I had asked the Frenchman, rather angrily I fear, why he was following me, whereat he merely bowed with the exquisite politeness of his race, and replied in good English ­

“I was not aware of following m’sieur.  I regret extremely if I have caused annoyance.  I ask a thousand pardons.”

“Well, your surveillance upon me annoys me,” I declared abruptly.  “I saw you spying upon me in Manchester this afternoon, and you have followed me to London!”

“Ah, yes,” he replied, with a slight gesticulation; “it is true that I was in Manchester.  But our meeting here must be by mere chance.  I was unaware that monsieur was in Manchester,” he assured me in a suave manner.

“Well,” I said in French, “yours is a very lame story, monsieur.  I saw you, and you also saw me talking to Mr. Pennington in the Midland Hotel.  Perhaps you’ll deny that you know Mr. Pennington ­eh?”

“I certainly do not deny that,” he said, with a smile.  “I have known Monsieur Penning-ton for some years.  It is true that I saw him at the Midland.”

“And you withdrew in order to escape his observation ­eh?”

“Monsieur has quick eyes,” he said.  “Yes, that is quite true.”

“Why?”

“For reasons of my own.”

“And you deny having followed me here?”

He hesitated for a second, looking straight into my face in the darkness.

“Come,” I said, “you may as well admit that you followed me from Manchester.”

“Why should I admit what is not the truth?” he asked.  “What motive could I have to follow you ­a perfect stranger?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, I’m a bit suspicious,” I declared, still speaking in French.  “Of late there was a desperate attempt upon my life.”

“By whom?” he inquired quickly.  “Please tell me, Monsieur Biddulph; I am greatly interested in this.”

“Then you know my name?” I exclaimed, surprised.

“Certainly.”

“Why are you interested in me?”

“I may now have a motive,” was his calm yet mysterious reply.  “Tell me in what manner an attempt has been made upon you?”

At first I hesitated, then, after a second’s reflection, I explained the situation in a few words.

“Ah!  Of course, I quite see that monsieur’s mind must be filled by suspicion,” he responded; “yet I regret if I have been the cause of any annoyance.  By the way, how long have you known Monsieur Penning-ton?”

“Oh, some months,” I replied.  “The fact is, I’m engaged to his daughter.”

“His daughter!” echoed the Frenchman, looking at me quickly with a searching glance.  Then he gave vent to a low grunt, and stroked his grey pointed beard.

“And it was after this engagement that the attempt was made upon you ­eh?” he inquired.

“No, before.”

The foreigner remained silent for a few moments.  He seemed considerably puzzled.  I could not make him out.  The fact that he was acquainted with my name showed that he was unduly interested in me, even though he had partially denied it.

“Why do you ask this?” I demanded, as we still stood together at the bottom of St. James’s Street.

“Ah, nothing,” he laughed.  “But ­well, I really fear I’ve aroused your suspicions unduly.  Perhaps it is not so very extraordinary, after all, that in these days of rapid communication two men should catch sight of each other in a Manchester hotel, and, later on, meet in a street in London ­eh?”

“I regard the coincidence as a strange one, monsieur,” I replied stiffly, “if it is really an actual coincidence.”

For aught I knew, the fellow might be a friend of Pennington, or an accomplice of those rascally assassins.  Had I not been warned by Shuttleworth, and also by Sylvia herself, of another secret attempt upon my life?

I was wary now, and full of suspicion.

Instinctively I did not like this mysterious foreigner.  The way in which he had first caught sight of my face as I descended the steps of White’s, and how he had glided after me down St. James’s Street, was not calculated to inspire confidence.

He asked permission to walk at my side along the Mall, which I rather reluctantly granted.  It seemed that, now I had addressed him, I could not shake him off.  Without doubt his intention was to watch, and see where I lived.  Therefore, instead of going in the direction of Buckingham Palace, I turned back eastward towards the steps at the foot of the Duke of York’s Column.

As we strolled in the darkness along the front of Carlton House Terrace he chatted affably with me, then said suddenly ­

“Do you know, Monsieur Biddulph, we met once before ­in rather strange circumstances.  You did not, however, see me.  It was in Paris, some little time ago.  You were staying at the Grand Hotel, and became acquainted with a certain American named Harriman.”

“Harriman!” I echoed, with a start, for that man’s name brought back to me an episode I would fain forget.  The fact is, I had trusted him, and I had believed him to be an honest man engaged in big financial transactions, until I discovered the truth.  My friendship with him cost me nearly one thousand eight hundred pounds.

“Harriman was very smart, was he not?” laughed my friend, with a touch of sarcasm.

Could it be, I wondered, that this Frenchman was a friend of the shrewd and unscrupulous New Yorker?

“Yes,” I replied rather faintly.

“Sharp ­until found out,” went on the stranger, speaking in French.  “His real name is Bell, and he ­”

“Yes, I know; he was arrested for fraud in my presence as he came down the staircase in the hotel,” I interrupted.

“He was arrested upon a much more serious charge,” exclaimed the stranger.  “He was certainly wanted in Berlin and Hanover for frauds in connection with an invention, but the most serious charge against him was one of murder.”

“Murder!” I gasped.  “I never knew that!”

“Yes ­the murder of a young English statesman named Ronald Burke at a villa near Nice.  Surely you read reports of the trial?”

I confessed that I had not done so.

“Well, it was proved conclusively that he was a member of a very dangerous gang of criminals who for several years had committed some of the most clever and audacious thefts.  The organization consisted of over thirty men and women, of varying ages, all of them expert jewel thieves, safe-breakers, or card-sharpers.  Twice each year this interesting company held meetings ­at which every member was present ­and at such meetings certain members were allotted certain districts, or certain profitable pieces of business.  Thus, if half-a-dozen were to-day operating in London as thieves or receivers, they would change, and in a week would be operating in St. Petersburg, while those from Russia would be here.  So cleverly was the band organized that it was practically impossible for the police to make arrests.  It was a more widespread and wealthy criminal organization than has ever before been unearthed.  But the arrest of your friend Harriman, alias Bell, on a charge of murder was the means of exposing the conspiracy, and the ultimate breaking up of the gang.”

“And what of Bell?”

“He narrowly escaped the guillotine, and is now imprisoned for life at Devil’s Island.”

“And you saw him with me at Paris?” I remarked, in wonder at this strange revelation.  “He certainly never struck me as an assassin.  He was a shrewd man ­a swindler, no doubt, but his humorous bearing and his good-nature were entirely opposed to the belief that his was a sinister nature.”

“Yet it was proved beyond the shadow of a doubt that he and another man killed and robbed a young Englishman named Burke,” responded the Frenchman.  “Perhaps you, yourself, had a narrow escape.  Who knows?  It was no doubt lucky for you that he was arrested.”

“But I understood that the charge was one of fraud,” I said.  “I intended to go to the trial, but I was called to Italy.”

“The charge of fraud was made in order not to alarm his accomplice,” replied the stranger.

“How do you know that?” I inquired.

“Well” ­he hesitated ­“that came out at the trial.  There were full accounts of it in the Paris Matin.”

“I don’t care for reading Assize Court horrors,” I replied, still puzzled regarding my strange companion’s intimate knowledge concerning the man whose dramatic and sudden arrest had, on that memorable afternoon, so startled me.

“When I saw your face just now,” he said, “I recognized you as being at the Grand Hotel with Bell.  Do you know,” he laughed, “you were such a close friend of the accused that you were suspected of being a member of the dangerous association!  Indeed, you very narrowly escaped arrest on suspicion.  It was only because the reception clerk in the hotel knew you well, and vouched for your respectability and that Biddulph was your real name.  Yet, for a full week, you were watched closely by the sûreté.”

“And I was all unconscious of it!” I cried, realizing how narrowly I had escaped a very unpleasant time.  “How do you know all this?” I asked.

But the Frenchman with the gold glasses and the big amethyst ring upon his finger merely laughed, and refused to satisfy me.

From him, however, I learned that the depredations of the formidable gang had been unequalled in the annals of crime.  Many of the greatest jewel robberies in the European capitals in recent years had, it was now proved, been effected by them, as well as the theft of the Marchioness of Mottisfont’s jewels at Victoria Station, which were valued at eighteen thousand pounds, and were never recovered; the breaking open of the safe of Levi & Andrews, the well-known diamond-merchants of Hatton Garden, and the theft of a whole vanload of furs before a shop in New Bond Street, all of which are, no doubt, fresh within the memory of the reader of the daily newspapers.

Every single member of that remarkable association of thieves was an expert in his or her branch of dishonesty, while the common fund was a large one, hence members could disguise themselves as wealthy persons, if need be.  One, when arrested, was found occupying a fine old castle in the Tyrol, he told me; another ­an expert burglar ­was a doctor in good practice at Hampstead; another kept a fine jeweller’s shop in Marseilles, while another, a lady, lived in style in a great chateau near Nevers.

“And who exposed them?” I asked, much interested.  “Somebody must have betrayed them.”

“Somebody did betray them ­by anonymous letters to the police ­letters which were received at intervals at the Prefecture in Paris, and led to the arrest of one after another of the chief members of the gang.  It seemed to have been done by some one irritated by Bell’s arrest.  But the identity of the informant has never been ascertained.  He deemed it best to remain hidden ­for obvious reasons,” laughed my friend at my side.

“You seem to know a good many facts regarding the affair,” I said.  “Have you no idea of the identity of the mysterious informant?”

“Well” ­he hesitated ­“I have a suspicion that it was some person associated with them ­some one who became conscience-stricken.  Ah!  M’sieur Biddulph, if you only knew the marvellous cunning of that invulnerable gang.  Had it not been for that informant, they would still be operating ­in open defiance of the police of Europe.  Criminal methods, if expert, only fail for want of funds.  Are not some of our wealthiest financiers mere criminals who, by dealing in thousands, as other men deal in francs, conceal their criminal methods?  Half your successful financiers are merely successful adventurers.  The dossiers of some of them, preserved in the police bureaux, would be astounding reading to those who admire them and proclaim them the successful men of to-day ­kings of finance they call them!”

“You are certainly something of a philosopher,” I laughed, compelled to admit the truth of his argument; “but tell me ­how is it that you know so much concerning George Harriman, alias Bell, and his antecedents?”