Julius Rohscheimer stood quite motionless in his dressing-room listening for a sound which he expected to hear, but which he also feared to hear. The household in Park Lane slept now. Park Lane is never quite still at any hour of the night, and now as Rohscheimer listened, all but holding his breath, a hundred sounds conflicted in the highway below. But none of these interested him.
He had been in his room for more than half an hour; had long since dismissed his man; and had sat down, arrayed in brilliant pyjamas (quite a new line from Paris, recommended by Haredale, a sartorial expert with a keen sense of humour), for a cigarette and a mental review of the situation.
Having shown himself active in other directions, Séverac Bablon had evidently turned his eyes once more toward Park Lane. Julius Rohscheimer mentally likened himself and his set to those early martyrs who, defenceless, were subjected to the attacks of armed gladiators. No precautions, it seemed, prevailed against this enemy of Capital. Police protection was utterly useless. Thus far, not a solitary arrest had been made. So, now, in his own palatial house, but with a strip of cardboard lying before him bearing his name, underlined in red, Rohscheimer anticipated mysterious outrage at any moment—and knew, instinctively, that he would be unable to defend himself against it.
Again came that vague stirring; and it seemed to come, not from beyond the walls, but from somewhere close at hand—from——
Rohscheimer turned, stealthily, in his chair. The cigarette dropped from between his nerveless fingers, and lay smouldering upon the Persian carpet.
His bulging eyes grew more and more prominent, and his adipose jaw dropped. And he sat, quivering fatly, his gaze upon the doors of the big wardrobe which occupied the space between the windows. Distinctly he remembered that these doors had been closed. But now they were open.
Palsied with fear of what might be within, he sat, watched, and grew pale.
The doors were opening slowly!
No move he made toward defence. He was a man inert from panic.
Something gleamed out of the dark gap—a revolver barrel. Two fingers pushed a card into view. Upon it, in red letters, were the words: