“I do not go about with twenty thousand pounds in my pocket-book,” with a smile.
“No, but Streuss believes that you have the document which he is pledged to recover. Be careful that they do not lead you into a trap. They are not above anything, these men. I heard once of a Bulgarian in Vienna who was tortured—tortured almost to death—before he spoke. Then they thrust him into a lunatic asylum. Remember, dear, they have no consciences and no pity.”
“So was Von Behrling,” she answered quickly,—“not only in London but in a safe part of London. Yet he is dead.”
“It was not their doing,” he declared. “In their own country, they have the whole machinery of their wonderful police system at their backs, and no fear of the law in their hearts. Here they must needs go cautiously. I don’t think you need be afraid,” he added, smiling, as he opened the door. “I think I can promise you that if you will do me the honor we will sup together to-night.”
“You must fetch me from the Opera House,” Louise insisted. “It is a bargain. I have suffered enough neglect at your hands. One thing, David,—where do you go first from here?”
“To find the man,” Bellamy answered gravely, “who was watching Von Behrling when he left me. If any man in England knows anything of the murder, it must be he. He should be at my rooms by now.”
CHAPTER XIII STEPHEN LAVERICK’S CONSCIENCE
Stephen Laverick was a bachelor—his friends called him an incorrigible one. He had a small but pleasantly situated suite of rooms in Whitehall Court, looking out upon the river. His habits were almost monotonous in their regularity, and the morning following his late night in the city was no exception to the general rule. At eight o’clock, the valet attached to the suite knocked at his door and informed him that his bath was ready. He awoke at once from a sound sleep, sat up in bed, and remembered the events of the preceding evening.
At first he was inclined to doubt that slowly stirring effort of memory. He was a man of unromantic temperament, unimaginative, and by no means of an adventurous turn of mind. He sought naturally for the most reasonable explanation of this strange picture, which no effort of his will could dismiss from his memory. It was a dream, of course. But the dream did not fade. Slowly it spread itself out so that he could no longer doubt. He knew very well as he sat there on the edge of his bed that the thing was truth. He, Stephen Laverick, a man hitherto of upright character, with a reputation of which unconsciously he was proud, had robbed a dead man, had looked into the burning eyes of his murderer, had stolen away with twenty thousand pounds of someone else’s money. Morally, at any rate,—probably legally as well,—he was a thief. A glimpse inside his safe on the part of an astute detective might very easily bring him under the grave suspicion of being a criminal of altogether deeper dye.