ce, and what is your aim in all this wild
business?"

Severac Bablon turned and regarded him fixedly.

"I will," he said, "when the day comes--if ever it does come." A shadow
crept over his mobile features.

"I am a dreamer, Sheard," he continued, "and perhaps a trifle mad. I am
trying to wield a weapon that my fathers were content to let rust in its
scabbard. For the source of the influence you speak of--its emblem lies
there."

He pointed a long, thin finger to the recess veiled with its heavy
Damascus curtain.

"May I see it?"

The quizzical smile returned to the fine face.

"Oh, thou of the copy-hunting soul," exclaimed Severac Bablon. "A day
may come. But it is not to-day."

He seized Sheard by the arm and led him out into the hall.

"Look at these three portraits," he directed. "The three great practical
investigators of the world. Mr. Brinsley Monro, of Dearborn Street,
Chicago; Mr. Paul Harley, of Chancery Lane; and last, but greatest, M.
Victor Lemage, of Paris."

"Is Duquesne acting under his instructions?"

"M. Lemage took charge of the case this morning."

Sheard looked hard at Severac Bablon. Victor Lemage, inventor of the
anthroposcopic system of identification, the greatest living authority
upon criminology, was a man to be feared.

Severac Bablon smiled, clapped both hands upon his shoulders, and looked
into his eyes.

"It is the lighter side of my strange warfare," he said. "I revel in it,
Sheard. It refreshes me for more serious things. This evening you must
arrange to meet me for a few moments. I shall have a 'scoop' to offer
you for the _Gleaner_. Do not fail me. It will leave you ample time to
get on to Downing Street afterwards. You see, I knew you were going to
Downing Street to-night! Am I not a magician? I shall wire you. If, when
you ring at the door of the house to which you will be directed, no one
replies, go away at once. I will then communicate the news later. And
now--lunch."

CHAPTER XVIII

A WHITE ORCHID

Whoever could have taken a peep into a certain bare-looking room at
Scotland Yard some three hours after Sheard had left Finchley Road must
have been drawn to the conclusion that the net was closing more tightly
about Severac Bablon than he supposed.

Behind a large, bare table, upon which were some sheets of foolscap, a
metal inkpot, and pens, sat Chief Inspector Sheffield. On three
uncomfortable-looking chairs were disposed Detective Sergeant Harborne