An African Millionaire: Episodes in the Life of the Illustrious Colonel Clay Read online

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  An African Millionaire

  Episodes in the Life of the Illustrious Colonel Clay

  By Grant Allen

  First published in 1897

  CONTENTS

  1. The Episode of the Mexican Seer

  2. The Episode of the Diamond Links

  3. The Episode of the Old Master

  4. The Episode of the Tyrolean Castle

  5. The Episode of the Drawn Game

  6. The Episode of the German Professor

  7. The Episode of the Arrest of the Colonel

  8. The Episode of the Seldon Gold-Mine

  9. The Episode of the Japanned Dispatch-Box

  10. The Episode of the Game of Poker

  11. The Episode of the Bertillon Method

  12. The Episode of the Old Bailey

  I

  THE EPISODE OF THE MEXICAN SEER

  My name is Seymour Wilbraham Wentworth. I am brother-in-law andsecretary to Sir Charles Vandrift, the South African millionaire andfamous financier. Many years ago, when Charlie Vandrift was a smalllawyer in Cape Town, I had the (qualified) good fortune to marry hissister. Much later, when the Vandrift estate and farm near Kimberleydeveloped by degrees into the Cloetedorp Golcondas, Limited, mybrother-in-law offered me the not unremunerative post of secretary;in which capacity I have ever since been his constant and attachedcompanion.

  He is not a man whom any common sharper can take in, is CharlesVandrift. Middle height, square build, firm mouth, keen eyes--thevery picture of a sharp and successful business genius. I have onlyknown one rogue impose upon Sir Charles, and that one rogue, as theCommissary of Police at Nice remarked, would doubtless have imposedupon a syndicate of Vidocq, Robert Houdin, and Cagliostro.

  We had run across to the Riviera for a few weeks in the season. Ourobject being strictly rest and recreation from the arduous dutiesof financial combination, we did not think it necessary to take ourwives out with us. Indeed, Lady Vandrift is absolutely wedded to thejoys of London, and does not appreciate the rural delights of theMediterranean littoral. But Sir Charles and I, though immersed inaffairs when at home, both thoroughly enjoy the complete change fromthe City to the charming vegetation and pellucid air on the terraceat Monte Carlo. We _are_ so fond of scenery. That delicious viewover the rocks of Monaco, with the Maritime Alps in the rear, andthe blue sea in front, not to mention the imposing Casino in theforeground, appeals to me as one of the most beautiful prospects inall Europe. Sir Charles has a sentimental attachment for the place.He finds it restores and freshens him, after the turmoil of London,to win a few hundreds at roulette in the course of an afternoonamong the palms and cactuses and pure breezes of Monte Carlo. Thecountry, say I, for a jaded intellect! However, we never on anyaccount actually stop in the Principality itself. Sir Charles thinksMonte Carlo is not a sound address for a financier's letters. Heprefers a comfortable hotel on the Promenade des Anglais at Nice,where he recovers health and renovates his nervous system by takingdaily excursions along the coast to the Casino.

  This particular season we were snugly ensconced at the Hotel desAnglais. We had capital quarters on the first floor--salon, study,and bedrooms--and found on the spot a most agreeable cosmopolitansociety. All Nice, just then, was ringing with talk about a curiousimpostor, known to his followers as the Great Mexican Seer, andsupposed to be gifted with second sight, as well as with endlessother supernatural powers. Now, it is a peculiarity of my ablebrother-in-law's that, when he meets with a quack, he burns toexpose him; he is so keen a man of business himself that it giveshim, so to speak, a disinterested pleasure to unmask and detectimposture in others. Many ladies at the hotel, some of whom had metand conversed with the Mexican Seer, were constantly telling usstrange stories of his doings. He had disclosed to one the presentwhereabouts of a runaway husband; he had pointed out to another thenumbers that would win at roulette next evening; he had shown athird the image on a screen of the man she had for years adoredwithout his knowledge. Of course, Sir Charles didn't believe a wordof it; but his curiosity was roused; he wished to see and judge forhimself of the wonderful thought-reader.

  "What would be his terms, do you think, for a private seance?" heasked of Madame Picardet, the lady to whom the Seer had successfullypredicted the winning numbers.

  "He does not work for money," Madame Picardet answered, "but forthe good of humanity. I'm sure he would gladly come and exhibit fornothing his miraculous faculties."

  "Nonsense!" Sir Charles answered. "The man must live. I'd pay himfive guineas, though, to see him alone. What hotel is he stopping at?"

  "The Cosmopolitan, I think," the lady answered. "Oh no; I remembernow, the Westminster."

  Sir Charles turned to me quietly. "Look here, Seymour," hewhispered. "Go round to this fellow's place immediately afterdinner, and offer him five pounds to give a private seance at oncein my rooms, without mentioning who I am to him; keep the name quitequiet. Bring him back with you, too, and come straight upstairswith him, so that there may be no collusion. We'll see just how muchthe fellow can tell us."

  I went as directed. I found the Seer a very remarkable andinteresting person. He stood about Sir Charles's own height, but wasslimmer and straighter, with an aquiline nose, strangely piercingeyes, very large black pupils, and a finely-chiselled close-shavenface, like the bust of Antinous in our hall in Mayfair. What gave himhis most characteristic touch, however, was his odd head of hair,curly and wavy like Paderewski's, standing out in a halo round hishigh white forehead and his delicate profile. I could see at aglance why he succeeded so well in impressing women; he had thelook of a poet, a singer, a prophet.

  "I have come round," I said, "to ask whether you will consent togive a seance at once in a friend's rooms; and my principal wishesme to add that he is prepared to pay five pounds as the price of theentertainment."

  Senor Antonio Herrera--that was what he called himself--bowed tome with impressive Spanish politeness. His dusky olive cheeks werewrinkled with a smile of gentle contempt as he answered gravely--

  "I do not sell my gifts; I bestow them freely. If your friend--youranonymous friend--desires to behold the cosmic wonders that arewrought through my hands, I am glad to show them to him.Fortunately, as often happens when it is necessary to convinceand confound a sceptic (for that your friend is a sceptic I feelinstinctively), I chance to have no engagements at all thisevening." He ran his hand through his fine, long hair reflectively."Yes, I go," he continued, as if addressing some unknown presencethat hovered about the ceiling; "I go; come with me!" Then he put onhis broad sombrero, with its crimson ribbon, wrapped a cloak roundhis shoulders, lighted a cigarette, and strode forth by my sidetowards the Hotel des Anglais.

  He talked little by the way, and that little in curt sentences. Heseemed buried in deep thought; indeed, when we reached the door andI turned in, he walked a step or two farther on, as if not noticingto what place I had brought him. Then he drew himself up short, andgazed around him for a moment. "Ha, the Anglais," he said--and I maymention in passing that his English, in spite of a slight southernaccent, was idiomatic and excellent. "It is here, then; it is here!"He was addressing once more the unseen presence.

  I smiled to think that these childish devices were intended todeceive Sir Charles Vandrift. Not quite the sort of man (as the Cityof London knows) to be taken in by hocus-pocus. And all this, I saw,was the cheapest and most commonplace conjurer's patter.

  We went upstairs to our rooms. Charles had gathered together
afew friends to watch the performance. The Seer entered, wrapt inthought. He was in evening dress, but a red sash round his waistgave a touch of picturesqueness and a dash of colour. He paused fora moment in the middle of the salon, without letting his eyes reston anybody or anything. Then he walked straight up to Charles, andheld out his dark hand.

  "Good-evening," he said. "You are the host. My soul's sight tellsme so."

  "Good shot," Sir Charles answered. "These fellows have to bequick-witted, you know, Mrs. Mackenzie, or they'd never get onat it."

  The Seer gazed about him, and smiled blankly at a person or twowhose faces he seemed to recognise from a previous existence. ThenCharles began to ask him a few simple questions, not about himself,but about me, just to test him. He answered most of them withsurprising correctness. "His name? His name begins with an S Ithink:--You call him Seymour." He paused long between each clause, asif the facts were revealed to him slowly. "Seymour--Wilbraham--Earlof Strafford. No, not Earl of Strafford! Seymour WilbrahamWentworth. There seems to be some connection in somebody's mind nowpresent between Wentworth and Strafford. I am not English. I do notknow what it means. But they are somehow the same name, Wentworthand Strafford."

  He gazed around, apparently for confirmation. A lady came to hisrescue.

  "Wentworth was the surname of the great Earl of Strafford," shemurmured gently; "and I was wondering, as you spoke, whetherMr. Wentworth might possibly be descended from him."

  "He is," the Seer replied instantly, with a flash of those darkeyes. And I thought this curious; for though my father alwaysmaintained the reality of the relationship, there was one linkwanting to complete the pedigree. He could not make sure thatthe Hon. Thomas Wilbraham Wentworth was the father of JonathanWentworth, the Bristol horse-dealer, from whom we are descended.

  "Where was I born?" Sir Charles interrupted, coming suddenly to hisown case.

  The Seer clapped his two hands to his forehead and held it betweenthem, as if to prevent it from bursting. "Africa," he said slowly,as the facts narrowed down, so to speak. "South Africa; Cape of GoodHope; Jansenville; De Witt Street. 1840."

  "By Jove, he's correct," Sir Charles muttered. "He seems really todo it. Still, he may have found me out. He may have known where hewas coming."

  "I never gave a hint," I answered; "till he reached the door, hedidn't even know to what hotel I was piloting him."

  The Seer stroked his chin softly. His eye appeared to me to have afurtive gleam in it. "Would you like me to tell you the number ofa bank-note inclosed in an envelope?" he asked casually.

  "Go out of the room," Sir Charles said, "while I pass it round thecompany."

  Senor Herrera disappeared. Sir Charles passed it round cautiously,holding it all the time in his own hand, but letting his guests seethe number. Then he placed it in an envelope and gummed it downfirmly.

  The Seer returned. His keen eyes swept the company with acomprehensive glance. He shook his shaggy mane. Then he tookthe envelope in his hands and gazed at it fixedly. "AF, 73549,"he answered, in a slow tone. "A Bank of England note for fiftypounds--exchanged at the Casino for gold won yesterday atMonte Carlo."

  "I see how he did that," Sir Charles said triumphantly. "He musthave changed it there himself; and then I changed it back again.In point of fact, I remember seeing a fellow with long hair loafingabout. Still, it's capital conjuring."

  "He can see through matter," one of the ladies interposed. It wasMadame Picardet. "He can see through a box." She drew a little goldvinaigrette, such as our grandmothers used, from her dress-pocket."What is in this?" she inquired, holding it up to him.

  Senor Herrera gazed through it. "Three gold coins," he replied,knitting his brows with the effort of seeing into the box: "one,an American five dollars; one, a French ten-franc piece; one,twenty marks, German, of the old Emperor William."

  She opened the box and passed it round. Sir Charles smiled a quietsmile.

  "Confederacy!" he muttered, half to himself. "Confederacy!"

  The Seer turned to him with a sullen air. "You want a better sign?"he said, in a very impressive voice. "A sign that will convince you!Very well: you have a letter in your left waistcoat pocket--acrumpled-up letter. Do you wish me to read it out? I will, if youdesire it."

  It may seem to those who know Sir Charles incredible, but, I ambound to admit, my brother-in-law coloured. What that lettercontained I cannot say; he only answered, very testily andevasively, "No, thank you; I won't trouble you. The exhibition youhave already given us of your skill in this kind more than amplysuffices." And his fingers strayed nervously to his waistcoatpocket, as if he was half afraid, even then, Senor Herrera wouldread it.

  I fancied, too, he glanced somewhat anxiously towards MadamePicardet.

  The Seer bowed courteously. "Your will, senor, is law," he said. "Imake it a principle, though I can see through all things, invariablyto respect the secrecies and sanctities. If it were not so, I mightdissolve society. For which of us is there who could bear the wholetruth being told about him?" He gazed around the room. An unpleasantthrill supervened. Most of us felt this uncanny Spanish Americanknew really too much. And some of us were engaged in financialoperations.

  "For example," the Seer continued blandly, "I happened a few weeksago to travel down here from Paris by train with a very intelligentman, a company promoter. He had in his bag some documents--someconfidential documents:" he glanced at Sir Charles. "You know thekind of thing, my dear sir: reports from experts--from miningengineers. You may have seen some such; marked _strictly private_."

  "They form an element in high finance," Sir Charles admitted coldly.

  "Pre-cisely," the Seer murmured, his accent for a moment lessSpanish than before. "And, as they were marked _strictly private_,I respect, of course, the seal of confidence. That's all I wish tosay. I hold it a duty, being intrusted with such powers, not to usethem in a manner which may annoy or incommode my fellow-creatures."

  "Your feeling does you honour," Sir Charles answered, with someacerbity. Then he whispered in my ear: "Confounded clever scoundrel,Sey; rather wish we hadn't brought him here."

  Senor Herrera seemed intuitively to divine this wish, for heinterposed, in a lighter and gayer tone--

  "I will now show you a different and more interesting embodimentof occult power, for which we shall need a somewhat subduedarrangement of surrounding lights. Would you mind, senor host--forI have purposely abstained from reading your name on the brain ofany one present--would you mind my turning down this lamp just alittle? ... So! That will do. Now, this one; and this one. Exactly!that's right." He poured a few grains of powder out of a packet intoa saucer. "Next, a match, if you please. Thank you!" It burnt with astrange green light. He drew from his pocket a card, and produced alittle ink-bottle. "Have you a pen?" he asked.

  I instantly brought one. He handed it to Sir Charles. "Oblige me,"he said, "by writing your name there." And he indicated a place inthe centre of the card, which had an embossed edge, with a smallmiddle square of a different colour.

  Sir Charles has a natural disinclination to signing his name withoutknowing why. "What do you want with it?" he asked. (A millionaire'ssignature has so many uses.)

  "I want you to put the card in an envelope," the Seer replied, "andthen to burn it. After that, I shall show you your own name writtenin letters of blood on my arm, in your own handwriting."

  Sir Charles took the pen. If the signature was to be burned as soonas finished, he didn't mind giving it. He wrote his name in hisusual firm clear style--the writing of a man who knows his worthand is not afraid of drawing a cheque for five thousand.

  "Look at it long," the Seer said, from the other side of the room.He had not watched him write it.

  Sir Charles stared at it fixedly. The Seer was really beginning toproduce an impression.

  "Now, put it in that envelope," the Seer exclaimed.

  Sir Charles, like a lamb, placed it as directed.

  The Seer strode forward. "Give me the envelope," he said. He
took itin his hand, walked over towards the fireplace, and solemnly burntit. "See--it crumbles into ashes," he cried. Then he came back tothe middle of the room, close to the green light, rolled up hissleeve, and held his arm before Sir Charles. There, in blood-redletters, my brother-in-law read the name, "Charles Vandrift," inhis own handwriting!

  "I see how that's done," Sir Charles murmured, drawing back. "It'sa clever delusion; but still, I see through it. It's like thatghost-book. Your ink was deep green; your light was green; you mademe look at it long; and then I saw the same thing written on theskin of your arm in complementary colours."

  "You think so?" the Seer replied, with a curious curl of the lip.

  "I'm sure of it," Sir Charles answered.

  Quick as lightning the Seer again rolled up his sleeve. "That'syour name," he cried, in a very clear voice, "but not your wholename. What do you say, then, to my right? Is this one also acomplementary colour?" He held his other arm out. There, insea-green letters, I read the name, "Charles O'Sullivan Vandrift."It is my brother-in-law's full baptismal designation; but he hasdropped the O'Sullivan for many years past, and, to say the truth,doesn't like it. He is a little bit ashamed of his mother's family.

  Charles glanced at it hurriedly. "Quite right," he said, "quiteright!" But his voice was hollow. I could guess he didn't care tocontinue the seance. He could see through the man, of course; but itwas clear the fellow knew too much about us to be entirely pleasant.

  "Turn up the lights," I said, and a servant turned them. "Shall Isay coffee and benedictine?" I whispered to Vandrift.

  "By all means," he answered. "Anything to keep this fellow fromfurther impertinences! And, I say, don't you think you'd bettersuggest at the same time that the men should smoke? Even theseladies are not above a cigarette--some of them."

  There was a sigh of relief. The lights burned brightly. The Seer forthe moment retired from business, so to speak. He accepted a partagawith a very good grace, sipped his coffee in a corner, and chattedto the lady who had suggested Strafford with marked politeness. Hewas a polished gentleman.

  Next morning, in the hall of the hotel, I saw Madame Picardet again,in a neat tailor-made travelling dress, evidently bound for therailway-station.

  "What, off, Madame Picardet?" I cried.

  She smiled, and held out her prettily-gloved hand. "Yes, I'm off,"she answered archly. "Florence, or Rome, or somewhere. I've drainedNice dry--like a sucked orange. Got all the fun I can out of it.Now I'm away again to my beloved Italy."

  But it struck me as odd that, if Italy was her game, she went by theomnibus which takes down to the train de luxe for Paris. However,a man of the world accepts what a lady tells him, no matter howimprobable; and I confess, for ten days or so, I thought no moreabout her, or the Seer either.

  At the end of that time our fortnightly pass-book came in fromthe bank in London. It is part of my duty, as the millionaire'ssecretary, to make up this book once a fortnight, and to comparethe cancelled cheques with Sir Charles's counterfoils. On thisparticular occasion I happened to observe what I can only describeas a very grave discrepancy,--in fact, a discrepancy of 5000 pounds.On the wrong side, too. Sir Charles was debited with 5000 poundsmore than the total amount that was shown on the counterfoils.

  I examined the book with care. The source of the error was obvious.It lay in a cheque to Self or Bearer, for 5000 pounds, signed by SirCharles, and evidently paid across the counter in London, as it boreon its face no stamp or indication of any other office.

  I called in my brother-in-law from the salon to the study. "Lookhere, Charles," I said, "there's a cheque in the book which youhaven't entered." And I handed it to him without comment, for Ithought it might have been drawn to settle some little loss on theturf or at cards, or to make up some other affair he didn't desireto mention to me. These things will happen.

  He looked at it and stared hard. Then he pursed up his mouth andgave a long low "Whew!" At last he turned it over and remarked,"I say, Sey, my boy, we've just been done jolly well brown,haven't we?"

  I glanced at the cheque. "How do you mean?" I inquired.

  "Why, the Seer," he replied, still staring at it ruefully. "Idon't mind the five thou., but to think the fellow should havegammoned the pair of us like that--ignominious, I call it!"

  "How do you know it's the Seer?" I asked.

  "Look at the green ink," he answered. "Besides, I recollect thevery shape of the last flourish. I flourished a bit like that inthe excitement of the moment, which I don't always do with myregular signature."

  "He's done us," I answered, recognising it. "But how the dickensdid he manage to transfer it to the cheque? This looks like yourown handwriting, Charles, not a clever forgery."

  "It is," he said. "I admit it--I can't deny it. Only fancy hisbamboozling me when I was most on my guard! I wasn't to be takenin by any of his silly occult tricks and catch-words; but it neveroccurred to me he was going to victimise me financially in thisway. I expected attempts at a loan or an extortion; but to collarmy signature to a blank cheque--atrocious!"

  "How did he manage it?" I asked.

  "I haven't the faintest conception. I only know those are thewords I wrote. I could swear to them anywhere."

  "Then you can't protest the cheque?"

  "Unfortunately, no; it's my own true signature."

  We went that afternoon without delay to see the Chief Commissaryof Police at the office. He was a gentlemanly Frenchman, much lessformal and red-tapey than usual, and he spoke excellent Englishwith an American accent, having acted, in fact, as a detective inNew York for about ten years in his early manhood.

  "I guess," he said slowly, after hearing our story, "you've beenvictimised right here by Colonel Clay, gentlemen."

  "Who is Colonel Clay?" Sir Charles asked.

  "That's just what I want to know," the Commissary answered, inhis curious American-French-English. "He is a Colonel, because heoccasionally gives himself a commission; he is called Colonel Clay,because he appears to possess an india-rubber face, and he canmould it like clay in the hands of the potter. Real name, unknown.Nationality, equally French and English. Address, usually Europe.Profession, former maker of wax figures to the Musee Grevin. Age,what he chooses. Employs his knowledge to mould his own noseand cheeks, with wax additions, to the character he desires topersonate. Aquiline this time, you say. Hein! Anything like thesephotographs?"

  He rummaged in his desk and handed us two.

  "Not in the least," Sir Charles answered. "Except, perhaps, as to theneck, everything here is quite unlike him."

  "Then that's the Colonel!" the Commissary answered, with decision,rubbing his hands in glee. "Look here," and he took out a penciland rapidly sketched the outline of one of the two faces--that ofa bland-looking young man, with no expression worth mentioning."There's the Colonel in his simple disguise. Very good. Now watchme: figure to yourself that he adds here a tiny patch of wax to hisnose--an aquiline bridge--just so; well, you have him right there;and the chin, ah, one touch: now, for hair, a wig: for complexion,nothing easier: that's the profile of your rascal, isn't it?"

  "Exactly," we both murmured. By two curves of the pencil, and ashock of false hair, the face was transmuted.

  "He had very large eyes, with very big pupils, though," I objected,looking close; "and the man in the photograph here has them smalland boiled-fishy."

  "That's so," the Commissary answered. "A drop of belladonnaexpands--and produces the Seer; five grains of opium contract--andgive a dead-alive, stupidly-innocent appearance. Well, you leavethis affair to me, gentlemen. I'll see the fun out. I don't say I'llcatch him for you; nobody ever yet has caught Colonel Clay; butI'll explain how he did the trick; and that ought to be consolationenough to a man of your means for a trifle of five thousand!"

  "You are not the conventional French office-holder, M. leCommissaire," I ventured to interpose.

  "You bet!" the Commissary replied, and drew himself up like acaptain of infantry. "Messieurs," he continued, in French,
with theutmost dignity, "I shall devote the resources of this office totracing out the crime, and, if possible, to effectuating the arrestof the culpable."

  We telegraphed to London, of course, and we wrote to the bank, witha full description of the suspected person. But I need hardly addthat nothing came of it.

  Three days later the Commissary called at our hotel. "Well,gentlemen," he said, "I am glad to say I have discoveredeverything!"

  "What? Arrested the Seer?" Sir Charles cried.

  The Commissary drew back, almost horrified at the suggestion.

  "Arrested Colonel Clay?" he exclaimed. "Mais, monsieur, we are onlyhuman! Arrested him? No, not quite. But tracked out how he did it.That is already much--to unravel Colonel Clay, gentlemen!"

  "Well, what do you make of it?" Sir Charles asked, crestfallen.

  The Commissary sat down and gloated over his discovery. It wasclear a well-planned crime amused him vastly. "In the first place,monsieur," he said, "disabuse your mind of the idea that whenmonsieur your secretary went out to fetch Senor Herrera that night,Senor Herrera didn't know to whose rooms he was coming. Quiteotherwise, in point of fact. I do not doubt myself that SenorHerrera, or Colonel Clay (call him which you like), came to Nicethis winter for no other purpose than just to rob you."

  "But I sent for him," my brother-in-law interposed.

  "Yes; he _meant_ you to send for him. He forced a card, so tospeak. If he couldn't do that I guess he would be a pretty poorconjurer. He had a lady of his own--his wife, let us say, or hissister--stopping here at this hotel; a certain Madame Picardet.Through her he induced several ladies of your circle to attend hisseances. She and they spoke to you about him, and aroused yourcuriosity. You may bet your bottom dollar that when he came tothis room he came ready primed and prepared with endless factsabout both of you."

  "What fools we have been, Sey," my brother-in-law exclaimed. "I seeit all now. That designing woman sent round before dinner to say Iwanted to meet him; and by the time you got there he was readyfor bamboozling me."

  "That's so," the Commissary answered. "He had your name readypainted on both his arms; and he had made other preparations ofstill greater importance."

  "You mean the cheque. Well, how did he get it?"

  The Commissary opened the door. "Come in," he said. And a young manentered whom we recognised at once as the chief clerk in the ForeignDepartment of the Credit Marseillais, the principal bank all alongthe Riviera.

  "State what you know of this cheque," the Commissary said, showingit to him, for we had handed it over to the police as a piece ofevidence.

  "About four weeks since--" the clerk began.

  "Say ten days before your seance," the Commissary interposed.

  "A gentleman with very long hair and an aquiline nose, dark,strange, and handsome, called in at my department and asked if Icould tell him the name of Sir Charles Vandrift's London banker.He said he had a sum to pay in to your credit, and asked if wewould forward it for him. I told him it was irregular for us toreceive the money, as you had no account with us, but that yourLondon bankers were Darby, Drummond, and Rothenberg, Limited."

  "Quite right," Sir Charles murmured.

  "Two days later a lady, Madame Picardet, who was a customer of ours,brought in a good cheque for three hundred pounds, signed by afirst-rate name, and asked us to pay it in on her behalf to Darby,Drummond, and Rothenberg's, and to open a London account with themfor her. We did so, and received in reply a cheque-book."

  "From which this cheque was taken, as I learn from the number,by telegram from London," the Commissary put in. "Also, that onthe same day on which your cheque was cashed, Madame Picardet,in London, withdrew her balance."

  "But how did the fellow get me to sign the cheque?" Sir Charlescried. "How did he manage the card trick?"

  The Commissary produced a similar card from his pocket. "Was thatthe sort of thing?" he asked.

  "Precisely! A facsimile."

  "I thought so. Well, our Colonel, I find, bought a packet of suchcards, intended for admission to a religious function, at a shopin the Quai Massena. He cut out the centre, and, see here--" TheCommissary turned it over, and showed a piece of paper pasted neatlyover the back; this he tore off, and there, concealed behind it, laya folded cheque, with only the place where the signature should bewritten showing through on the face which the Seer had presentedto us. "I call that a neat trick," the Commissary remarked, withprofessional enjoyment of a really good deception.

  "But he burnt the envelope before my eyes," Sir Charles exclaimed.

  "Pooh!" the Commissary answered. "What would he be worth as aconjurer, anyway, if he couldn't substitute one envelope for anotherbetween the table and the fireplace without your noticing it? AndColonel Clay, you must remember, is a prince among conjurers."

  "Well, it's a comfort to know we've identified our man, and thewoman who was with him," Sir Charles said, with a slight sigh ofrelief. "The next thing will be, of course, you'll follow them upon these clues in England and arrest them?"

  The Commissary shrugged his shoulders. "Arrest them!" he exclaimed,much amused. "Ah, monsieur, but you are sanguine! No officer ofjustice has ever succeeded in arresting le Colonel Caoutchouc, aswe call him in French. He is as slippery as an eel, that man. Hewriggles through our fingers. Suppose even we caught him, what couldwe prove? I ask you. Nobody who has seen him once can ever swearto him again in his next impersonation. He is impayable, this goodColonel. On the day when I arrest him, I assure you, monsieur, Ishall consider myself the smartest police-officer in Europe."

  "Well, I shall catch him yet," Sir Charles answered, and relapsedinto silence.