The Sins of Séverac Bablon | Page 7

broken-down wretch who'd lived on the
verge of starvation for, maybe, years, suddenly has a bag of sovereigns
put into his hand! Good heavens! what madness!"
"Who did the distributing?"
"That's the curious part of it! The bags were distributed by a number of
men wearing the dark overcoats and uniform caps of the Salvation
Army! That's how they managed to get through with the business
without arousing the curiosity of the police. I don't know how many of
them there were, but I should imagine twenty or thirty. They were
through with it and gone before we woke up to what they had done!"
Sheard thanked him for his information, stood a moment, irresolute;
and turned back once more to the Gleaner office.

* * * * *
Thus, then, did a strange personality announce his coming and flood
the British press with adjectives.
The sensation created, on the following day, by the news of the Park
Lane robbery was no greater than that occasioned by the news of the
extraordinary Embankment affair.
"What do we deduce," demanded a talkative and obtrusively clever
person in a late City train, "from the circumstance that all thirty of the
Park Lane brigands were alike?"
"Obviously," replied a quiet voice, "that it was a 'make-up.' Thirty
identical wigs, thirty identical moustaches, and the same grease-paint!"
A singularly handsome man was the speaker. He was dark, masterful,
and had notably piercing eyes. The clever person became silent.
"Being all made up as a very common type of man-about-town,"
continued this striking-looking stranger, "they would pass unnoticed
anywhere. If the police are looking for thirty blonde men of similar
appearance they are childishly wasting their time. They are wasting
their time in any event--as the future will show."
Everyone in the carriage was listening now, and a man in a corner
asked: "Do you think there is any connection between the Park Lane
and Embankment affairs, sir?"
"Think!" smiled the other, rising as the train slowed into Ludgate Hill.
"You evidently have not seen this."
He handed his questioner an early edition of an evening paper, and with
a terse "Good morning," left the carriage.
Glaringly displayed on the front page was the following:
WHO IS HE?

"We received early this morning the following advertisement, prepaid
in cash, and insert it here by reason of the great interest which we feel
sure it will possess for our readers:
"'On Behalf of the Poor Ones of the Embankment, I thank the following
philanthropists for their generous donations:"
(Here followed a list of those guests of Mrs. Rohscheimer's who had
been victimised upon the previous night, headed with the name of
Julius Rohscheimer himself; and beside each name appeared an
amount representing the value of the article, or articles, appropriated.)
"'They may rest assured that not one halfpenny has been deducted for
working expenses. In fact, when the donations come to be realised the
Operative may be the loser. But no matter. "Expend your money in
pious uses, either voluntarily or by constraint."
"'(Signed) Séverac Bablon.'"
The paper was passed around in silence.
"That fellow seemed to know a lot about it!" said someone.
None of the men replied; but each looked at the other strangely--and
wondered.
CHAPTER III
MIDNIGHT--AND THE MAN
The next two days were busy ones for Sheard, who, from a variety of
causes--the chief being his intimacy with the little circle which,
whether it would or not, gathered around Mr. Julius
Rohscheimer--found himself involved in the mystery of Séverac
Bablon. He had interviewed this man and that, endeavouring to obtain
some coherent story of the great "hold up," but with little success.
Everything was a mysterious maze, and Scotland Yard was without any
clue that might lead to the solution. All the Fleet Street crime

specialists had advanced theories, and now, on the night of the third
day after the audacious robbery, Sheard was contributing his theory to
the Sunday newspaper for which he worked.
The subject of his article was the identity of Séverac Bablon, whom
Sheard was endeavouring to prove to be not an individual, but a society;
a society, so he argued, formed for the immolation of Capital upon the
altars of Demos.
The course of reasoning that he had taken up proved more elusive than
he had anticipated.
His bundle of notes lay before him on the table. The news of the latest
outrage, the burning of the great Runek Mills in Ontario, had served to
convince him that his solution was the right one; yet he could make no
headway, and the labours of the last day or so had left him tired and
drowsy.
He left his table and sank into an arm-chair by the study fire, knocking
out his briar on a coal and carefully refilling and lighting