They had been meeting from time to time for several years, conducting their secret and lawless business according to a formula invented by Bourke and religiously observed by Lanyard. A note or telegram of innocent superficial intent, addressed to a certain member of a leading firm of jewellers in Amsterdam, was the invariable signal for conferences such as this; which were invariably held in the same place, at an hour indeterminate between midnight and dawn, between on the one hand this intelligent, cultivated and well-mannered young Jew, and on the other hand the thief in his mask.
In such wise did the Lone Wolf dispose of his loot, at all events of the bulk thereof; other channels were, of course, open to him, but none so safe; and with no other receiver of stolen goods could he hope to make such fair and profitable deals.
Now inevitably in the course of this long association, though each remained in ignorance of his confederate’s identity, these two had come to feel that they knew each other fairly well. Not infrequently, when their business had been transacted, Lanyard would linger an hour with the agent, chatting over cigarettes: both, perhaps, a little thrilled by the piquancy of the situation; for the young Jew was the only man who had ever wittingly met the Lone Wolf face to face. …
Why then this sudden awkwardness and embarrassment on the part of the agent?
Lanyard’s eyes narrowed with suspicion.
In silence he produced a jewel-case of morocco leather and handed it over to the Jew, then settled back in his chair, his attitude one of lounging, but his mind as quick with distrust as the fingers that, under cover of his cloak, rested close to a pocket containing his automatic.
Accepting the box with a little bow, the Jew pressed the catch and discovered its contents. But the richness of the treasure thus disclosed did not seem to surprise him; and, indeed, he had more than once been introduced with no more formality to plunder of far greater value. Fitting a jeweller’s glass to his eye, he took up one after another of the pieces and examined them under the lamplight. Presently he replaced the last, shut down the cover of the box, turned a thoughtful countenance to Lanyard, and made as if to speak, but hesitated.
“Well?” the adventurer demanded impatiently.
“This, I take it,” said the Jew absently, tapping the box, “is the jewellery of Madame Omber.”
“I took it,” Lanyard retorted good-naturedly—“not to put too fine a point upon it!”
“I am sorry,” the other said slowly.
“Yes?”
“It is most unfortunate …”
“May one enquire what is most unfortunate?”
The Jew shrugged and with the tips of his fingers gently pushed the box toward his customer. “This makes me very unhappy,” he admitted: “but I have no choice in the matter, monsieur. As the agent of my principals I am instructed to refuse you an offer for these valuables.”
“Why?”
Again the shrug, accompanied by a deprecatory grimace: “That is difficult to say. No explanation was made me. My instructions were simply to keep this appointment as usual, but to advise you it will be impossible for my principals to continue their relations with you as long as your affairs remain in their present status.”
“Their present status?” Lanyard repeated. “What does that mean, if you please?”
“I cannot say, monsieur. I can only repeat that which was said to me.”
After a moment Lanyard rose, took the box, and replaced it in his pocket. “Very well,” he said quietly. “Your principals, of course, understand that this action on their part definitely ends our relations, rather than merely interrupts them at their whim?”
“I am desolated, monsieur, but … one must assume that they have considered everything. You understand, it is a matter in which I am wholly without discretion, I trust?”
“O quite!” Lanyard assented carelessly. He held out his hand. “Goodbye, my friend.”
The Jew shook hands warmly.
“Good night, monsieur—and the best of luck!”
There was significance in his last words that Lanyard did not trouble to analyze. Beyond doubt, the man knew more than he dared admit. And the adventurer told himself he could shrewdly surmise most of that which the other had felt constrained to leave unspoken.
Pressure from some quarter had been brought to bear upon that eminently respectable firm of jewel dealers in Amsterdam to induce them to discontinue their clandestine relations with the Lone Wolf, profitable though these must have been.
Lanyard believed he could name the quarter whence this pressure was being exerted, but before going further or coming to any momentous decision, he was determined to know to a certainty who were arrayed against him and how much importance he need attach to their antagonism. If he failed in this, it would be the fault of the other side, not his for want of readiness to accept its invitation.
In brief, he didn’t for an instant contemplate abandoning either his rigid rule of solitude or his chosen career without a fight; but he preferred not to fight in the dark.
Anger burned in him no less hotly than chagrin. It could hardly be otherwise with one who, so long suffered to go his way without let or hindrance, now suddenly, in the course of a few brief hours, found himself brought up with a round turn—hemmed in and menaced on every side by secret opposition and hostility.
He no longer feared to be watched; and the very fact that, as far as he could see, he wasn’t watched, only added fuel to his resentment, demonstrating as it did so patently the cynical assurance of the Pack that they had him cornered, without alternative other than to supple himself to their will.
To the driver of the first taxicab he met, Lanyard said “L’Abbaye,” then shutting himself within the conveyance, surrendered to the most morose reflections.
Nothing of this mood was, however, apparent in his manner
