eyes of the police on him. He would write books which would not be allowed to be exported. He would get himself disliked in the popular papers, but all the mugwumps would admire his moral courage. I drew a mighty fine picture to myself of just the man I expected to find. Then I started out to look for him.” 

 Blenkiron’s face took on the air of a disappointed child. “It was no good. I kept barking up the wrong tree and wore myself out playing the sleuth on white-souled innocents.” 

 “But you’ve found him all right,” I cried, a sudden suspicion leaping into my brain. 

 “He’s found,” he said sadly, “but the credit does not belong to John S. Blenkiron. That child merely muddied the pond. The big fish was left for a young lady to hook.” 

 “I know,” I cried excitedly. “Her name is Miss Mary Lamington.” 

 He shook a disapproving head. “You’ve guessed right, my son, but you’ve forgotten your manners. This is a rough business and we won’t bring in the name of a gently reared and pure-minded young girl. If we speak to her at all we call her by a pet name out of the Pilgrim’s Progress.... Anyhow she hooked the fish, though he isn’t landed. D’you see any light?” 

 “Ivery,” I gasped. 

 “Yes. Ivery. Nothing much to look at, you say. A common, middle-aged, pie-faced, golf-playing high-brow, that you wouldn’t keep out of a Sunday school. A touch of the drummer, too, to show he has no dealings with your effete aristocracy. A languishing silver-tongue that adores the sound of his own voice. As mild, you’d say, as curds and cream.” 

 Blenkiron got out of his chair and stood above me. “I tell you, Dick, that man makes my spine cold. He hasn’t a drop of good red blood in him. The dirtiest apache is a Christian gentleman compared to Moxon Ivery. He’s as cruel as a snake and as deep as hell. But, by God, he’s got a brain below his hat. He’s hooked and we’re playing him, but Lord knows if he’ll ever be landed!” 

 “Why on earth don’t you put him away?” I asked. 

 “We haven’t the proof—legal proof, I mean; though there’s buckets of the other kind. I could put up a morally certain case, but he’d beat me in a court of law. And half a hundred sheep would get up in Parliament and bleat about persecution. He has a graft with every collection of cranks in England, and with all the geese that cackle about the liberty of the individual when the Boche is ranging about to 

 Prev. P 34/277 next