CHAPTER IX.
MAX REVEALS HIMSELF.
“I want to become a member of your gang, or organization, or secret society, or whatever you call it,” Max informed him coolly. “I want to share your excitements, your risks, and your plunder. That’s all I ask. Take me into partnership, and you’ll not only secure my silence about last night, but you’ll also have enlisted a valuable and experienced recruit, though I say it myself.”
Alfred Atherton rose to his feet and paced the room for a moment or two. At length he halted and once more planted himself in front of his caller.
“You’re a remarkable fellow, Max,” he said, with just a suspicion of irony in his voice. “By your unaided wit you have discovered what all the trained intelligence of the police has failed to discover, or even to suspect. I congratulate you.
“You’re quite right,” he went on. “Frost and Kinsley and Tufts and myself are all members of a secret society, which obtains its revenues from the public by means of burglary, arson, forgery, impersonation, and similar unconventional methods. The society was founded by myself some years ago, and I have the honor of being its president.
“At first it consisted of less than a dozen members, but at the present time it numbers over a hundred. At first we did not bother about a name for it, but one day, in a fit of jocular inspiration, I christened it ‘The Order of the Philosopher’s Stone,’ and the name has stuck to it ever since.”
“A curious name,” suggested Max. “What made you choose a name like that?”
“You’re an intelligent fellow, and you seem to be well read,” was the answer. “Doubtless, therefore, you’ll remember that the ‘Philosopher’s Stone’ was the name given by the alchemists of the middle ages to the touchstone for which they were always searching, and which they believed would change the baser metals into gold. Well, all our members are very fond of gold, and everything which can be converted into gold—the Massey jewels, for instance—so what better name could I have found for our organization?”
“The Philosopher’s Stone is also the name of your yacht, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but the yacht really isn’t mine. Strictly speaking, it belongs to the society, and is chiefly used for the purpose of smuggling our loot out of the country. The officers and crew are all members of the organization, of course, and so are the servants in this apartment.”
He paused, and regarded Max Berne with a mocking smile.
“And so are the servants in this apartment,” he repeated meaningly. “As I said just now, my dear Max, you’re a remarkably clever fellow in your way, but doesn’t it begin to strike you that you were rather foolish to come here and threaten me?”
“No, I can’t say that it does,” was the calm reply.
Atherton shrugged his shoulders.
“Then you’re not as bright as I thought you were,” he declared. “I’ve been very frank and open with you. I’ve admitted that I’m a criminal; I’ve involved the most important members of our board of directors, and I’ve told you quite a lot about the society itself. Hasn’t it occurred to you to wonder why I’ve been so indiscreet?”
“I suppose because you’re going to admit me into the society,” the waiter answered promptly.
Atherton’s laugh had a disagreeable ring.
“Not at all,” he said. “Better guess again, Max. I’ve told you so much because I know you will never be able to reveal what I’ve told you to any one else. In other words—I’m sorry to say it, because I’m really fond of you in a way—you’ll never leave this apartment alive!”
As he spoke, he touched a bell, and in hardly more time than it takes to tell it, three stalwart menservants glided into the room.
“Fine specimens, aren’t they?” queried Atherton. “I call them my bodyguard. As I’ve told you, they’re all members of the order, and are sworn to obey my commands even at the cost of their own lives. Now, perhaps you see that you’ve made a little mistake in coming here so trustfully?”
But the waiter never turned a hair. He toyed with his revolver, glanced for a second at the street below, and then coolly studied the newcomers, making no attempt to rise from his chair.
“These melodramatic proceedings leave me cold,” he said wearily. “I’m quite able to defend myself with this old friend here, and, what’s more, if you or these fellows were to attempt to molest me, I should instantly smash this window and shout for help.”
“I’m afraid that wouldn’t be of much use to you,” Atherton informed him. “You would be dead long before anybody arrived, and my men here would unanimously swear that you had attacked me, and that I had shot you in self-defense. You hadn’t thought of that, I suppose?”
“I confess I hadn’t,” Max returned, unmoved. “Perhaps there’s something, though, which you haven’t thought of. My death wouldn’t save you from exposure and ruin. I wasn’t born yesterday, Mr. Alfred Knox Atherton. Before I came here, I wrote out and signed a full account of all that happened at Meadowview last night. I gave the paper to my wife, and I told her that if I hadn’t returned by six o’clock she was to take the document to police headquarters.”
Atherton bit his lip, and a spasm of baffled rage distorted his face.
“Your wife!” he snarled.
“The most charming woman in the world,” the waiter assured him, in the silkiest of voices, but with a curious touch of sincerity. “You may perhaps have heard of her, for she has an international reputation. Her name is Elaine Wilhelm, and she’s sometimes called ‘The Countess!’”
Atherton uttered a shout that was a curious blend of amazement and delight.
“Elaine Wilhelm—The Countess!” he cried. “You don’t mean it! Then you—you are Johann Wilhelm?”
“‘The Count,’ at your service!” murmured the man, rising from his chair and bowing low.