"For whom?"
"For old Henfrey's son."
The Sparrow's visitor gave vent to a low whistle.
"They intend to get old Henfrey's money?"
"Yes--and they will if we are not very wary," declared the little, bristly-haired old gentleman known as The Sparrow. "The boy has been entirely entrapped. They made one faux pas, and it is upon that we may--if we are careful--get the better of them. I don't like the situation at all. They have a distinctly evil design against the boy."
"Benton and Molly are a combination pretty hard to beat," remarked Mr. Howell. "But I thought they were friends of ours."
"True. They were. But after the little affair in Marseilles I don't trust them," replied The Sparrow. "When anyone makes a slip, either by design or sheer carelessness, or perhaps by reason of inordinate avarice, then I always have to safeguard myself. I suspect--and my suspicion usually proves correct."
His midnight visitor drew a long breath.
"What we all say of you is that The Sparrow is gifted with an extra sense," he said.
The little old man with the gloved hand smiled contentedly.
"I really don't know why," he said. "But I scent danger long before others have any suspicion of it. If I did not, you would, many of you who are my friends, have been in prison long ago."
"But you have such a marvellous memory."
"Memory!" he echoed. "Quite wrong. I keep everything filed. I work yonder at my desk all day. See this old wardrobe," and he crossed to a long, genuine Jacobean wardrobe which stood in a corner and, unlocking it, opened the carved doors. "There you see all my plans arranged and docketed. I can tell you what has been attempted to-night. Whether the coup is successful I do not yet know."
Within were shelves containing many bundles of papers, each tied with pink tape in legal fashion. He took out a small, black-covered index book and, after consulting it, drew out a file of papers from the second shelf.
These he brought to his table, and opened.
"Ah, yes!" he said, knitting his brows as he read a document beneath the green-shaded electric lamp. "You know Franklyn, don't you?"
"Harold Franklyn?"
"Yes. Well, he's in the Tatra, in Hungary. He and Matthews are with three Austrian friends of ours, and to-night they are at the Castle of Szombat, belonging to Count Zsolcza, the millionaire banker of Vienna. The Countess has some very valuable jewels, which were indicated to me several months ago by her discharged lady's maid--through another channel, of course. I hope that before dawn the jewels will be no longer at Szombat, for the Count is an old scoundrel who cornered the people's food in Austria just before the Armistice and is directly responsible for an enormous amount of suffering. The Countess was a cafe singer in Budapest. Her name was Anna Torna."