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task which I desire you should undertake." And again he put hishand in his breast pocket, and this time he did not produce apocket-book, but a tiny cutting which he explained came from thatevening's _Globe_, and which set out this odd notice:

  To be sold--without Reserve--the Library and Effects of a RefugeeSpanish priest, lately deceased. Contains many early printed Books,Horae, Liturgical, and other Manuscripts. By Auction to-morrow (Friday)at 3 PM. The Bromley Mart, King's Street, Covent Garden, WC.

  Now, almost in spite of myself, I felt flattered by this quaint andunexpected turn of negotiations which dropped so suddenly a mystery andtouched on concrete things.

  Let me explain the reason. As a matter of fact, if there was one hobbyat that moment that appealed to me more than another it was thatconnected with old books, old furniture, old silver, old deeds, andcharters. Indeed, I admit freely, I had attained already some certainamount of notoriety amongst the well-informed in this direction, actingas I had done for the young Earl of Fotheringay before I became a secretinvestigator, and at a time when I had leisure to roam from auction martto curiosity shop, and thence to old country mansions on the eve ofimportant sales--where more bargains in antiques are picked up than mostwealthy curio-collectors dream of. But how Don Jose could have guessedI had any specialist knowledge of this sort I was powerless to explain.None the less, the probability of some romance, or some rare discoveryin this sale, tempted me sorely, and the Spaniard, who had been narrowlywatching my features, seemed to divine that, to recognise that I wasthen almost as good as won to his cause, for all at once he lowered hiseyes before me, but not before I caught in their deep, dark depths theglint of some conscious triumph.

  "So you wish me to bid for these things," I at length suggestedtentatively, laying the cutting on the table and tapping itinterrogatively. "All of them or some?" I asked after another moment'spause.

  "One lot. Number 82, a bundle of manuscripts. These are veryvaluable." And again his eyes flashed.

  "What limit may I go to?"

  "2500 pounds," he answered promptly, and at this I started, for thereare few old records in evidence worth so sensational a sum as this. "Ifthe things are knocked down to you," he went on eagerly, "a draft on abank to the required amount will be put into your hands at once. As amatter of fact, the Bank of South and Central America have promised tosend a special messenger to the mart itself to watch you and to take allthe financial responsibilities off your shoulders." He paused, andlooked at me. "But you will never get them," he added the next second,"of that I am certain," and, half unconsciously, he gave a low,desponding sigh.

  "Oh, that's absurd," I cried, although my own brain reeled at themagnitude of the commission, "we must not lose heart at the start.After all, an auction is an auction; money has money's power the worldover. Pay enough--and I feel sure you are bound to triumph."

  "So it would seem. But then you don't know the secret foes whom youwill have against you. Their power--their daring--their resources aremarvellous."

  And he rose and paced my office, as though he could not bear even tothink.

  None the less, I made one further effort. "Why," questioned I, "shouldthey, or you for the matter of that, struggle for a few old parchmentdocuments of an obscure Spanish priest? What are they to you, or toanyone?"

  "Ah, that's precisely what I cannot tell you. Rest assured, however,that they are, that we shall strive to buy them, and that they arealmost practically certain to beat you. Nevertheless, fight for thethings just as long as you have the strength. Afterwards, should you beout-classed in the actual sale, fix your mind on the next point in ourquest--to discover where those documents are taken. Even if you canonly find that simple fact out for me you will, in one sense, amplyrepay me."

  "But after the sale where shall we meet? Where will you come that I mayreport to you?" I asked, still in much confusion of mind.

  "Here," said he; "I'll come to-morrow night at the same hour. Tillthen, I must beg you, have two watchwords--and two watchwordsalone--`secrecy' and `dispatch.'" And moving forward suddenly he pickedup his hat and, with a low bow, crossed to the door.

  I, too, rose, but I was not in time. He was too quick for me. All atonce he gave me another profound bow, and with a sharp turn of the wristthrew open the door, through which he passed again as swiftly and asmysteriously as he had come.

  Not to be beaten, though, I followed him instantly into the street. Athousand questions called to me for answers. I felt I could not let himgo in that manner.

  By this time the storm had completely died down, the sky had cleared,and was now cloudless and studded with stars. Yet, look where I would,I could not catch a trace of his fleeing shadow, although, by all rulesof time and distance, he could not then have covered seven or eightyards at the most. It seemed, indeed, as though the pavement must haveopened suddenly and swallowed him up.

  Just, however, as I was about to turn indoors again another strangething happened.

  CHAPTER TWO.

  LOT EIGHTY-TWO.

  Just at that moment a man's form emerged from the darkness on theopposite side of the street, and a familiar voice called to me in a loudbut commanding whisper: "Glynn! Glynn! Is that you? You're here late,aren't you?" I wheeled round suddenly, and recognised the speaker. Itwas Detective-Inspector Naylor of Scotland Yard, with whom in times pastI had been engaged in several joint investigations in which society andcrime played parts of equally unpleasant prominence.

  "Hullo!" I said, puzzled to know what to say, and still bewildered bythe unexpected climax to my last interview. "What the deuce are youdoing here at this ungodly time of night? Got something goodprofessionally on, eh?"

  "Oh, rather a queer job," he answered lightly, bending down andpretending to strike a match on a shop front, wherewith to light thecigar he was carrying. "I'm after a young foreign chap who has justescaped from the monastery where he was a novice, and is accused of themurder of a well-known English nobleman in peculiarly atrociouscircumstances. Good-bye. Take care of yourself. I'm a bit late as itis, although I think I've got a splendid clue."

  And he, too, vanished just as suddenly into the night.

  Luckily my business as a professional investigator of the odd, thequeer, and the misunderstood in life had given me a stout nerve and anobedient brain, so, crushing down all the flood of idle speculation thatrose in me as to the reason and connection of those two mostextraordinary coincidences, I patiently retraced my steps, locked up myrooms, and turned into my bed.

  "Enough for the day is the worry thereof," I told myself as I mixed aglass of steaming grog. "I've got the money from this Spaniard, andI've got the commission to go to that auction, and when I am able toanswer any or all the puzzling questions that this mysterious visit ofDon Jose Casteno has suggested to me I'll ask them quickly enough--butnot before. As for Mr Naylor, well, he's got his troubles. So have I.`One dog, one bone,' as my old groom used to say when any of the otherservants tried to interfere with his prerogatives. I'll stick to my ownlines, and that, at present, is nothing more formidable, in spite of hisdark hints and tall talk, than the acquisition of these old manuscriptsfor Don Jose." And gulping down the hot jorum I had prepared Iresolutely threw the bedclothes over my head, and soon was fast asleep.

  Next day, however, I turned up punctually at the mart in Covent Gardenjust before the hour the advertisement specified.

  To say I was not anxious about the result of my action would be foolish.I was--for always behind my business, you must remember, lurked thosesoft, shy, tender eyes of Doris Napier, which I wanted to shine on mealone. All the same, I had no idea of the strange and bewildering actsof trickery in which, contrary to my best efforts, I was destined tobecome a central figure. Had I known, of course, the sequel to themmight have been very different, and maybe, too, this story would neverhave been written. As it was--but there! let the affair speak foritself. It happened like this:

  Directly I arrived in King's Street I found the huge
wooden apartment,with its familiar roof of green opaque glass and its big staringadvertisements in colour on the walls, known to curio lovers all overthe world as the "Brom," crowded from end to end and door to door withforeigners. Now this was extremely unusual. In an ordinary way thesame dealers and amateurs turn up at these functions time after time--these people fall into methods of their own of quick and agreeableacquaintance--and the bidding is conducted with certain airs ofold-world politeness and decorum, which men who love the work find verydelightful and refreshing in themselves, and yet conducive to the bestbusiness results.

  To-day, however, the whole atmosphere and method of the place werechanged as if by magic. A crowd of Jews, Spaniards, and Italians