The Mind of Mr. J. G. Reeder

for the moment occur to him. He beckoned Art aside.

“If you can keep these people here tonight,” he said in a low voice, “I’ll undertake to raise all the money you want on that collection alone.”

Art shook his head.

“It’s no use, Mr. Staffen. I know this guy. Unless I can send him the money tonight, we’ll not smell the rest of the stuff.”

Suddenly he clapped his hands.

“Gee!” he breathed. “That’s an idea! You’ve got your chequebook.”

Cold suspicion showed in the eyes of Bertie Claude.

“I’ve got my chequebook, certainly,” he said, “but⁠—”

“Come into the dining-room.” Art almost ran ahead of him, and when they reached the room he closed the door. “A cheque can’t be presented for two or three days. It certainly couldn’t be presented tomorrow,” he said, speaking rapidly. “By that time we could get this stuff up to town to your bankers, and you could keep it until I redeem it. What’s more, you can stop payment of the cheque tomorrow morning if the stones aren’t worth the money.”

Bertie looked at the matter from ten different angles in as many seconds.

“Suppose I gave them a postdated cheque to make sure?” he said.

“Postdated?” Mr. Lomer was puzzled. “What does that mean?” And when Bertie explained, his face brightened. “Why, sure!” he said. “That’s a double protection. Make it payable the day after tomorrow.”

Bertie hesitated no more. Sitting down at the table he took out his chequebook and a fountain pen, and verified the date.

“Make it ‘bearer,’ ” suggested Art, when the writer paused, “same as you did the other cheque.”

Bertie nodded and added his signature, with its characteristic underlining.

“Wait a second.”

Art went out of the room and came back within a minute.

“They’ve taken it!” he said exultantly. “Boy,” he said, as he slapped the gratified young man on the shoulder, “you’ve gotta come in on this now and I didn’t want you to. It’s fifty-fifty⁠—I’m no hog. Come along, and I’ll show you something else that I never intended showing a soul.”

He went out into the passage, opened a little door that led down a flight of stone steps to the cellar, switching on the light as he went down the stairs. Unlocking a heavy door, he threw it open.

“See here,” he said, “did you ever see anything like this?”

Bertie Claude peered into the dark interior.

“I don’t see⁠—” he began, when he was so violently pushed into the darkness that he stumbled.

In another second the door closed on him; he heard the snap of a lock and shrieked: “I say, what’s this!”

“I say, you’ll find out in a day or two,” said the mocking voice of Mr. Lomer.

Art closed the second door, ran lightly up the stairs and joined footman, butler, trim maid and the three visitors in the drawing-room.

“He’s well inside. And he stays there till the cheque matures⁠—there’s enough food and water in the cellar to last him a week.”

“Did you get him?” asked the bearded Russian.

“Get him! He was easy,” said the other scornfully. “Now, you boys and girls, skip, and skip quick! I’ve got a letter from this guy to his bank manager, telling him to⁠—” he consulted the letter and quoted⁠—“ ‘to cash the attached cheque for my friend Mr. Arthur Lomer.’ ”

There was a murmur of approval from the troupe.

“The aeroplane’s gone back, I suppose?”

The man in the leather coat nodded.

“Yes,” he said, “I only hired it for the afternoon.”

“Well, you can get back too. Ray and Al, you go to Paris and take the C.P. boat from Havre. Slicky, you get those whiskers off and leave honest from Liverpool. Pauline and Aggie will make Genoa, and we’ll meet at Leoni’s on the fourteenth of next month and cut the stuff all ways!”

---

Two days later Mr. Art Lomer walked into the noble offices of the Northern Commercial Bank and sought an interview with the manager. That gentleman read the letter, examined the cheque and touched a bell.

“It’s a mighty big sum,” said Mr. Lomer, in an almost awestricken voice.

The manager smiled. “We cash fairly large cheques here,” he said, and, to the clerk who came at his summons: “Mr. Lomer would like as much of this in American currency as possible. How did you leave Mr. Staffen?”

“Why, Bertie and I have been in Paris over that new company of mine,” said Lomer. “My! it’s difficult to finance Canadian industries in this country, Mr. Soames, but we’ve made a mighty fine deal in Paris.”

He chatted on purely commercial topics until the clerk returned and laid a heap of bills and banknotes on the table. Mr. Lomer produced a wallet, enclosed the money securely, shook hands with the manager and walked out into the general office. And then he stopped, for Mr. J. G. Reeder stood squarely in his path.

“Payday for the troupe, Mr. Lomer⁠—or do you call it ‘treasury’? My theatrical glossary is rather rusty.”

“Why, Mr. Reeder,” stammered Art, “glad to see you, but I’m rather busy just now⁠—”

“What do you think has happened to our dear friend, Mr. Bertie Claude Staffen?” asked Reeder anxiously.

“Why, he’s in Paris.”

“So soon!” murmured Reeder. “And the police only took him out of your suburban cellar an hour ago! How wonderful are our modern systems of transportation! Marlow one minute, Paris the next, and Moscow, let us say, the next.”

Art hesitated no longer. He dashed past, thrusting the detective aside, and flew for the door. He was so annoyed that the two men who were waiting for him had the greatest difficulty in putting the handcuffs on his wrists.

---

“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Reeder to his chief, “Art always travels with his troupe. The invisibility of the troupe was to me a matter for grave suspicion, and of course I’ve had the house under observation ever since Mr. Staffen disappeared. It is not my business, of course,” he said apologetically, “and really I should not have interfered. Only, as I have often explained to you, the curious workings of my mind⁠—”

The Stealer of Marble

Margaret Belman’s