The Sins of Séverac Bablon | Page 6

There was little that was obscure
or inexplicable in the coup; it was an amazing display of force majeure,
an act of stark audacity. It pointed to the existence in London of a
hitherto unsuspected genius. Such was Sheard's opinion.
From an American guest, who had kept perfectly cool during the
"hold-up," and had quietly taken stock of the robbers, he learnt that,
exclusive of the spokesman, they numbered exactly thirty; were much
of a similar build, being well-set-up men of military bearing; and, most
extraordinary circumstance, were facially all alike!
"Gee! but it's a fact!" declared his informant. "They all had moderate
fair hair, worn short and parted left-centre, neat blonde moustaches, and
fresh complexions, and the whole thirty were like as beans!"
Two other interesting facts Sheard elicited from Adeler, who wore a
white bandage about his damaged skull. The whole of the guests
victimised were compatriots of their host.
"It is from those who are of my nation that they have taken all their
booty," he said, smiling. "This daring robber has evidently strong racial
prejudices! Then, each of the victims had received, during the past
month threatening letters demanding money for various charities.
These letters did not emanate from the institutions named, but were
anonymous appeals. The point seems worth notice."
And so, armed with the usual police assurance that several sensational
arrests might be expected in the morning, Sheard departed with this
enthralling copy hot for the machines that had been stopped to take it.
When, thoroughly tired, he again quitted the Gleaner office, it was to
direct his weary footsteps towards the Embankment and the all-night
car that should bear him home.

Crossing Tallis Street, he became aware of a confused murmur
proceeding from somewhere ahead, and as he approached nearer to the
river this took definite form and proclaimed itself a chaotic chorus of
human voices.
As he came out on to the Embankment an extraordinary scene
presented itself.
Directly in his path stood a ragged object--a piece of social flotsam--a
unit of London's misery. This poor filthy fellow was singing at the top
of his voice, a music-hall song upon that fertile topic, "the girls," was
dancing wildly around a dilapidated hat which stood upon the
pavement at his feet, and was throwing sovereigns into this same hat
from an apparently inexhaustible store in his coat pocket!
Seeing Sheard standing watching him, he changed his tune and burst
into an extempore lyric, "The quids! The quids! The golden quids--the
quids!" and so on, until, filled with a sudden hot suspicion, he snatched
up his hat, with its jingling contents, hugged it to his breast, and ran
like the wind!
Following him with his eyes as he made off towards Waterloo Bridge,
the bewildered pressman all but came to the conclusion that he was the
victim of a weird hallucination.
For the night was filled with the songs, the shouts, the curses, the
screams, of a ragged army of wretches who threw up gold in the
air--who juggled with gold--who played pitch-and-toss with gold--who
ran with great handfuls of gold clutched to their bosoms--who pursued
one another for gold--who fought to defend the gold they had
gained--who wept for the gold they had lost.
One poor old woman knelt at the kerb, counting bright sovereigns into
neat little piles, and perfectly indifferent to the advice of a kindly
policeman, who, though evidently half dazed with the wonders of the
night, urged her to get along to a safer place.
Two dilapidated tramps, one of whom wore a battered straw hat, whilst

his friend held an ancient green parasol over his bare head, appeared
arm-in-arm, displaying much elegance of deportment, and, hailing a
passing cab, gave the address, "Savoy," with great aplomb.
Fights were plentiful, and the available police were kept busy arresting
the combatants. Two officers passed Sheard, escorting a lean, ragged
individual whose pockets jingled as he walked, and who spoke of the
displeasure with which this unseemly arrest would fill "his people."
Presently a bewildered Salvation Army official appeared. Sheard
promptly buttonholed him.
"Don't ask me, sir!" he said, in response to the obvious question.
"Heaven only knows what it is about! But I can tell you this much: no
less than forty thousand pounds has been given away on the
Embankment to-night! And in gold! Such an incredible example of
ill-considered generosity I've never heard of! More harm has been done
to our work to-night than we can hope to rectify in a twelvemonth!
"Of course, it will do good in a few, a very few, cases. But, on the
whole, it will do, I may say, incalculable harm. How was it distributed?
In little paper bags, like those used by the banks. It sent half the poor
fellows crazy! Just imagine--a