And yet, so strange and mysterious a personality was
he that not twenty persons in the whole criminal world
had ever met him in the flesh. The tall, good-looking
man whom Dorise knew as the White Cavalier was one
of four other men who posed in his stead when occasion
arose.
Scotland Yard, the Surete in Paris, the Pubblica Sicurezza
in Rome, and the Detective Department of the New York
police knew, quite naturally, of the existence of
the elusive Sparrow, but none of them had been able
to trace him.
Why? Because he was only the brains of the great,
widespread criminal organization. He remained
in smug respectability, while others beneath his hand
carried out his orders—they were the servants,
well-paid too, and he was the master.
No more widespread nor more wonderful criminal combine
had ever been organized than that headed by The Sparrow,
the little old man whom Londoners believed to be Cockney,
yet Italians believed to be pure-bred Tuscan, while
in Paris he was a true Parisian who could speak the
argot of the Montmartre without a trace of English
accent.
As a politician, as a City man, as a professional
man, The Sparrow, whose real name was as obscure as
his personality, would have made his mark. If
a lawyer, he would have secured the honour of a knighthood—or
of a baronetcy, and more than probable he would have
entered Parliament.
The Sparrow was a philosopher, and a thorough-going
Englishman to boot. Though none knew it, he was
able by his unique knowledge of the underworld of
Europe to give information—as he did anonymously
to the War Office—of certain trusted persons
who were, at the moment of the outbreak of war, betraying
Britain’s secrets.
The Department of Military Operations was, by means
of the anonymous information, able to quash a gigantic
German plot against us; but they had been unable to
discover either the true source of their information
or the identity of their informant.
“I’d better be off. It’s late!”
said Mr. Howell, after they had been in close conversation
for nearly half an hour.
“Yes; I suppose you must go,” The Sparrow
remarked, rising. “I must get Franklyn
back. He must get to the bottom of this curious
affair. I fell that I am being bamboozled by
Benton and Molly Maxwell. The boy is innocent—he
is their victim,” he added; “but if I can
save him, by gad! I will! Yet it will be
difficult. There is much trouble ahead, I anticipate,
and it is up to us, Howell, to combat it!”
“Perhaps Franklyn can assist us?”
“Perhaps. I shall not, however, know before
he gets back here from his adventures in Hungary.
But I tell you, Howell, I am greatly concerned about
the lad. He has fallen into the hands of a bad
crowd—a very bad crowd indeed.”
Late on Thursday night Dorise and her mother were
driving home from Lady Strathbayne’s, in Grosvenor
Square, where they had been dining. It was a
bright starlight night, and the myriad lamps of the
London traffic flashed past the windows as Dorise
sat back in silence.
