The Sins of Severac Bablon Part 46

"By--whom?"

"By Severac Bablon, so it is written on his desk. It is unfortunate that Lawrence was there to-night; but I--I am your friend, my child. Are you going to faint--no?"

"No," said the girl, smiling bravely.

"Then good-night."

He pressed her hand again--and was gone.

CHAPTER XXIII

M. LEVI

The art of detection, in common with every other art, produces from time to time a genius; and a genius, whatever else he may be, emphatically is _not_ a person having "an infinite capacity for taking pains." Such masters of criminology as Alphonse Bertillon or his famous compatriot, Victor Lemage, whose resignation so recently had stirred the wide world to wonder--achieve their results by painstaking labours, yes, but all those labours would be more or less futile without that elusive element of inspiration, intuition, luck--call it what you will--which const.i.tutes genius, which alone distinguishes such men from the other capable plodders about them. A brief retrospective survey of the surprising results achieved by Dr. Lepardo within the s.p.a.ce of an hour will show these to have been due to brilliant imagination, deep knowledge of human nature, foresight, unusual mental activity, and--that other capacity so hard to define.

Dr. Lepardo was studying the following paragraph marked by Miss Maitland:

FOR SALE.--Entire furniture, antique, of large flat, comprising pieces by Sheraton, Chippendale, Boule, etc. Paintings by Greuze, Murillo, Van Dyck, also modern masters. Pottery, Chinese, Sevres, old English, etc. A collection of 500 pieces of early pewter, etc., etc., etc. The whole valued at over 30,000.

The torpedo-like car had dropped him at Bedford Court Mansions, and, shuffling up the steps into the hall, he addressed himself to the porter.

"Ah, my friend, has the Count de Guise gone out again?"

"I have not seen him go out, sir."

"Not since you saw him come in?"

"Not since then, sir--no."

"About half-past seven he came in, I think? Yes, about half-past."

"Quite right, sir."

Again the odd gleam came into the doctor's eyes, as it had come when, by one of his amazing leading questions he had learnt that Lawrence Guthrie's father resided in Constantinople. The doctor mounted to the first floor. He was about to ring the bell of No. 59b, when another idea struck him. He descended and again addressed the porter.

"The Count must be resting. He does not reply. He has, of course, discharged his servants?"

"Yes, sir. He leaves England next week."

"Ah, he is alone."

Upstairs once more.

He rang three times before the door was opened to him by a tall, slight man, arrayed in a blue silk dressing-gown. He had a most pleasant face, and wore his moustache and beard according to the latest Parisian mode.

He looked about thirty years of age, was fair, blue-eyed, and handsome.

"I am sorry to trouble you so late, Count," said the old doctor, in perfect French; "but I think I can make you an offer for some, if not all, of your collection."

He hunted, peering through a case which apparently contained some dozens of cards, finally handing the Count the following:

ISIDOR LEVI Fine Art Expert _London and Paris._

Count de Guise hesitated, glanced at his caller, glanced at his watch, cleared his throat--and still hesitated.

"If I approve," continued 'Isidor Levi,' "I will hand you a cheque on the Credit Lyonnais."

The Count bowed.

"Enter, M. Levi. Your name, of course, is known to me."

Indeed it was a name familiar enough in art circles.

Dr. Lepardo entered.

The room into which the Count ushered him was most magnificently appointed. The visitor's feet sank into the carpet as into banked moss.

Beautiful furniture stood about. Pictures by eminent artists graced the walls. Statuettes, vases, busts, choice antiques, were everywhere. It was the room of a wealthy connoisseur, of an aesthete whose delicacy of taste bordered upon the effeminate. The doctor stared hard at the Count without permitting the latter to observe that he did so. With his hands thrust deep in the sack-like pockets of his inverness he drifted from treasure to treasure--uninvited, from room to room--like some rudderless craft. The Count followed. In his handsome face it might be read that he resented the att.i.tude of M. Levi, who behaved as though he found himself in the gallery of a dealer. Suddenly, before a Van Dyck portrait, the visitor cried:

"Ah, a forgery, m'sieur! Spurious."

Count de Guise leapt round upon him with perfect fury blazing in his blue eyes. The veins had sprung into prominence upon his forehead, and one throbbed--a virile blue cord--upon his left temple.

"M'sieur!"

He seemed to choke. His sudden pa.s.sion was volcanic--terrible.

Dr. Lepardo, still peering, seemed not to heed him; then quickly:

"Ah, I apologise, I most sincerely apologise. I was misled by the unusual tone of the brown. But--no, it is undoubted. None other than Van Dyck painted that ruff."

The Count glared and quivered, his fine nostrils distended, a while longer, but swallowed his rage and bowed in acknowledgment of the apology. Dr. Lepardo was off again upon his voyage of discovery, drifting from picture to vase, from statuette to buhl cabinet.

"M'sieur," he rumbled, peering around at de Guise, who now stood by the fireplace of the room to which the visitor's driftings had led him, his hands locked behind him. "I think I can propose you for the entire collection. Is it agreeable?"

The Count bowed.

"Ah!"

M. Levi seated himself at the writing-table--for the room was a beautifully appointed study--and produced a cheque-book.

"Twenty thousand pounds, English?"

The Count laughed contemptuously.

"Twenty-two?"