The Sins of Séverac Bablon | Page 9

unfinished article--"that 'this was a capricious burlesque of true philanthropy.' I reply that it served its purpose--of proclaiming my arrival in London and of clearly demonstrating the purpose of my coming! You ask who are my accomplices! I answer--they are as the sands of the desert! You seek to learn who I am. Seek, rather, to learn what I am!"
"Why have you selected me for this--honour?"
"I overheard some remarks of yours, contrasting a restaurant supper-room with the Embankment which appealed to me! But, to come to the point, do you believe me to be a rogue?"
Sheard smiled a trifle uneasily.
"You are doubtful," the other continued. "It has entered your mind that a proper course would be to ring up Scotland Yard! Instead, come with me! I will show you how little you know of me and of what I can do. I will show you that no door is closed to me! Why do you hesitate? You shall be home again, safe, within two hours. I pledge my word!"
Possessing the true journalistic soul, Sheard was sorely tempted; for to the passion of the copy-hunter such an invitation could not fail in its appeal. With only a momentary hesitation, he stood up.
"I'll come!" he said.
A smart landaulette stood waiting outside the house; and, without a word to the chauffeur, Séverac Bablon opened the door and entered after Sheard. The motor immediately started, and the car moved off silently. The blinds were drawn.
"You will have to trust yourself implicitly in my hands," said Sheard's extraordinary companion. "In a moment I shall ask you to fasten your handkerchief about your eyes and to give me your word that you are securely blindfolded!"
"Is it necessary?"
"Quite! Are you nervous?"
"No!"--shortly.
There was a brief interval of silence, during which the car, as well as it was possible to judge, whirled through the deserted streets at a furious speed.
"Will you oblige me?" came the musical voice.
The journalist took out his pocket-handkerchief, and making it into a bandage, tied it firmly about his head.
"Are you ready?" asked Séverac Bablon.
"Yes."
A click told of a raised blind.
"Can you see?"
"Not a thing!"
"Then take my hand and follow quickly. Do not speak; do not stumble!"
Cautiously feeling his way, Sheard, one hand clasping that of his guide, stepped out into the keen night air, and was assisted by some third person--probably the chauffeur--on to the roof of the car!
"Be silent!" from Séverac Bablon. "Fear nothing! Step forward as your feet will be directed and trust implicitly to me!"
As a man in a dream Sheard stood there--on the roof of a motor-car, in a London street--and waited. There came dimly to his ears, and from no great distance, the sound of late traffic along what he judged to be a main road. But immediately about him quiet reigned. They were evidently in some deserted back-water of a great thoroughfare. A faint scuffling sound arose, followed by that of someone lightly dropping upon a stone pavement.
Then an arm was slipped about him and he was directed, in a whisper, to step forward. He found his foot upon what he thought to be a flat railing. His ankle was grasped from below and the voice of Séverac Bablon came, "On to my shoulders--so!"
Still with the supporting arm about him, he stepped gingerly forward--and stood upon the shoulders of the man below.
"Stand quite rigidly!" said Séverac Bablon.
He obeyed; and was lifted, lightly as a feather, and deposited upon the ground! It was such a feat as he had seen professional athletes perform, and he marvelled at the physical strength of his companion.
A keen zest for this extravagant adventure seized him. He thought that it must be good to be a burglar. Then, as he heard the motor re-started and the car move off, a sudden qualm of disquiet came; for it was tantamount to burning one's boats.
"Take my hand!" he heard; and was led to the head of a flight of steps. Cautiously he felt his way down, in the wake of his guide.
A key was turned in a well-oiled lock, and he was guided inside a building. There was a faint, crypt-like smell--vaguely familiar.
"Quick!" said the soft voice--"remove your boots and leave them here!"
Sheard obeyed, and holding the guiding hand tightly in his own, traversed a stone-paved corridor. Doors were unlocked and re-locked. A flight of steps was negotiated in phantom silence; for his companion's footsteps, like his own, were noiseless. Another door was unlocked.
"Now!" came the whispered words: "Remove the handkerchief!"
Rapidly enough, Sheard obeyed, and, burning with curiosity, looked about him.
"Good heavens!" he muttered.
A supernatural fear of his mysterious cicerone momentarily possessed him. For he thought that he stood in a lofty pagan temple!
High above his head a watery moonbeam filtered through a window, and spilled its light about the base of a gigantic stone pillar.