“Was Benton with him?” asked Mr. Peters.
“No. Benton went to New York about two
months before.”
“H’m! And how soon after your father’s
return did he come home?”
“I think it was about three months. He
was in America five months altogether, I believe.”
The old man, still curled in his chair, smoked his
cigar in silence. Apparently he was thinking
deeply.
“So Benton has induced you to go down to Shapley
in order that you may be near his adopted daughter,
in the hope that you will marry her! In the meantime
you are deeply in love with Lady Ranscomb’s daughter.
I know her—a truly charming girl. I
congratulate you,” he added, as though speaking
to himself. “But the situation is indeed
a very complicated one.”
“For me it is terrible. I am living under
a cloud, and in constant fear of arrest. What
can be done?”
“I fear nothing much can be done at present,”
said the old man, shaking his head gravely. “I
quite realize that you are victim of certain enemies
who intend to get hold of your father’s fortune.
It is for us to combat them—if we can.”
“Then you will continue to help me?” asked
Hugh eagerly, looking into the mysterious face of
the old fellow who wore the black glove.
“I promise you my aid,” he replied, putting
out his gloved hand as pledge.
Then, as Hugh took it, he looked straight into those
keen eyes, and asked:
“You have asked me many questions, sir, and
I have replied to them all. May I ask one of
you—my friend?”
“Certainly,” replied the older man.
“Then am I correct in assuming that you are
actually the person of whom I have heard so much up
and down Europe—the man of whom certain
men and women speak with admiration, and with bated
breath—the man known in certain circles
as—as Il Passero?”
The countenance of the little man with the bristly
white hair and the black glove relaxed into a smile,
as, still holding Hugh’s hand in friendship,
he replied:
“Yes. It is true. Some know me as
‘The Sparrow!’”
THE SPARROW
Hugh Henfrey was at last face to face with the most
notorious criminal in Europe!
The black-gloved hand of the wizened, bristly-haired
old man was the hand that controlled a great organization
spread all over Europe—an organization
which only knew Il Passero by repute, but had never
seen him in the flesh.
Yet there he was, a discreet, rather petulant old
gentleman, who lived at ease in an exclusive West
End street, and was entirely unsuspected!
When “Mr. Peters” admitted his identity,
Hugh drew a long breath. He was staggered.
He was profuse in his thanks, but “The Sparrow”
merely smiled, saying:
“It is true that I and certain of my friends
make war upon Society—and more especially
upon those who have profiteered upon those brave fellows
who laid down their lives for us in the war. Whatever
you have heard concerning me I hope you will forgive,
Mr. Henfrey. At least I am the friend of those
who are in distress, or who are wrongly judged—as
you are to-day.”
