BY E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM AUTHOR OF "THE OTHER ROMILLY" "THE BLACK WATCHER," ETC. HODDER AND STOUGHTON LIMITED LONDON 1920 Contents CHAPTER I The Cunning of Harvey Grimm CHAPTER II Poetry by Compulsion CHAPTER III An Alliance of Thieves CHAPTER IV Ulysses of Wapping CHAPTER V The Mysterious Assistant CHAPTER VI Paul Brodie Strikes CHAPTER VII The Infidelity of Jack Lovejoy CHAPTER VIII The Yellow Eye CHAPTER IX The Vengeance of Rosa Letchowiski CHAPTER X The End of Jeremiah Sands...

A queer, unexpected streak of sunshine, which by some miracle had found its way through a pall of clouds and a low-hanging mist, suddenly fell as though exhausted across the asphalt path of the Embankment Gardens. A tall, gaunt young man, who had been seated with folded arms in the corner of one of the seats, stared at it as though bewildered. His eyes suddenly met those of a young lady in deep black, who was gazing about her in similar stupefaction. Almost at once, and with perfect spontaneity,

Mr. Paul Brodie walked, unannounced, into Aaron Rodd's office, a matter of ten days after the episode of the changed diamond. He had lost a little of his bombast, and he carried himself with less than his usual confidence. His eyes, however, had lost none of their old inquisitive fire. He was perfectly aware, even as he greeted the two men who rose to welcome him, that Aaron Rodd was wearing a new suit of clothes, that the office had been spring-cleaned, that the box of cigarettes upon the desk

Aaron Rodd was walking along the, to him, unfamiliar thoroughfare of Bond Street when he was suddenly confronted with a vision. A large limousine motor-car 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. W

On the following morning, Aaron Rodd, somewhat to his surprise, received a visit from his only client. Mr. Jacob Potts, who was a publican and retired pugilist, and whose appearance entirely coincided with his dual profession, looked around the apartment with a little sniff. "Ho!" he exclaimed. "Better times arrived, eh? 'Ad a spring-cleaning, 'aven't you? Telephone, too, and new chairs! Golly! Does it run to cigars?" Aaron Rodd shamelessly offered him a box of Harvey Grimm's Cabanas. His client

Abraham Letchowiski stood in the doorway of his small but brilliantly lit shop in one of the broad thoroughfares leading out of the Mile End Road, and beamed upon the Saturday night passers-by. He was, in his way, a picturesque looking object—patriarchal, almost biblical. He wore a long, rusty-black frock-coat, from which the buttons had long since departed, but which hung in straight lines about his tall, spare form. His dishevelled grey beard reached to the third button of his waistcoat. His h

Mr. Jacob Potts, blowing very hard, and with his tongue protruding from the corner of his mouth, finished an elaborate signature, patted his waistcoat pocket, in which he had just deposited a cheque, laid down the pen, and, leaning back in his chair, crossed his legs. He was once more occupying the distinguished position of being Aaron Rodd's only client. "I never thought to do it," he declared. "I never thought to part with 'The Sailor-boys' while I was, so to speak, in the prime of life. It's

Cresswell and Aaron Rodd were dining with Captain Brinnen and his sister at a corner table in the Milan Restaurant. Harvey Grimm had once more left them for an unknown destination, and they were all aware that the period of his absence would be this time more than ever one of strain. As though by general consent, however, the conversation did not touch once upon personal matters. They spoke a good deal of the war. Brinnen himself was roused by sundry reflections into a momentary bitterness, an e

At a few minutes before the popular dining hour, Aaron Rodd, having selected a table, ordered, in consultation with the chief maître d'hôtel , a small dinner, and possessed himself of a theatre guide, sat in the reception lounge of the Carlton Grill-room, awaiting the arrival of Henriette. There was a mirror exactly opposite to him, and as he sipped his cocktail he caught a glimpse of his own face. He set down his glass, momentarily startled. Somehow, it seemed to him like being brought face to

The small boy assumed an air of vast importance. He leaned over the counter and with mysterious gestures arrested the progress of his cousin through the shop. "Rosa, I've got something to thay to you, motht important," he announced. "Come right over here." She paused and swung around a little unwillingly. Her scarlet underlip was thrust outwards. She walked with her hand upon her hip, not averse to impressing even this young cousin of hers with all the allurements of her slipshod finery. "I thay

Aaron Rodd clasped his arms a little further around the barrel against which he was leaning, trod water with his feet and thought about death. The curtain of a slight mist had fallen around him. There was nothing visible but the cold, grey sea, sometimes high above his head, sometimes like a water-slide tumbling away many feet below him. All around him he could hear the hooting of the steamers, sounding their weird notes of warning from some unseen, unimaginable world. A few feet away, also clin