dead in lonely streets,and in each case the only mark on the body was a tiny scratch on thecheek which no one had dreamed of connecting with their inexplicabledeath. As Dick gazed at the deadly blow-pipe those scratches assumed anew and sinister significance.
Carefully removing the dart, Dick hurried with it to the laboratory ofDoctor Lepine, the well-known toxicologist.
Doctor Lepine smiled.
"Lucky you didn't scratch yourself with it, Monsieur Manton," he said inFrench. "It would mean almost instant death!"
He listened gravely as Dick described the death of the two policeagents. The doctor had been away in England at the time and had noteven heard of the circumstances. But he hurried round to the Prefecturewith Dick and carefully examined the documents which dealt with the twocases and described minutely the appearance of the bodies.
"I have not the slightest doubt," he declared, "that both men werekilled with one of these darts. Every indication points to it. But asthe darts were not found we must presume they were removed after deathto avoid arousing suspicion. The victim would be paralysed almostinstantly, and would fall and die almost on the spot where he wasstanding when the dart infected him. If there are any more of theseaccursed things in Paris it will, I fear, be a difficult matter toprotect Monsieur le Prefet, for a favourable opportunity must come inthe long run."
Dick hurried back to Kapok's room, meaning to secure the blow-pipe. Tohis amazement the deadly weapon had disappeared! The police agents onduty outside the room asserted that no one had entered. But an openwindow told its tale; some one had crept along the ledge outside,entered the room and possessed himself of the weapon.
Dick spent several anxious hours with the Prefet, Raoul Gregoire, andInspector Roquet, arranging a plan of campaign.
Next morning found him crouched in an upper window of a locked room in ahouse facing the old villa in the Place d'Italie. Close at hand lay apowerful pneumatic gun, a weapon perfected by Jules and almost as deadlyand efficient as a rifle. He was haunted by a sickening _sense_ offoreboding. Against every evidence of his reason and senses he feltconvinced that it was from that old villa that danger threatenedGregoire.
Yet he was bound to admit that his fears seemed absurd. The old houseopposite was packed with sightseers, but there was a detective in everyroom close to the window. Even the garrets had been searched. It wasobvious that they had not been entered for months.
Yet Dick could not shake off the uncanny feeling which haunted him.
At last the head of the procession came in sight, with the blare ofmilitary bands and a crash of cheers from the thousands of spectatorslining the streets. But Dick had no eyes for the show. His wholeattention was riveted on the building before him.
The Sultan Ahmed Mohassib, of Morocco, in his white _burnous_ with manydecorations, passed amid a hurricane of cheers. Glancing along theprocession Dick saw the Prefet--a soldierly figure sitting erect in hiscar. In a few moments he would be abreast of the villa.
Suddenly Dick's eye was caught by a flash of light. Glancing quicklyupward he saw to his amazement that the window of a garret facing him--aroom which had already been searched--had suddenly opened. Only thechance reflection of the sun upon the glass had attracted his attentionto the swift movement.
As Raoul Gregoire passed, a dark rod, clutched in a hand which rested onthe grimy windowsill, projected itself from the window. It wavered fora moment, then steadied itself and pointed downward.
Instantly Dick fired.
The hand disappeared with a jerk, while the rod slid forward and fellover to the ground!
Wild with excitement Dick dashed down into the street. It was utterlyimpossible to force his way through the cheering crowd and he could onlywatch Monsieur le Prefet in a fever of anxiety.
It was soon dear that Raoul Gregoire was untouched. Evidently thewould-be assassin, if he had indeed dispatched one of the poisoneddarts, had missed his aim.
Five minutes later Dick and half a dozen detectives were in the garretof the old villa. But they were too late. The bird had flown, badlyhurt to judge by the blood which stained the floor. But on thewindow-sill lay three little poisoned darts ready for use.
A glance at the open skylight in the low roof was enough. In a momentthey were out on the roof of the adjoining house.
A few yards away was a rope ladder hooked over the parapet and danglingto the exterior fire-escape leading from the roof of a big drapery storeonly ten feet below. The miscreant himself had vanished.
The would-be murderer, it was clear, must have climbed the fire-escapeduring the darkness of the previous night, and lain hidden on the roofstill the procession came along. After the garret had been searched, hehad slipped down with impunity while every one was excitedly watchingthe procession.
They never caught him. But when Gregoire returned to the Prefecture apoisoned dart was found sticking in the upholstery of his car, close tohis head. Had it been a bare half-inch lower down it would, no doubt,have struck him with fatal result. Dick's lightning shot had spoilt themiscreant's aim and saved the Prefet's life.
The incident is one of the secrets of the life of official Paris and ledto the Prefet's resignation a month later, an occurrence which filledall France with dismay and was the cause of much conjecture andspeculation.
Raoul Gregoire has returned to the provinces and is now Prefet of theDepartment of the Alpes-Maritimes an appointment which he much prefers.
CHAPTER EIGHT.
THE MESSAGE FOR ONE EYE ONLY.
The heat was stifling in the Gran Ancora at Barcelona, an obscure butgrandiloquently named cafe of more than doubtful reputation. Atdilapidated tables in the long apartment which served as a saloon groupsof rough-looking men were drinking steadily. The fumes of strongtobacco poisoned the heavy atmosphere, flies swarmed over everything,the air was full of the reek of stale drink and unwashed humanity.
Though it was but early evening the ill-omened place was already fillingup. It was a notorious haunt of betting men and some of the worstcharacters of the town, frequented by desperadoes who were ready toundertake any deed of violence if it offered the promise of plunder.The swarms of anarchists, who are the curse of Spain, found there aready welcome and congenial companionship.
At a table at one end of the long room, sat a solitary individual whowas reading the "Diario," an anarchist journal devoted to the preachingof doctrine of the most revolutionary type. He spoke to no one, and noone spoke to him, though now and again curious glances were directedtowards him. He took no notice of the hubbub around him, but went oncalmly reading his paper and sipping slowly at a glass of the villainouswine which seemed to be the favourite beverage of the habitues of thehouse.
The stranger was no other than Dick Manton. He had come to Barcelona onthe trail of a gang of international crooks who had got away with ahundred thousand francs by a clever bank swindle in Paris. Had hisidentity been suspected his life in that haunt of depravity would nothave been worth five minutes' purchase.
But he sat there undisturbed, apparently oblivious of what was going onaround him, but in reality keenly on the alert and with one hand closeto the butt of the heavy revolver which, as he well knew, he might becalled upon to use at any moment in the deadliest earnest.
Manton stiffened suddenly as his eye fell on the queer jumble of figuresquoted above. They were buried away in a mass of advertisements andmight well be overlooked by the casual reader. As Dick well knew, the"Diario" was used for all kinds of queer communications to all kinds ofqueer people, and he was attracted by the hint of mystery, a lure whichhe could never resist. The jumble of figures fascinated him. He had astrange feeling that it would be well worth while to try to decipher theweird cryptogram. But he knew better than to try to do so there. Itwas not healthy to try in public to pry into the secrets of theunderworld of Barcelona.
Dick Manton had had a strange and adventurous career. But as he gazedat the odd announcement, he had a premonition that he was on the edge o
fa mystery stranger than anything that he had so far encountered.
Having read the queer cryptogram over and over again, Dick slipped thepaper into his pocket.
Presently he finished his wine and sauntered out, with an uneasy feelingthat made him wonder whether he would reach the door without a bullet inhis back. He got out in safety, however, and once clear of the doubtfulneighbourhood of the cafe, made his way swiftly to his rooms at the"Hotel Falcon."
It took several hours of hard work before he could obtain the key of thecipher. Then he realised with a gasp that it was in one of the simplestof British signal codes. The key read:
At first Dick was completely mystified. The message conveyed nothing tohim. Who were Mataza, Wilson, and Greening? Where was Chalkley? And,above all, why should such a message appear in an English code in anobscure paper published in Barcelona?
It was the last point which worried him most.
He felt instinctively that the message must conceal a meaning of whichhe