/George Ravini/ was not an unpleasant-looking man. From his own point
of view, which was naturally prejudiced, he was extremely attractive,
with his crisp brown hair, his handsome Neapolitan features, his
height, and his poise. And when to his natural advantages were added
the best suit that Savile Row could create, the most spotless of grey
hats, and the malacca sword-stick on which one kid-gloved hand rested
as upon the hilt of a foil, the shiniest of enamelled shoes and the
finest of grey silk socks, the picture was well framed and
embellished. Greatest embellishment of all were George Ravini’s Luck
Rings. He was a superstitious man and was addicted to charms. On the
little finger of his right hand were three gold rings, and in each
ring three large diamonds. The Luck Stones of Ravini were one of the
traditions of Saffron Hill.

Most of the time he had the half-amused, half-bored smile of a man for
whom life held no mysteries and could offer, in experience, little
that was new. And the smile was justified, for George knew most of the
things that were happening in London or likely to happen. He had
worked outward from a one-room home in Saffron Hill, where he first
saw the light, had enlarged the narrow horizons which surrounded his
childhood, so that now, in place of the poverty-stricken child who had
shared a bed with his father’s performing monkey, he was not only the
possessor of a classy flat in Half Moon Street but the owner of the
block in which it was situate. His balance at the Continental Bank was
a generous one; he had securities which brought him an income beyond
his needs, and a larger revenue from the two night clubs and spieling
houses which were in his control, to say nothing of the perquisites
which came his way from a score of other sources. The word of Ravini
was law from Leyton to Clerkenwell, his fiats were obeyed within a
mile radius of Fitzroy Square, and no other gang leader in London
might raise his head without George’s permission save at the risk of
waking in the casualty ward of the Middlesex Hospital entirely
surrounded by bandages.

He waited patiently on the broad space of Waterloo Station,
occasionally consulting his gold wrist-watch, and surveyed with a
benevolent and proprietorial eye the stream of life that flowed from
the barriers.

The station clock showed a quarter after six: he glanced at his watch
and scanned the crowd that was debouching from No. 7 platform. After a
few minutes’ scrutiny he saw the girl, and with a pat to his cravat
and a touch to the brim of his hat which set it tilting, he strolled
to meet her.

Margaret Belman was too intent with her own thoughts to be thinking
about the debonair and youngish man who had so often sought an
introduction by the conventional method of pretending they had met
before. Indeed, in the excitement of her visit to Larmes Keep, she had
forgotten that this pestiferous gallant existed or was likely to be
waiting for her on her return from the country.

George Ravini stopped and waited for her approach, smiling his
approval. He liked slim girls of her colouring: girls who dressed
rather severely and wore rather nice stockings and plain little hats.
He raised his hat; the Luck Stones glittered beautifully.

“Oh!” said Margaret Belman, and stopped too.

“Good evening, Miss Belman,” said George, flashing his white teeth.
“Quite a coincidence meeting you again.”

As she went to walk past him he fell in by her side.

“I wish I had my car here, I might have driven you home,” he said
conversationally. “I’ve got a new 20 Rolls–rather a neat little
machine. I don’t use it a great deal–I like to walk from Half Moon
Street.”

“Are you walking to Half Moon Street now?” she asked quietly.

But George was a man of experience.

“Your way is my way,” he said.

She stopped.

“What is your name?” she asked.

“Smith–Anderton Smith,” he answered readily. “Why do you want to
know?”

“I want to tell the next policeman we meet,” she said, and Mr. Ravini,
not unaccustomed to such threats, was amused.

“Don’t be a silly little girl,” he said. “I’m doing no harm, and you
don’t want to get your name in the newspapers. Besides, I should
merely say that you asked me to walk with you and that we were old
friends.”

She looked at him steadily.

“I may meet a friend very soon who will need a lot of convincing,” she
said. “Will you please go away?”

George was pleased to stay, as he explained.

“What a foolish young lady you are!” he began. “I’m merely offering
you the common courtesies—-”

A hand gripped his arm and slowly pulled him round–and this in broad
daylight on Waterloo Station, under the eyes of at least two of his
own tribe. Mr. Ravini’s dark eyes snapped dangerously.

And yet seemingly his assailant was a most inoffensive man. He was
tall and rather melancholy-looking. He wore a frock coat buttoned
tightly across his breast, and a high, flat-crowned, hard felt hat. On
his biggish nose a pair of steel-rimmed pince-nez were set at an
awkward angle. A slither of sandy side-whiskers decorated his cheek,
and hooked to his arm was a lightly furled umbrella. Not that George
examined these details with any care: they were rather familiar to
him, for he knew Mr. J. G. Reeder, Detective to the Public
Prosecutor’s Office, and the fight went out of his eyes.

“Why, Mr. Reeder!” he said, with a geniality that almost sounded
sincere. “This _is_ a pleasant surprise. Meet my young lady friend,
Miss Belman–I was just taking her along—-”

“Not to the Flotsam Club for a cup of tea?” murmured Mr. Reeder in a
tone of pain. “Not to Harraby’s Restaurant? Don’t tell me that,
Georgio! Dear me! How interesting either experience would be!”

He beamed upon the scowling Italian.

“At the Flotsam,” he went on, “you would have been able to show the
young lady where your friends caught young Lord Fallon for three
thousand pounds only the night before last–so they tell me. At
Harraby’s you might have shown her that interesting little room where
the police come in by the back way whenever you consider it expedient
to betray one of your friends. She has missed a treat!”

George Ravini’s smile did not harmonise with his sudden pallor.

“Now listen, Mr. Reeder—-”

“I’m sorry I can’t, Georgio.” Mr. Reeder shook his head mournfully.
“My time is precious. Yet, I will spare you one minute to tell you
that Miss Belman is a very particular friend of mine. If her
experience of to-day is repeated, who knows what might happen, for I
am, as you probably know, a malicious man.” He eyed the Italian
thoughtfully. “Is it malice, I wonder, which inhibits a most
interesting revelation which I have on the tip of my tongue? I wonder.
The human mind, Mr. Ravini, is a curious and complex thing. Well,
well, I must be getting along. Give my regards to your criminal
associates, and if you find yourself shadowed by a gentleman from
Scotland Yard, bear him no resentment. He is doing his duty. And do
not lose sight of my–um–warning about this lady.”

“I have said nothing to this young lady that a gentleman shouldn’t.”

Mr. Reeder peered at Ravini.

“If you have,” he said, “you may expect to see me some time this
evening–and I shall not come alone. In fact,”–this in a most
confidential tone–“I shall bring sufficient strong men with me to
take from you the keys of your box in the Fetter Lane Safe Deposit.”

That was all he said, and Ravini reeled under the threat. Before he
had quite recovered, Mr. J. G. Reeder and his charge had disappeared
into the throng.