"Poor devil!" Wertheimer said gently. "That was a sickening business, I admit. But who told you — ?"
"Never mind. It's true, isn't it?"
"Yes," the Englishman admitted gravely — "it's true. It lies at Bannon's door, when all's said…. Perhaps you won't believe me, but it's a fact I didn't know positively who was responsible till to-night."
"You don't really expect me to swallow that? You were hand-in-glove — "
"Ah, but on probation only! When they voted Roddy out, I wasn't consulted. They kept me in the dark — mostly, I flatter myself, because I draw the line at murder. If I had known — this you won't believe, of course — Roddy would be alive to-day."
"I'd like to believe you," Lanyard admitted. "But when you ask me to sign articles with that damned assassin — !"
"You can't play our game with clean hands," Wertheimer retorted.
Lanyard found no answer to that.
"If you've said all you wished to," he suggested, rising, "I can assure you my answer is final — and go about my business."
"What's your hurry? Sit down. There's more to say — much more."
"As for instance — ?"
"I had a fancy you might like to put a question or two."
Lanyard shook his head; it was plain that Wertheimer designed to draw him out through his interest in Lucy Shannon.
"I haven't the slightest curiosity concerning your affairs," he observed.
"But you should have; I could tell you a great many interesting things that intimately affect your affairs, if I liked. You must understand that I shall hold the balance of power here, from now on."
"Congratulations!" Lanyard laughed derisively.
"No joke, my dear chap: I've been promoted over the heads of your friends, De Morbihan and Popinot, and shall henceforth be — as they say in America — the whole works."
"By what warrant?"
"The illustrious Bannon's. I've been appointed his lieutenant — vice Greggs, deposed for bungling."
"Do you mean to tell me Bannon controls De Morbihan and Popinot?"
The Englishman smiled indulgently. "If you didn't know it, he's commander-in-chief of our allied forces, presiding genius of the International Underworld Unlimited."
"Bosh!" cried Lanyard contemptuously. "Why talk to me as if I were a child, to be frightened by a bogey-tale like that?"
"Take it or leave it: the fact remains…. I know, if you don't. I confess I didn't till to-night; but I've learned some things that have opened my eyes…. You see, we had a table in a quiet corner of the Café de la Paix, and since the Old Man's sailing for home before long it was time for him to unbosom rather thoroughly to the man he leaves to represent him in London and Paris. I never suspected our power before he began to talk…."
Lanyard, watching the man closely, would have sworn he had never seen one more sober. He was indescribably perplexed by this ostensible candour — mystified and mistrustful.
"And then there's this to be considered, from your side," Wertheimer resumed with the most business-like manner: "you can work with us without being obliged to deal in any way with the Old Man or De Morbihan, or Popinot. Bannon will never cross the Atlantic again, and you can do pretty much as you like, within reason — subject to my approval, that is."
"One of us is mad," Lanyard commented profoundly.
"One of us is blind to his best interests," Wertheimer amended with entire good-humour.
"Perhaps… Let it go at that. I'm not interested — never did care for fairy tales."
"Don't go yet. There is still much to be said on both sides of the argument."
"Has there been one?"
"Besides, I promised you news from Antwerp."
"To be sure," Lanyard said, and paused, his curiosity at length engaged.
Wertheimer delved into the breast-pocket of his dress-coat and produced a blue telegraph-form, handing it to the adventurer.
Of even date, from Antwerp, it read:
"Underworld — Paris — Greggs arrested today boarding steamer for America after desperate struggle killed himself immediately afterward poison no confession — Q-2."
"Underworld?" Lanyard queried blankly.
"Our telegraphic address, of course. 'Q-2' is our chief factor in Antwerp."
"So they got Greggs!"
"Stupid oaf," Wertheimer observed; "I've no sympathy for him. The whole affair was a blunder, from first to last."
"But you got Greggs out and burned Troyon's — !"
"Still our friends at the Préfecture weren't satisfied. Something must have roused their suspicions."
"You don't know what?"
"There must have been a leak somewhere — "
"If so, it would certainly have led the police to me, after all the pains you were at to saddle me with the crime. There's something more than simple treachery in this, Mr. Wertheimer."
"Perhaps you're right," said the other thoughtfully.
"And it doesn't speak well for the discipline of your precious organization — granting, for the sake of the argument, the possibility of such nonsense."
"Well, well, have your own way about that. I don't insist, so long as you agree to join forces with me."
"Oh, it's with you alone, now — is it? Not with that insane fiction, the International Underworld Unlimited?"
"With me alone. I offer you a clear field. Go where you like, do what you will — I wouldn't have the cheek to attempt to guide or influence you."
Lanyard kept himself in hand with considerable difficulty.
"But you?" he asked. "Where do you come in?"
Wertheimer lounged back in his chair and laughed quietly. "Need you ask? Must I recall to you the foundations of my prosperity? You had the name of it glib enough on your tongue the other night in the rue Chaptal…. When you've done your work, you'll come to me and split the proceeds fairly — and as long as you do that, never a word will pass my lips!"
"Blackmail…!"
"Oh, if you insist! Odd, how I dislike that word!"
Abruptly the adventurer got to his feet. "By God!" he cried, "I'd better get out of this before I do you an injury!"
The door slammed behind him on a room ringing with Wertheimer's unaffected laughter.
XX
WAR
But why? — he asked himself as he swung his cab aimlessly away — why that blind rage with which he had welcomed Wertheimer's overtures?
Unquestionably the business of blackmailing was despicable enough; and as a master cracksman, of the highest caste of the criminal world, the Lone Wolf had warrantably treated with scorn and contempt the advances of a pariah like Wertheimer. But in no such spirit had he comprehended the Englishman's meaning, when finally that one came to the point; no cool disdain had coloured his attitude, but in the beginning hot indignation, in the end insensate rage….
He puzzled himself. That fit of passion had all the aspect of a psychical inconsistency impossible to reconcile with reason.
He recalled in