That fact struck him at once. Listen intently as he would, no sound from within could he detect. What should be his next move?

He stepped to the door and looked out into the hall. This was rather narrow, and, owing to the presence of heavy Oriental drapings, very dark. It would suit his purpose admirably. Directly "Mr. Sanrack" came in he would spring upon him and get the handcuffs fast, then he could throw open the front door, if there had been time for anyone to reclose it, and summon assistance with his whistle.

He himself must effect the actual arrest—single-handed. He cared nothing who came upon the scene after that. He placed the handcuffs in a more convenient pocket, and buttoned up his double-breasted blue serge coat.

Sheffield was certain to be Superintendent before long; and it only required one other big case, such as this, to insure Harborne's succession to an Inspectorship. From thence to the office vacated by Sheffield was an easy step for a competent and ambitious man.

How silent the house was!

Harborne glanced at his watch. He had been waiting nearly five minutes. Scarce another two had elapsed—when a brisk step sounded on the gravel. The detective braced himself for a spring. Would he have the Arab to contend with too?

No. A key was slipped into the well-oiled lock. The door opened.

With something of the irresistible force of a charging bull, Detective-Sergeant Harborne hurled himself upon his man.

Human strength had been useless to oppose that attack; but by subtlety it was frustrated. The man stepped agilely aside—and Harborne reclosed the door with his head! That his skull withstood that crashing blow was miraculous; but he was of tough stock. Perhaps the ruling passion helped him, for dazed and dizzy as he was, he did the right thing when his cunning opponent leapt upon him from behind.

He threw his hands above his shoulders and grasped the man round the neck—then—slowly—shakily—his head swimming and the world a huge teetotum—he rose upon his knees. Bent well forward, he rose to his feet. The other choked, swore, struck useless blows, but hung limply, helpless, in that bear-like, awful grip.

At the exact moment—no second too soon, no second too late—down went Harborne's right hand to the wriggling, kicking, right foot of the man upon whom he had secured that dreadful hold. A bend forward—a turn of the hip—and his man fell crashing to the floor.

"That's called the Cornish grip!" panted the detective, dropping all his heaviness upon the recumbent form.

Click! Click!

The handcuffed man wriggled into a sitting posture.

"You goddarned son of a skunk!" he gurgled—and stopped short—sat, white-faced, manacled, looking up at his captor.

"Jumpin' Jenkins!" he whispered—"it's that plug-headed guy, Harborne!"

"Alden!" cried Harborne. "Alden! What the——!"

"Same to you!" snarled the Agency man. "Call yourself a detective! I reckon you'd make a better show as a coal-heaver!"

When conversation—if not civil conversation, at least conversation which did not wholly consist in mutual insult—became possible, the two in that silent hall compared notes.

"Where in the name of wonder did you get the key?" demanded Harborne.

"House agent!" snapped the other. "I work on the lines that I'm after a clever man, not trying to round up a herd of bullocks!"

Revolvers in readiness, they searched the house. No living thing was to be found. Only one room was unfurnished. It opened off the hall, and was on a lower level. The floor was paved and the walls plastered. An unglazed window opened on a garden, and a deep recess opposite to the door held only shadows and emptiness.

"It's a darned pie-trap!" muttered Mr. Aloys. X. Alden. "And you and me are the pies properly!"

"But d'you mean to say he's going to leave all this furniture——!"

"Hired!" snapped the American. "Hired! I knew that before I came!"

Detective-Sergeant Harborne raised a hand to his throbbing head—and sank dizzily into a cushioned hall-seat.