The False Faces | Page 9

believe some one of us a
questionable character."
"German spy?"
"Possibly."
"Or an English traitor?"
"Impossible," asserted another Briton heavily. "There is to-day no such
thing in England. Two years ago the supposition might have been
plausible. But that breed has long since been stamped out--in England."
"Another guess," Crane cut in: "they've taken considerable trouble to
clear the track for us. Maybe it occurred to somebody at the last
moment to make sure none of us was likely to pull off an inside job."
"'Inside job?'" Dressler pleaded.
"Planting bombs in the coal bunkers--things like that--anything to crab
our getting through the barred zone in spite of mines and U-boats."
"Any such attempt would mean almost certain death!"
"What of it? It's been tried before--and got away with. You've got to
hand it to Fritz, he'll risk hell-for-breakfast cheerful any time he gets it
in his bean he's serving Gott und Vaterland."
"Granted," said the Englishman. "But I fancy such an one would find it
far from easy to secure passage upon this or any other vessel."
"How so? You may have haltered all your traitors, but there's still
a-plenty German spies living in England. Even you admit that. And if
they can get by your Secret Service, to say nothing of Scotland Yard,
what's to prevent their fixing to leave the country?"
"Nothing, certainly. But I still contend it is hardly likely."
"Of course it's hardly likely. Look at these guys to-night--dead set on
making an awful example of anybody that couldn't come clean. I didn't
notice them missing any bets. They combed me to the Queen's taste; for
a while I was sure scared they'd extract my pivot tooth to see if there

wasn't something incriminating and degrading secreted inside it. And
nobody got off any easier. I say the good ship Assyrian has a pretty
clean bill of health to go sailing with."
"On the other hand"--yet another American voice was speaking--"no
spy or criminal worth his salt would try to ship without preparations
thorough enough to insure success, barring accidents."
"Criminal?" drawled the Briton incredulously.
"The enterprisin' burglar keeps a-burglin', even in war time. There have
been notable burglaries in London of late, according to your
newspapers."
"And you think the thief would attempt to smuggle his loot out of the
country aboard such a ship as this?"
"Why not?"
"Scotland Yard to the contrary notwithstanding?"
"If Scotland Yard is as efficient as you think, sir, certainly any sane
thief would make every effort to leave a country it was making too hot
for him."
"Considerable criminal!" Crane jeered.
"Undeceive yourself, señor." This was a Brazilian, a quiet little dark
body who commonly contented himself with a listening rôle in the
smoking-room discussions. "There are truly criminals of intelligence.
And war conditions are driving them out of Europe."
Of a sudden Lanyard--stretched out at length upon the leather cushions,
in full view of these gossips--became aware that he was being closely
scrutinised. By whom, with what reason or purpose, he could not
surmise; and it were unwise to look up from that printed page. But that
sixth sense of his--intuition, what you will--that exquisitively sensitive
sentinel admonished that at least one person in the room was watching
him narrowly.
Though he made no move other than to turn a page, his glance followed
blindly blurring lines of text, and his quickened wits overlooked no
shade of meaning or intonation as that talk continued.
"A criminal of intelligence," some one observed, "is a giddy paradox
whose fatuous existence is quite fittingly confined to the realm of
fable."
"You took the identical words right out of my mouth," Crane
complained bitterly.

"Your pardon, señores: history confutes your incredulity."
"But we are talking about to-day."
"Even to-day--can you deny it?--men attain high places by means
which the law would construe as criminal, were they not intelligent
enough to outwit it."
"Big game," Crane objected; "something else again. What we contend
is no man of ordinary common sense could get his own consent to
crack a safe, or pick a pocket, or do second-story work, or pull any
rough stuff like that."
"Again you overlook living facts," persisted the Brazilian.
"Name one--just one."
"The Lone Wolf, then."
"Unnatural history is out of my line," Crane objected. "Why is a lone
wolf, anyway?"
The Brazilian's voice took on an accent of exasperation. "Señores, I do
not jest. I am a student of psychology, more especially of criminal
psychology. I lived long in Paris before this war, and took deep interest
in the case of the Lone Wolf."
"Well, you've got me all excited. Go on with your story."
"With much pleasure.... This gentleman, then, this Michael Lanyard, as
he called himself, was a distinguished Parisian figure, a man of
extraordinary attainment, esteemed