It was that secret but terrible knowledge of his son's imminent peril that old Mr Homfray now held. His enemies had triumphed, after all!

And this was made the more plain when three hours later he woke up to find his son in his room, chattering and behaving as no man in his senses would.

The old man rose, and with clenched fists declared aloud that he would now himself fight for his son's life and bring the guilty pair to justice.

But, alas! the old rector never dreamed how difficult would be his task, nor what impregnable defences had arisen to protect and aid those who were his enemies.

In addition Roddy, in his half-dazed condition, never dreamed of the perils and pitfalls which now surrounded the girl he so dearly loved.

CHAPTER NINE.

THE SPIDER'S NEST.

Ten days had gone by.

Gordon Gray, wearing a grey Austrian velour hat and heavy brown motor-coat, turned the car from the Great North Road into the drive which led to the front of Willowden, and alighted.

The afternoon was wet, and the drive from London had been a cold, uncomfortable one. In the hall he threw off his coat, and entering the well-furnished morning-room, rang the bell. In a few moments Claribut, respectable, white-haired and rosy-faced, entered.

"Well, Jim?" he asked. "What's the news at Little Farncombe--eh?

You've been there several days; what have you discovered?"

"Several things," replied the old crook who posed as servant. "Things we didn't expect."

"How?" asked Gray, offering the old man a cigarette from his gold case.

"Well, I went first to Pangbourne, and then to Little Farncombe. Young Homfray was taken queer again. I stayed at the Red Lion, and managed to find out all about what was going on at the Rectory. Homfray's old gardener is in the habit of taking his gla.s.s of beer there at night, and I, posing as a stranger, soon got him to talk. He told me that his young master was taken ill in the night. His brain had given way, and the village doctor called in a specialist from Harley Street. The latter can't make out the symptoms."

"Probably not!" growled Gray. "The dose cost us a lot, so it ought not to be detected by the first man consulted."

"The specialist has, however, fixed that he's suffering from a drug-- administered with malicious intent, he puts it."

"What's the fool's name?" snapped Gray.

"I don't know. My friend, the gardener, could not ascertain."

Gray gave vent to a short grunt of dissatisfaction.

"Well--and what then?"

"The young fellow was very ill--quite off his head for three days--and then they gave him some injections which quietened him, and now he's a lot better. Nearer his normal self, I hear." And he sank into a chair by the fire.

"H'm! He'll probably have a second relapse. I wonder what they gave him? I wonder if this Harley Street chap has twigged our game, Jim?"

"Perhaps he has."

"If so, then it's a jolly good job for us that I kept out of the way.

Young Homfray has never seen me to his knowledge, remember. He saw you several times."

"Yes, Gordon. You took precautions--as you always do. You somehow seem to see into the future."

"I do, my dear Jimmie. I hope this lad doesn't recognise Freda again.

He may, of course. But he doesn't know me--which is as well."

"He recollects finding Edna, though."

"Ah! That's a little awkward, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is. He told the old sky-pilot all about it, but naturally they think his mind is unhinged and take the story with a grain of salt."

"Naturally. But what else?" asked the well-dressed international crook with a business-like air.

"It seems that the young fellow is on the point of obtaining a concession from the Moorish Government to prospect for emeralds somewhere in the Atlas Mountains; I believe it is a place called the Wad Sus. Ever heard of it?"

"Yes," replied Gray, making a mental note of the region. "I've heard of some ancient mines there. But how is he obtaining the concession?"

"Ah! I've had a lot of trouble to get that information, and it has cost me a pound or two. But I've got it," laughed the old scoundrel.

"There's a friend of his who lives at Richmond, a certain Andrew Barclay, who has spent many years in Fez. It seems that young Homfray met him in Santiago last year, and by some means was able to do him a great service. In return, this man Barclay is endeavouring to obtain the concession for prospecting from the Moorish Government."

"H'm! The Wad Sus region--a very wild mountainous one, inhabited by a wild desert tribe called the Touaregs, men who wear black veils over their faces to protect them from the sandstorms so prevalent in the Sahara. But I'll look it all up. Where does this man Barclay live?"

asked Gray.

"In Underhill Road. Where that is I don't know--but, of course, it is easily found."

The master-crook drew several long whiffs at his choice Eastern cigarette.

"Then, after all, it may be to our distinct advantage that Roderick Homfray recovers, Jimmie."

"What! Then you think that the concession for the emerald prospecting may be worth money?"

"It may be worth quite a lot in the City. A rather attractive proposition--emeralds in the Sahara. I know two or three men who would take it up--providing I could bring them a properly signed and sealed concession. Emeralds are increasing in value nowadays, you know--and an emerald concession is a sound proposition. After all, the lad may yet be of considerable use to us, Jimmie."

"Pity he saw Freda!" remarked the wily old fellow. "Jimmie, the butler"

was well known in Sing-Sing Prison as one of the shrewdest and cleverest of crooks and card-sharpers who had ever "worked" the transatlantic liners.

In the underworld of New York, Paris and London marvellous stories had been and were still told of his alertness, of the several bold _coups_ he had made, and the great sums he had filched from the pockets of the unwary in conjunction, be it said, with Gordon Gray, alias Commander George Tothill, late of the British Navy, who was also known to certain of his pals as "Toby" Jackson. At Parkhurst Prison "Joyous Jimmie" was also well known, for he had enjoyed the English air for seven years less certain good conduct remission. But both master and man were crooks, clever cultured men who could delude anybody, who could adapt themselves to any surroundings, who knew life in all its phases, and could, with equanimity, eat a portion of oily fried fish-and-chips for their dinner or enjoy a Sole Colbert washed down with a gla.s.s of Imperial Tokay.

The pair, with a man named Arthur Porter, known to his criminal friends as "Guinness"--whom, by the way, Roddy had seen entering Mr Sandys'

house in Park Lane--and the handsome woman Freda Crisp were indeed parasites upon London society.

Their daring was colossal, their ingenuity astounding, and the ramifications of their friends bewildering.

"Get me a drink, Jimmie," said the man who posed as his master. "I'm cold. Why the devil don't you keep a better fire than this?"

"The missus is out. Went to the parson's wife's tea-party half an hour ago. Mary goes to church here. It's better."

"Of course it is--gives us a hall-mark of respectability," laughed Gray.