We must set him free,” he said

We must set him free,” he said

His companion, subconsciously amazed at the young man’s initiative, followed him to the desk. Methodically, the latter, having removed the gag from Aaron Rodd’s mouth, cut the bonds which held him, one by one. Harvey Grimm produced a small brandy flask and held it to his lips. The poet threw open a window and swung the chair round. Aaron Rodd groaned.

“He is coming to,” Cresswell remarked hopefully.

He caught up a sheaf of newspapers and fanned the swooning man vigorously. Then he suddenly paused. Harvey Grimm followed the direction of his gaze. A sheet of violet-coloured note-paper was pinned upon the desk. The poet sniffed.

“What a delicious odour!” he murmured. “And how familiar!”

They both approached a little nearer. The sheet of note-paper, fluttering a little in the breeze that streamed through the window, gave out the subtlest and most delicate perfume — a perfume that seemed like a waft from a field of violets, carried on a west wind. There were only a few words, written in a delicate feminine handwriting: —

“Should there not be honour, even amongst thieves?”

The young man struck a theatrical attitude.

“Fate has sent me to join you,” he declared, waving his hand towards the sheet of violet-coloured paper. “I recognise the handwriting. I know the perfume well. I can tell you who wrote that note.”

Chapter III: An Alliance of Thieves Aaron Rodd was walking along the, to him, unfamiliar thoroughfare of Bond Street when he was suddenly confronted with a vision. A large limousine motorcar was drawn up just in front of him. An elderly lady with white hair, leaning upon the arm of a powdered footman, crossed the pavement, followed by a girl who was smothered in sables, carried a small dog under her arm, and wore a great bunch of violets partially concealed by her furs. Aaron Rodd’s abrupt pause was not one of politeness alone. With an eagerness which took no account of manners or discretion, he gazed at the girl, open-eyed, open-mouthed, blankly, unashamed. If anything were left to complete his bewilderment, it was the little smile upon her lips as she met his eyes.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Aaron Rodd!” she murmured as she passed.

She disappeared through the swing doors of the shop. Aaron stared after her, as though expecting a backward glance, and then looked at the very handsome motorcar, at what appeared to be a coronet upon the panel, and at the imperturbable expression of the powdered footman, standing with a rug over his arm, looking into vacancy. Then he limped on a few feet and devoted himself to an absorbed contemplation of some Japanese trifles in a curio shop.

He lost count of time in his firm determination to await her return. It was only a few minutes before he was conscious of her reappearance. She hesitated for a moment on the threshold of the shop, shook her head at the footman who was already opening the door of the car, and approached Aaron Rodd. He turned abruptly from the window and greeted her with grave politeness. She glanced at his left arm, still in a sling, at the heavy walking stick by which he supported himself.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Rodd,” she said. “You have met, perhaps, with a little accident? It is so?”

“Your friends were a little rough,” he replied.

“I shall be annoyed with them,” she promised. “You received my message?”

“Certainly,” he replied. “On the whole, I agree with you.”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“And what are you doing in Bond Street?” she asked him.

“I am on my way to meet my friend Harvey Grimm.”

She nodded.

“That is your clever confederate, who stole our diamond,” she remarked suavely.

“A very fortunate circumstance for you,” he ventured to remind her. “If that stone — the real one, I mean — had been discovered in your possession at the police station, I fancy that your position in this country would have become a little difficult.”

“Oh, la, la!” she laughed. “You should have seen the face of Mr. Brodie, though, when they examined the imitation stone! I don’t think the English police are pleased with him. They were very kind to my grandfather and me.”

“Nevertheless,” he advised, “if I were your brother, I think that I would keep away from London just now.”

“And why?”

Aaron Rodd glanced up and down the pavement to be sure that there were no listeners.

“That fellow Brodie is not such a fool as he seems,” he declared. “He has made one mistake. I do not think that he is likely to make another.”

She laughed.

“If it is to be a duel of wits,” she murmured, “between Leopold and Mr. Brodie, do you know, I believe that Leopold will win.”

“There is such a thing as over-confidence,” he reminded her.

“I have so many ways,” she told him, with twinkling eyes, “of diverting these people from the scent. Do you recognise the old lady upon whom I am in attendance today, the old lady who went with me into that shop?”

“I have not that pleasure,” he replied grimly. “Is she one of the gang?”

“She is a royal princess — the Princess Augusta. If you do not believe me, look in this week’s Tatler and you will see her picture — perhaps mine. You are a hilarious man, Mr. Aaron Rodd, and you have mistreated us indeed, but I like you — yes, I like you quite well. How much money did you get for that stone you stole from us?”

The colour mounted mercilessly on his temples. He seemed suddenly bereft of words.

“Do not be foolish,” she continued quickly. “As you know, I am an adventuress myself, and I rather admire you both. I think that we ought to make friends. You could be of great service to us. There is no need for us to quarrel because you have had the best of this first little exchange. What do you say to that, my friend?”

Aaron Rodd found himself and became once more the man he was. He looked her squarely in the eyes.

“I would rather be friends with you,” he said, “than anyone in the world.”

For a moment, the triumph was his. She was almost embarrassed by his directness. Then the intervention came. “And it is equally and absolutely and conclusively certain,” Harvey Grimm pronounced, “that she came to Manchester Street, Adelphi, as the confederate of Jeremiah Sands.””Ah!” she exclaimed, “the Princess! Au revoir!”

She stepped lightly away from him, with a little nod of farewell. The footman stood bare-headed as he opened the door of the car. One of the principals of the establishment, which the grey-haired lady had just quitted, stood bowing upon the pavement. In the face of all this, the girl turned deliberately around and waved her hand as the car drove off. Aaron Rodd limped down Bond Street, called for a taxi, and drove to the Milan Court….

His two auditors listened to Aaron Rodd’s story with varying expressions — the poet with pleased and affable sympathy; Harvey Grimm, on the other hand, with obvious irritation. They were seated in a corner of the smoking room, and the latter at once dispatched a waiter for a copy of the Tatler. When it arrived, they all three pored over one of the leading illustrations. There was no doubt whatever in the minds of any of the three men as to the identity of the girl who was depicted as being amongst the ladies-in-waiting of a royal personage.

“That,” the poet declared, “is a young lady whose name is Henriette de Floge. She has an underhand service at Badminton and she wants to learn to be a futurist. She attended a class last year, organised by an artist friend of mine in Chelsea. Ye gods!”

“That, without a single doubt,” Aaron Rodd assented, laying his forefinger upon the illustration, “is the young lady who was in attendance this afternoon upon the Princess Augusta.”