The Golden Face: A Great 'Crook' Romance

Produced by D Alexander and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)









 THE GOLDEN FACE

 _A GREAT "CROOK" ROMANCE_

 BY

 WILLIAM LE QUEUX

 AUTHOR OF "MADEMOISELLE OF MONTE CARLO,"
 "THE STRETTON STREET AFFAIR"

 NEW YORK

 THE MACAULAY COMPANY




 COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY

 THE MACAULAY COMPANY

 _Printed in the United States of America_




[Illustration: I slipped the pendant into Lady Lydbrook's soft hand
as she stood in _deshabille_ at the half-opened door of her bedroom.]




CONTENTS


 CHAPTER                                          PAGE

    I PRIVATE AND PERSONAL                          1

   II ROOM NUMBER 88                               16

  III THE MAN WITH THE HUMP                        30

   IV THE FOUR FALSE FINGERS                       43

    V CONCERNS MR. BLUMENFELD                      59

   VI AT THREE-EIGHTEEN A.M.                       73

  VII LITTLE LADY LYDBROOK                         87

 VIII THE CAT'S TOOTH                              99

   IX LOLA IS AGAIN SUSPICIOUS                    113

    X THE PAINTED ENVELOPE                        127

   XI THE GENTLEMAN FROM ROME                     140

  XII THE SILVER SPIDER                           151

 XIII ABDUL HAMID'S JEWELS                        170

  XIV THE VENGEANCE OF TAI-K'AN                   186

   XV OTHER PEOPLE'S MONEY                        201

  XVI THE MAN WHO WAS SHY                         215

 XVII THE SIGN OF NINETY-NINE                     232




THE GOLDEN FACE




CHAPTER I

PRIVATE AND PERSONAL


In order to ease my conscience and, further, to disclose certain
facts which for the past year or two have, I know, greatly puzzled
readers of our daily newspapers, I have decided to here reveal some
very curious and, perhaps, sensational circumstances.

In fact, after much perplexity and long consideration, I have
resolved, without seeking grace or favor, to make a clean breast of
all that happened to me, and to leave the reader to judge of my
actions, and either to condemn or to condone my offenses.

I will begin at the beginning.

It has been said that service in the Army has upset the average man's
chances of prosperity in civil life. That, I regret, is quite true.

When I, George Hargreave, came out of the Army after the Armistice, I
found myself, like many hundreds of other ex-officers, completely at a
loose end, without a shilling in the world over and above the gratuity
of between two and three hundred pounds to which my period of
commissioned service entitled me.

Grown accustomed during the war, however, to fending for myself and
overcoming difficulties and problems of one sort and another, I at
once set to work to look about for any kind of employment for which I
fancied I might be fitted. After answering many advertisements to no
purpose, I one day happened upon one in _The Times_ which rather
stirred my curiosity.

It stated that a gentleman of good position, who had occasion to
travel in many parts of the world, would like to hear from a young man
with considerable experience in motor driving. The applicant should
not be over thirty, and it was essential that he should be a gentleman
and well educated, with a knowledge of foreign languages if possible;
also that he should be thoroughly trustworthy and possessed of
initiative. The salary would be a very liberal one.

Application was to be made by letter only to a certain box at the
office of _The Times_.

I wrote at once, and received some days later a reply signed "_per
pro_ Rudolph Rayne," asking me to call to see the advertiser, who said
he would be awaiting me at a certain small hotel-de-luxe in the West
End at three o'clock on the following afternoon.

I arrived at the highly aristocratic hotel at five minutes to three,
and was conducted to a private sitting-room by a page who, on ushering
me in, indicated a good-looking, middle-aged man seated near the
window, reading a newspaper and smoking a cigar.

The gentleman looked up as I approached, then put down his paper,
rose, and extended his hand.

"Mr. George Hargreave?" he inquired in a pleasant voice.

"Yes. Mr. Rudolph Rayne, I presume?"

He bowed, and pointed to a chair close to his own. Then he sat down
again, and I followed his example.

"I have received hundreds of replies to my advertisement," was his
first remark, "and the reason why your application is one of the few I
have answered is that I liked the frank way in which you expressed
yourself. Can you sing?"

"Sing?" I exclaimed, startled at the unexpected question.

"Sing," he repeated.

"Well, yes, I do sing occasionally," I said. "That is to say, I used
to at the sing-songs in France at sergeants' messes, and so on. But
perhaps you mightn't consider it singing if you heard me," I ended
lightly.

"Very good, very good," he observed absent-mindedly.