“Well—recollect how much the girl knows!” Howell remarked as he stood before The Sparrow in the latter’s room.

“I have not forgotten,” said the other. “The whole circumstances of old Henfrey’s death are not known to me. That it was an unfortunate affair has long ago been proved.”

“Yvonne was the culprit, of course,” said Howell. “That was apparent from the first.”

“I suppose she was,” remarked The Sparrow reflectively. “But that attempt upon her life puzzles me.”

“Who could have greater motive in killing her out of revenge than the dead man’s son?”

“Agreed. But I am convinced that the lad is innocent. Therefore I gave him our protection.”

“I was travelling abroad at the time, you recollect. When I learnt of the affair through Franklyn about a week afterwards I was amazed. The loss of Yvonne to us is a serious one.”

“Very—I agree. She had done some excellent work—the affair in the Rue Royale, for instance.”

“And the clever ruse by which she got those emeralds of the Roumanian princess. The Vienna police are still searching for her—after three years,” laughed the companion of the chief of the international organization, whose word was law in the criminal underworld of Europe.

“Knowing what you did regarding the knowledge of old Mr. Henfrey’s death possessed by Lisette, I have been surprised that you placed her beneath your protection.”

“If she had been arrested she might have told some very unpleasant truths, in order to save herself,” The Sparrow remarked, “so I chose the latter evil.”

“Young Henfrey met her. I wonder whether she told him anything?”

“No. I questioned her. She was discreet, it seems. Or at least, she declares that she was.”

“That’s a good feature. But, speaking frankly, have you any idea of the identity of the person—man or woman—who attempted to kill Yvonne?” asked Howell.

“I have a suspicion—a pretty shrewd suspicion,” replied the little bristly-haired man.

His companion was silent.

“And you don’t offer to confide in me your suspicions—eh?”

“It is wiser to obtain proof before making any allegations,” answered The Sparrow, smiling.

“You will still protect Lisette?” Howell asked. “I agree that, like Yvonne, she has been of great use to us in many ways. Beauty and wit are always assets in our rather ticklish branch of commerce. Where is Lisette now?”

“At the moment, she’s in Madrid,” The Sparrow replied. “There is a little affair there—the jewels of a Belgian’s wife—a fellow who, successfully posing as a German during the occupation of Brussels, made a big fortune by profiteering in leather. They are in Madrid for six months, in order to escape unwelcome inquiries by the Government in Brussels. They have a villa just outside the city, and I have sent Lisette there with certain instructions.”

“Who is with her?”

“Nobody yet. Franklyn will go in due course.”

Howell’s thin lips relaxed into a curious smile.

“Franklyn is in love with Lisette,” he remarked.

“That is why I am sending them together to execute the little mission,” The Sparrow said. “Lisette was here a fortnight ago, and I mapped out for her a plan. I went myself to Madrid not long ago, in order to survey the situation.”

“The game is worth the candle, I suppose—eh?”

“Yes. If we get the lot Van Groot, in Amsterdam, will give at least fifteen thousand for them. Moulaert bought most of them from old Leplae in the Rue de la Paix. There are some beautiful rubies among them. I saw Madame wearing some of the jewels at the Palace Hotel, in Madrid, while they were staying there before their villa was ready. Moulaert, with his wife and two friends from the Belgian Legation, dined at a table next to mine, little dreaming with what purpose I ate my meal alone.”

Truly, the intuition and cleverness of The Sparrow were wonderful. He never moved without fully considering every phase of the consequences. Unlike most adventurers, he drank hardly anything. Half a glass of dry sherry at eleven in the morning, the same at luncheon, and one glass of claret for his dinner.

Yet often at restaurants he would order champagne, choice vintage clarets, and liqueurs—when occasion demanded. He would offer them to his friends, but just sip them himself, having previously arranged with the waiter to miss filling his glass.

Of the peril of drink “Mr. Peters” was constantly lecturing the great circle of his friends.

Each year—on the 26th of February to be exact—there was held a dinner at a well-known restaurant in the West End—the annual dinner of a club known as “The Wonder Wizards.” It was supposed to be a circle of professional conjurers.

This dinner was usually attended by fifty guests of both sexes, all well-dressed and prosperous, and of several nationalities. It was presided over by a Mr. Charles Williams.

Now, to tell the truth, the guests believed him to be The Sparrow; but in reality Mr. Williams was the tall White Cavalier whom Hugh had believed to be the great leader, until he had gone to Mayfair and met the impelling personality whom the police had for so long failed to arrest.

The situation was indeed humorous. It was The Sparrow’s fancy to hold the reunion at a public restaurant instead of at a private house. Under the very nose of Scotland Yard the deputy of the notorious Sparrow entertained the chiefs of the great criminal octopus. There were speeches, but from them the waiters learned nothing. It was simply a club of conjurers. None suspected that the guests were those who conjured fortunes out of the pockets of the unsuspecting. And while the chairman—believed by those who attended to be The Sparrow himself—sat there, the bristly-haired, rather insignificant-looking little man occupied a seat in a far-off corner, from where he scrutinized his guests very closely, and smiled at the excellent manner in which his deputy performed the duties of chairman.

Because it was a club of conjurers, and because the conjurers displayed their new tricks and illusions, after an excellent dinner the waiters were excluded and the doors locked after the coffee.

It was then that the bogus Sparrow addressed those present, and gave certain instructions which were later on carried into every corner of Europe. Each member had his speciality, and each group its district and its sanctuary, in case of a hue-and-cry. Every crime that could be committed was committed by them—everything save murder.

The tall, thin man whom everyone believed to be The Sparrow never failed to impress upon his hearers, after the doors were carefully locked, that however they might attack and rob the rich, human life was sacred.

It was the real Sparrow’s order. He abominated the thought of taking human life, hence when old Mr. Henfrey had been foully done to death in the West End he had at once set to work to discover the actual criminal. This he had failed to do. And afterwards there had followed the attempted assassination of Yvonne Ferad, known as Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo.

The two men stood discussing the young French girl, Lisette, whom Hugh had met when in hiding in the Via della Maddalena in Genoa.

“I only hope; that she has not told young Henfrey anything,” Howell said, with distinct apprehension.

“No,” laughed The Sparrow. “She came to me and told me how she had met him in Genoa and discovered to her amazement that he was old Henfrey’s son.”

“How curious that the pair should meet by accident,” remarked Howell. “I tell you that Benton is not playing a straight game. That iniquitous will which the old man left he surely must have signed under some misapprehension. Perhaps he thought he was applying for a life policy—or something of that short. Signatures to wills have been procured under many pretexts by scoundrelly relatives and unscrupulous lawyers.”

“I know. And the witnesses have placed their signatures afterward,” remarked The Sparrow thoughtfully. “But in this case all seems above board—at least so far as the will is concerned. Benton was old Henfrey’s bosom friend. Henfrey was very taken with Louise, and I know that he was desirous Hugh should marry her.”

“And if he did, Hugh would acquire the old man’s fortune, and Benton would step in and seize it—as is his intention.”

“Undoubtedly. All we can do is to keep Hugh and Louise apart. The latter is in entire ignorance of the true profession of her adopted father, and she’d be horrified if she knew that Molly was simply a clever adventuress, who is very much wanted in Paris and in Brussels,” said the gloved man.

“A good job that she knows nothing,” said Howell. “But it would be a revelation to her if the police descended upon Shapley Manor—wouldn’t it?”

“Yes. That is why I must see Dorise Ranscomb and ascertain from her exactly what she has heard. I know the police tracked Hugh to London, and for that reason he went with Benton down into Surrey—out of the frying-pan into the fire.”

“Well, before we can go farther, it seems that we should ascertain who shot Yvonne,” Howell suggested. “It was a most dastardly thing, and whoever did it ought to be punished.”

“He ought. But I’m as much in the dark as you are, Howell; but, as I have already said, I entertain strong suspicions.”

“I’ll suggest one name—Benton?”

The Sparrow shook his head.

“The manservant, Giulio Cataldi?” Howell ventured. “I never liked that sly old Italian.”

“What motive could the old fellow have had?”

“Robbery, probably. We have no idea what were Yvonne’s winnings that night—or of the money she had in her bag.”

“Yes, we do know,” was The Sparrow’s reply. “According to the police report, Yvonne, on her return home, went to her room, carrying her bag, which she placed upon her dressing-table. Then, after removing her cloak and hat, she went downstairs again and out on to the veranda. A few minutes later the young man was announced. High words were heard by old Cataldi, and then a shot.”

“And Yvonne’s bag?”

“It was found where she had left it. In it were three thousand eight hundred francs, all in notes.”

“Yet Franklyn told me that he had heard how Yvonne won quite a large sum that night.”

“She might have done so—and have lost the greater part of it,” The Sparrow replied.

“On the other hand, what more feasible than that the old manservant, watching her place it there, abstracted the bulk of the money—a large sum, no doubt—and afterwards, in order to conceal his crime, shot his mistress in such circumstances as to place the onus of the crime upon her midnight visitor?”

“That the affair was very cleverly planned there is no doubt,” said The Sparrow. “There is a distinct intention to fasten the guilt upon young Henfrey, because he alone would have a motive for revenge for the death of his father. Of that fact the man or woman who fired the shot was most certainly aware. How could Cataldi have known of it?”

“I certainly believe the Italian robbed his mistress and afterwards attempted to murder her,” Howell insisted.

“He might rob his mistress, certainly. He might even have robbed her of considerable sums systematically,” The Sparrow assented. “The maids told the police that Mademoiselle’s habit was to leave her bag with her winnings upon the dressing-table while she went downstairs and took a glass of wine.”

“Exactly. She did so every evening. Her habits were regular. Yet she never knew the extent of her winnings at the tables before she counted them. And she never did so until the following morning. That is what Franklyn told me in Venice when we met a month afterwards.”

“He learnt that from me,” The Sparrow said with a smile. “No,” he went on; “though old Cataldi could well have robbed his mistress, just as the maids could have done, and Yvonne would have been none the wiser, yet I do not think he would attempt to conceal his crime by shooting her, because by so doing he cut off all future supplies. If he were a thief he would not be such a fool. Therefore you may rest assured, Howell, that the hand that fired the shot was that of some person who desired to close Yvonne’s mouth.”

“She might have held some secret concerning old Cataldi. Or, on his part, he might have cherished some grievance against her. Italians are usually very vindictive,” replied the visitor. “On the other hand, it would be to Benton’s advantage that the truth concerning old Henfrey’s death was suppressed. Yvonne was about to tell the young man something—perhaps confess the truth, who knows?—when the shot was fired.”

“Well, my dear Howell, you have your opinion and I have mine,” laughed The Sparrow. “The latter I shall keep to myself—until my theory is disproved.”

Thereupon Howell took a cigar that his host offered him, and while he slowly lit it, The Sparrow crossed to the telephone.

He quickly found Lady Ranscomb’s number in the directory, and a few moments later was talking to the butler, of whom he inquired for Miss Dorise.

“Tell her,” he added, “that a friend of Mr. Henfrey’s wishes to speak to her.”

In a few moments The Sparrow heard the girl’s voice.

“Yes?” she inquired. “Who is speaking?”

“A friend of Mr. Henfrey,” was the reply of the man with the gloved hand. “You will probably guess who it is.”

He heard a little nervous laugh, and then:

“Oh, yes. I—I have an idea, but I can’t talk to you over the ‘phone. I’ve got somebody who’s just called. Mother is out—and——” Then she lowered her voice, evidently not desirous of being heard in the adjoining room. “Well, I don’t know what to do.”

“What do you mean? Does it concern Mr. Henfrey?”

“Yes. It does. There’s a man here to see me from Scotland Yard! What shall I do?”

The Sparrow gasped at the girl’s announcement.

Next second he recovered himself.

“A man from Scotland Yard!” he echoed. “Why has he called?”

“He knows that Mr. Henfrey is living at Shapley, in Surrey. And he has been asking whether I am acquainted with you.”