The doctor shook his head.

  “No? What sort of guarantees does he require from me?”

  “That he didn’t tell me, so you must find out for yourself. But rest assured that I will do all I can to help you.”

  Ralph looked at Frank in surprise.

  “Do you mean to tell me,” he asked, “that you will help me patch things up with the old man?”

  “Exactly. You surely can see that I have a good deal of influence over him. If you want proof of this, look here.”

  The doctor took the bundle of banknotes from his pocket and waved them in the air.

  “This money was given to me to buy up the debt notes you told me of.”

  “What? You mean James Wexler’s?”

  “I’m speaking of the ones, on which you were insane enough to forge another man’s name.”

  Young and rash as the son was, his act had caused him many sleepless nights as even he knew that forgery was not a crime he could possibly hope to escape from by appealing to his father’s good nature.

  “Give me the money,” he cried.

  Frank Defoe shook his head.

  “No,” he said. “This money does not leave my hand, until the debentures are handed over to me. Your father’s orders on this point are clear. And let’s say the sooner we settle this matter the better.”

  “That is too bad. The old man is as sly as a fox. There is nothing I can do about that, I suppose. Let me slip on a coat more suitable to this weather than this lounging suit.”

  He rushed away and was soon back again, looking neat as a button and full of life.

  “We can walk there,” he said, pulling Frank’s arm. “We have to go to East Poultry Avenue.”

  James Wexler was at his office, the office of the London Loan Bank, of which he was the managing director. The building in which the business was located, in spite of its grandiose title of bank, looked shabby. The London Loan Bank was frequented by those who, having lost their credit, could not go to a more reputable bank to obtain a fresh amount of funding.

  James Wexler’s plan of operation was very simple. A tradesman on the verge of bankruptcy would come to him. Wexler would look into his affairs and make him sign debt notes for the sum he required. He would hand him in exchange debt notes signed by other tradesmen in the same serious predicament as he was. Wexler, for his trouble, would pocket a commission of five per cent. Wexler was able to keep new clients coming through his doors, because of the simple fact that a tradesman on the verge of extinction was completely reckless and cared not what he had to do to keep his shop open one more month. This was only part of Wexler’s business. A lot of other transactions carried on at the office of the London Loan Bank were on the basis of even less respectable sources. James Wexler managed to make money.

  Dr. Frank Defoe, who was gifted with plenty of wisdom, could judge immediately what kind of business was done by the London Loan Bank by the dinginess of the brass plate on the door and the dilapidated look of the exterior.

  “I don’t like the look of it whatsoever,” he said.

  “It does not look like much, I agree,” answered Ralph, “but sometimes it comes in handy to know this place exists. It does all sorts of business. A real scrappy cat is James Wexler.”

  The doctor could easily believe this, because there could be only one opinion in regards to the character of a man, who was able to induce a simpleton like Ralph to add a forged signature to the debt notes. He didn’t say anything, but entered the building. Ralph seemed to be intimately familiar with the interior. They walked through a dirty, smelly hallway and ascended a flight of stairs with a grimy balustrade. On the second floor Ralph stopped in front of a door on which several names were painted. It took them into a large room. The walls of this room were spotted with yellow stains. There were two or three clerks sitting at their desks, whose only occupation seemed to be eating the meal, which they had brought with them to the office. The heat of the fireplace, the moldiness of the atmosphere and the smell of the food were sufficient to turn the stomach of anyone coming in.

  “Where is Mr. Wexler?” asked Ralph haughtily.

  “Engaged,” replied one of the clerks, without looking up or pausing to empty his mouth.

  “Don’t talk to me like that, you hear. I don’t care whether he’s engaged or not. Tell him that Mr. Ralph Greenstreet wishes to see him right now.”

  The clerk looked impressed by his visitor’s attitude. He took the card, which was handed to him and left through a door at the other end of the room.

  Ralph was delighted by his victory and glanced at Frank with a triumphant smile. The clerk came back almost immediately.

  “Mr. Wexler,” he said, “has a client with him right now. He asks that you will excuse him for a few minutes.” Anxious to be civil to the well dressed man in front of him, he added, “He is just now engaged with Mr. St. Ives.”

  “I say,” cried Ralph. “I bet you ten to one that the baron will be delighted to see me again.”

  Frank startled on hearing the name and his cheeks became red. The man, whom he hated most in the world, the villain, who by possessing some kind of compromising secret, was able to force Cora Bletchley into a marriage with him instead of the man she loved. The hated enemy, Mr. Poiret and Mrs. Diss had sworn to bring to justice, was only a few yards away from him. At last he would see him face to face. Their eyes would meet and he would hear the scoundrel’s voice. The doctor’s anger and anxiety were so intense that it was only with difficulty that he was able to hide his feelings. Luckily for him, Ralph was not paying the faintest attention to him. At the clerk’s invitation, Ralph sat down on a chair and assumed an imposing posture, which struck the clerks with the deepest admiration.

  “I suppose,” he said, in a loud voice and looking around, “that you know my good friend, Baron Jason St. Ives?”

  Frank mumbled something inaudible, which Ralph interpreted as a denial.

  “Really, my man,” he said, “you don’t know anyone of importance. Where have you been? Of course you must have heard of him? Jason St. Ives is one of my best friends. He owes me over fifty shilling. I won them one night playing cards.”

  Frank Defoe was now certain that he had guessed James Wexler’s character correctly. The relationship between Baron St. Ives and this personage was something of great importance. He felt now that he had learned something, which lit the road before him that was never the less still difficult to get through. He felt like a detective on the silver screen, when, as he gets nearer to the hiding place of the criminal, the music plays louder and louder. He now knew that Ralph knew or at least said he knew a good deal of the baron’s business. He needed to learn this information.

  “So the baron is your friend?” he asked.

  “I should rather think he was,” answered young Greenstreet. “You will see that pretty soon. I know all about him and the woman he is apparently ruining himself for, but I mustn’t say anything about that. Mum’s the word, old boy.”

  At that moment the door opened and the young baron appeared, followed by Wexler.

  Baron Jason St. Ives was dressed in the most elegant attire. This was in contrast to the flashy clothes of Ralph. He was smoking a large cigar and calmly tapping his boots with an elegant walking cane. His features and silhouette became indelibly printed on Frank’s mind. He particularly noticed his eyes, which had in them a look, which reminded the doctor of a wolf, hunting for prey.

  At a little distance the baron looked young, but a closer inspection showed that the man actually looked older than he really was. His face looked worn and haggard. He had spent the night at the gambling table and the anxiety as to where to get a fresh supply of ready money to prolong his life of debauchery weighed heavily on him. However, he seemed to be in the best of moods and with a cheerful smile he addressed a few words to Wexler, apparently in conclusion of the conversation that they had in the banker’s private office.

  “It’s agreed then,” he said, “that I’m to have nothing more to do with a matter with which neither of us has any real concern?”

  “Yes, just so,” answered Wexler.

  “I have trust in you. Just remember that any mistake you make in that other business will result in the most serious of problems for us.”

  His words seemed to suggest some new thought to Wexler, because he said something in a low voice to his client at which they both laughed.

  Ralph was fidgeting about. He felt uneasy at the baron not having paid attention to him. He, at last, sprang up and walked with a friendly wave of the hand towards the pair. If the baron was happy at meeting young Greenstreet, he hid his delight completely. He seemed rather surprised. He nodded and extended his gloved hand with a negligent, “Oh, yes, pleased to see you.” Then without taking any more notice of the young man, he turned and continued his conversation with Wexler.

  “The most dangerous part is over,” he said, “and therefore we should not waste any time. You must see Joseph Kennan and Jeff Lett today.”

  At the mention of these names Frank took notice. These people were probably St. Ives’s accomplices.

  “The Weasel was here this morning,” observed James Wexler, “and told me that his master wanted to see me at four this afternoon. Carl Esprey will be there also. Do you want me to say a word to him about your friend?”

  “Bless my soul,” said the baron, shrugging his shoulders. “I had nearly forgotten her. There will be a huge fuss made, because she will want all sorts of things. Talk to Carl Esprey, but don’t get specific. Remember, I don’t care about her.”

  “I understand what you mean,” answered Wexler. “Just make sure you keep things quiet and don’t get caught in an open dispute.”

  “Of course not. Good day!”

  With a slight bow to the managing director and a nod to Ralph, he quickly left the office. He didn’t take even the faintest notice of Frank Defoe. James Wexler invited Frank and Ralph into his private office and taking a seat, motioned to them to do the same. Wexler was in contrast to his office. It was shabby and dirty, but he was clean-shaven and his suit did his tailor credit. He was old, but carried his years well. He was rotund, wore his whiskers and hair cut in the Cornish fashion and his sunken eyes had no more expression in them than those of a sardine.

  Greenstreet was in a hurry to begin.

  “Let’s talk business,” he said. “Last week you lent me a small sum of money.”

  “I remembered it as quite a lot. Why? Do you want more?”

  “No. I want to pay off my bills.”

  A dark cloud hung over Wexler’s face.

  “The first doesn’t fall due, until the middle of the month,” he said.

  “That may be, but I have the money with me and I will pay what I owe, if you hand over the debt notes to me.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “And why not?”

  “The bills are no longer in my hands.”

  Ralph could hardly believe his ears, nor did he believe the statement to be true. His face became flushed and he did not know what to do.

  “But,” he mumbled hesitantly, “you promised that they wouldn’t leave your hands.”

  “I don’t deny that I said that, but one can never be sure to always be able to do what one promises. I was forced to part with them. I needed money sharp and so I sold them.”

  Frank was not surprised to hear the banker’s speech. He had anticipated that some difficulty would be put in their way by the wily banker and seeing that Ralph began to lose his head, he broke in on the conversation.

  “Excuse me, sir,” he said. “It seems to me that there are circumstances in this case, which should have made you keep your promise.”

  Wexler stared at him.

  “Who are you?” he asked, instead of replying to the question.

  “I’m an associate of Mr. Greenstreet’s,” answered the doctor, thinking it best not to give his name.

  “A confidential associate?”

  “Yes, quite so. Mr. Greenstreet borrowed ten thousand shilling from you.”

  “Uh, no, five thousand.”

  Frank turned toward his companion, raising his eyebrows. Ralph flushed crimson.

  “What is the meaning of this?” asked Frank.

  “Not so loud,” whispered Ralph. “I said ten to you, because I wanted the other five for Mrs. Delaford.”

  “Oh, did you,” said the doctor, shaking his head. “Well, indeed then, Mr. Wexler, it was five thousand shilling, which you lent to my associate here. That is correct, but why did you induce him to forge a signature?”

  “I? Not I! I did no such thing,” replied Wexler. “I didn’t know that the signature was not genuine. How could I know?”

  This denial aroused the defeated Ralph from his comatose state.

  “This is too much,” he cried, springing to his feet. “Did you not yourself tell me that, because you needed more security? Didn’t you insist on another signatory in addition to mine? Did you not show me a document and say, “Copy the signature at the bottom of this? It’s the signature of Jeff Lett of Smedley Street.”

  “A completely false accusation, without even the slightest shadow of truth to it. Show me proof! Remember that libel against an upstanding citizen in the presence of a third party is punishable by law.”

  “And yet, sir,” continued the doctor calmly as Ralph sat down again, “you didn’t hesitate for a moment to sell these debentures. Did you not foresee the terrible consequences, which could result from this breach of faith on your part? What will happen to you, if this forged document is shown to Mr. Lett?”

  “That won’t happen. Mr. Greenstreet is the drawer. Mr. Lett is merely the endorser of the debt. Debentures, when due, are always presented to the drawer, not the endorser,” said Wexler, coldly.

  It was evident that a trap had been laid for Ralph, but the reason was still buried in obscurity.

  “Then,” said Frank, “we have but one course to pursue. We must find out, who has those notes now and buy them back.”

  “Yes.”

  “But to find the debt notes, you must first tell us the name of the man, who bought them.”

  “I don’t know who he is,” answered Wexler, with a careless wave of his hand.

  “Then,” answered Frank in a low, deep voice of concentrated anger, “let me warn you, for your sake, to produce the name of the buyer right here and now.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “If you don’t give me the name, the consequences will be serious.”

  Wexler saw that the young doctor was in earnest. He jumped up from his chair, but the younger man was too quick for him.

  “No,” he said, placing his back against the office door, “you will not leave this room, until you have done what I tell you to do.”

  For a minute the two men stood gazing at each other. James Wexler was wet and pale with fear, while Frank Defoe’s face was firm and decided.

  “If you resist,” he said, “I will throw you out of the window.”

  “The man is too strong,” thought Wexler, “and looks as if he would stop at nothing.”

  Seeing that he had better give in, the director opened a bulky ledger and began to turn over the pages with trembling fingers.

  The doctor saw that he was holding it upside-down.

  “There it is,” cried Wexler at last.

  “Debentures for five thousand shilling. Greenstreet and Lett, booked for sale to Mr. Carl Esprey, the gambler, residing at the Marble Grand Hotel.”

  Frank was silent. James Wexler had suggested Lett’s signature as the one to forge for a reason. There also had to be a reason why he had sold the debt notes to Carl Esprey. It could not be mere chance that he had organized it so. He was sure that some secret bond united James Wexler, Carl Esprey, Jeff Lett and Baron St. Ives together.

  “Is there anything more?” asked the head of the London Loan Bank.

  “Are the notes still in Carl Esprey’s hands?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Never mind. He will tell me where they are, if he doesn’t have them,” answered Frank.

  They left the bank and as soon as they were outside Frank grabbed his companion’s arm and rushed him off in the direction of Marble Grand Hotel.

  “I don’t want this thief to have any time to warn Carl Esprey of what took place. I would rather fall on his head with the suddenness of an avalanche. Come, let us go to his hotel at once.”

  Had Dr. Frank Defoe known more of the sort of man he had to deal with, he would have known that no one could fall like an avalanche on Carl Esprey. Shut up in his luxury suite of rooms on the top floor of the hotel, where he played cards and conducted his business, the South African carefully protected himself against any unwanted visitors. So it happened that Frank Defoe and Ralph Greenstreet were accosted in the hallway of the top floor by his huge footmen.

  “Mr. Esprey must be important,” thought Frank, looking at the men, moving uncomfortably in their footman costumes.

  “The master is not available at the moment,” was their standard answer.

  Pleas, threats and even a bribe of a hundred shilling proved useless. Frank, seeing that he was about to be thrown out of the hotel, calmed himself. He decided on a course of patience.

  “I will wait,” he said.

  The footmen nodded and Frank and Ralph meekly followed them to the gambler’s waiting-room. The footmen had spoken the truth. The South African was indeed busy, because several ladies of the highest rank in society were waiting for their turn to talk to Mr. Esprey. All of them turned their head as the young men entered the room. All that is, except for one, who was gazing out of the window, following the raindrops on the window panes with her pretty fingers. Frank recognized her immediately as Mrs. Diss.

  “This can’t be possible?” he thought. “Mrs. Diss, part of his clique?”

  Ralph felt five charming pairs of eyes fixed on him and sat down with a studied posture, making him look his best. After a moment Frank became impatient.

  “I wish that she would turn around,” he said to himself. “I need to know what she’s doing here. I will talk to her.”