"Never mind," he replied soothingly. "It is annoying for you, but I give you my word that you shall not be compromised by _me_--come, luncheon is waiting. I will show you the only three men in Europe and America who might associate the bandit, the incendiary, with him who calls himself Severac Bablon." He stood up and gazed abstractedly in the direction of the garden. In silence he stood looking, not at the garden, but beyond it, into some vaster garden of his fancy. Sheard studied him with earnest curiosity. "Will you never tell me," he began abruptly, "who you are really, what is the source of your influence, and what is your aim in all this wild business?" Severac Bablon turned and regarded him fixedly. "I will," he said, "when the day comes--if ever it does come." A shadow crept over his mobile features. "I am a dreamer, Sheard," he continued, "and perhaps a trifle mad. I am trying to wield a weapon that my fathers were content to let rust in its scabbard. For the source of the influence you speak of--its emblem lies there." He pointed a long, thin finger to the recess veiled with its heavy Damascus curtain. "May I see it?" The quizzical smile returned to the fine face. "Oh, thou of the copy-hunting soul," exclaimed Severac Bablon. "A day may come. But it is not to-day." He seized Sheard by the arm and led him out into the hall. "Look at these three portraits," he directed. "The three great practical investigators of the world. Mr. Brinsley Monro, of Dearborn Street, Chicago; Mr. Paul Harley, of Chancery Lane; and last, but greatest, M. Victor Lemage, of Paris." "Is Duquesne acting under his instructions?" "M. Lemage took charge of the case this morning." Sheard looked hard at Severac Bablon. Victor Lemage, inventor of the anthroposcopic system of identification, the greatest living authority upon criminology, was a man to be feared. Severac Bablon smiled, clapped both hands upon his shoulders, and looked into his eyes. "It is the lighter side of my strange warfare," he said. "I revel in it, Sheard. It refreshes me for more serious things. This evening you must arrange to meet me for a few moments. I shall have a 'scoop' to offer you for the _Gleaner_. Do not fail me. It will leave you ample time to get on to Downing Street afterwards. You see, I knew you were going to Downing Street to-night! Am I not a magician? I shall wire you. If, when you ring at the door of the house to which you will be directed, no one replies, go away at once. I will then communicate the news later. And now--lunch." CHAPTER XVIII A WHITE ORCHID Whoever could have taken a peep into a certain bare-looking room at Scotland Yard some three hours after Sheard had left Finchley Road must have been drawn to the conclusion that the net was closing more tightly about Severac Bablon than he supposed.