“Colonel mio,” he said softly, “I would give much for an opportunity of meeting that gentleman in a nice dark passage, in one of those old Harrison Ainsworth houses which were providentially built over a river.”
“You will have your wish one of these days,” said the Colonel gruffly; “I don’t like that fellow. He is not one of the ordinary run of policemen. They are bad enough, but this fellow knows too much.”
He nibbled his white moustache, shook his head and turned away from the window as Michael took his farewell of the forger.
“Watch him on the other side,” he said, “and send one of the boys out to follow him.”
He descended the thickly carpeted stairs to the first floor, which was the living suite. The drawing-room in which he turned was a beautifully furnished apartment, and the girl who had been sitting at the piano, her nimble hands running over the keys, looked up as he entered.
IV
“The Ideal Criminal Is a Strategist”
“Where did he go?” she asked.
“He went to Millet,” said the Colonel, throwing himself down to a divan and biting off the end of a fresh cigar. “I wonder what the dickens he wants?” he mused.
Kate Westhanger made a little grimace.
“You can never tell whether a policeman finds his duty a pleasure or his pleasure a duty,” she said. “I suppose he is just renewing acquaintance with Crime Street.”
“Don’t use that phrase,” snapped her uncle.
“I shall use whatever phrase I wish,” she said calmly. “You are getting nervous. Why?”
“I’m not nervous,” he protested loudly; “I am getting old I suppose, and the job is such a big one. It is almost too big for me and if I occupied the position I had a few years ago, Kate, I would drop it. After all, we have made a good deal of money and we might as well all of us live to enjoy it.”
She was back at the piano again and was playing with the soft pedal down.
“Can’t you find anything more cheerful than the ‘Death of Asa?’ ” growled her relative.
“It is nerves, of course; I am awfully sorry.”
She got up and closed the piano with a bang which made him jump.
“I don’t know what to do about Mike,” she mused.
“Gregori has a solution,” said the Colonel.
“To cut his throat, I suppose,” said the girl coolly. “Gregori is so elemental and so horrific! I can’t imagine that he ever has cut a throat in his life, but I suppose he feels that it is in keeping with his sunny southern nature to talk like that. No, Colonel mio,” she mimicked, “we have stopped short of murder so far and I think we will remain on the safe side. My theory coincides with Mike’s. I was reading an article of his in a Socialistic paper the other day and it was all about the Right to Live. I don’t believe in killing people. I believe in bleeding those who have grown apoplectic with their money and I don’t even know whether I believe in that.”
“What do you mean?” the Colonel looked up at her under his shaggy brows.
She shrugged her shoulders.
“I mean,” she said slowly, “I never know whether my views are my own views or whether they are just your views which I reflect like a mirror. You see, dear,” she said, “I am very young but I have a logical mind and my logical mind tells me that no girl can have any very definite views at nineteen, not of her own, I mean. Perhaps when I am twenty-five I shall look upon you as a terrible person, and all this,” she spread her hands out, “as something to think of with a shudder.”
“In the meantime,” said her uncle practically, “you are Miss Ali Baba, chief strategist of our little army and a very exigent young lady—by-the-way, Gregori is kicking.”
She looked at him with a contemptuous little twist of her lips.
“There is a great centre forward lost in Gregori,” she said. “What has moved that dago’s feet?”
“Hush, hush, my child,” cautioned her uncle, “our admirable friend is upstairs and, anyway, it doesn’t do to speak disrespectfully of one’s criminal associates. There is a certain punctilio in our profession which you may have noticed.”
“How queer it sounds!” she said, leaning forward and clasping her knee. “Do you know, uncle, I cannot think straight. Ever since I was so high,” she stretched her hand out before her, “I have never known a desire to secure anything I wanted, save by taking it from somebody else. At the school in Lausanne I seemed to be amongst the queerest people and, honestly, although you had warned me, I thought they were all mad. All their fathers made money in business, which seems to be a slow method of stealing which is allowed by the law. Think of the horrible monotony of working steadily day after day without any holidays, with no excitement, no adventures, save the artificial thrill of a theatre and the adventures that meet you on your way home.”
“I didn’t even know there were those kind of adventures,” said the Colonel, fingering his trim moustache and enjoying with closed eyes the fragrance of his cigar.
“Oh, yes,” nodded the girl, “you meet all sorts of men who raise their hats and say, ‘Good evening, Miss,’ or ‘Haven’t we met before?’ I don’t think they have ever said anything else,” she reflected thoughtfully—“they all belong to the ‘Good evening’ or the ‘Met you before’ school, and they all want to know if you are ‘going their way.’ ”
“What happens then?” asked the amused Colonel, carefully removing his cigar in order that he might laugh without detriment to
