AT THE COBALT CLUB
THE death of Jonathan Graham was no longer a matter of front-page interest; but it was still a subject of discussion at the Cobalt Club. The importer had been a prominent member of that social organization. The Cobalt Club was reputed to be the most exclusive in New York.
To-night, a small group of members were seated in the luxurious lounge, and their conversation dealt with Jonathan Graham. While they were talking, a young man entered, attired in evening clothes. He nodded to various persons in the group, but took no part in the discussion.
After a short while the group dwindled away, until only a single individual remained. He was a tall, gray-haired man, whose face was firm and dignified. Not the slightest semblance of a smile appeared upon his features.
The young man in evening clothes was still there. He was seated a short distance away, and now his eyes fell upon the one man who remained.
“Unfortunate,” observed the young man. “This death of Jonathan was most unfortunate. I knew him rather well. Splendid chap, Graham.”
The gray-haired man nodded.
“I seldom come here to the club,” he said, “although I have made rather frequent visits during the past few weeks. I had only a speaking acquaintance with Graham. He must have been highly esteemed.”
“He was quite popular,” replied the young man.
“I believe I have met you once or twice before,” observed the gray-haired man. “Your name is Cranston, is it not?”
“Lamont Cranston,” replied the other. “I have been away from town for several months; but I have seen you before that. I must confess, however, that your name has slipped my memory.”
“I am Richard Albion.”
“Oh, yes. Now I recollect. We once discussed Russia. Rather briefly, however. You told me that you had lived there, prior to the War.”
Richard Albion became thoughtful.
“I have deep remembrances of Russia,” he said. “Many of my friends belonged to the old regime. I have done much to aid them since the revolution. Some of them have come to America.
“It is a sad sight — persons of high station who have become virtually destitute through events over which they had no control.”
“Some have not been so unfortunate,” observed Lamont Cranston quietly.
“I know of none,” replied Albion. “Sometimes the past seems wholly obliterated from my mind. I wish that I could forget the present — and let my thoughts revert to days gone by.”
“That is not difficult,” said Lamont Cranston. “Through concentration we can forget the present. I have done so, often.”
“I should like to know your method.”
LAMONT CRANSTON drew his left hand from behind the arm of the chair in which he was sitting. He extended his arm toward his companion.
Albion noted the long, white, tapering fingers, and his eyes were immediately attracted to a large gem, mounted on a heavy ring.
“An unusual stone,” he said.
“Yes,” answered Cranston. “It is a girasol, or fire opal. Look at it in the light. Do you see its deep red light, glowing like the embers of a fire?”
“I do,” replied Albion. He was staring at the fire opal, as though suddenly fascinated by it.
“Focus your gaze upon it,” suggested Cranston quietly. “Concentrate. Center your mind upon its reddish light. It produces a strange mental reaction. It brings back lost memories — “
Richard Albion’s hands were twitching slightly. He seemed unconscious of their movement. He seemed lost in deep thought, as though the sight of the strange gem had awakened a great interest in his brain.
Lamont Cranston spoke slowly as he watched his companion.
“Perhaps you will recall some one who lived in Russia,” he said. “A man who had great wealth — who still retains much of it. Perhaps his name will come to you. Does it?”
“No,” answered Albion, his eyes still upon the fire opal.
“The name is in my mind,” said Cranston. “It will be in yours, if you watch the gem. Listen. I shall reveal it.”
As he ended the sentence, Cranston pressed his fingers tightly together. The fire opal sprang back upon a hinge.
Beneath it, in the base of the ring, was a gold surface, upon which was engraved a seven-pointed star.
“Prince Zuvor!” whispered Lamont Cranston.
RICHARD ALBION uttered a low exclamation. He gripped the arms of his chair, and, half rising, he cast a startled look at the man before him.
Then his eyes reverted to the ring on Lamont Cranston’s hand. The fire opal had dropped back into place. The red gem now glowed where the seven-pointed star had been.
“Do you recognize the name?” questioned Lamont Cranston, with a slight smile.
Richard Albion stared fixedly.
“Prince Zuvor,” he murmured. “I have heard of Prince Zuvor.”
“You are Prince Zuvor.”
The gray-haired man did not reply. His eyes met those of Lamont Cranston. For a few seconds the two men studied each other intently. Then Albion nodded slowly.
“I am Prince Zuvor,” he admitted. His voice was almost inaudible. “Yet few men know my identity. How you discovered it is a mystery.
“Yet you possess the signet of the Seventh Star. That is a sign which I must acknowledge.”
Reaching in his pocket, Prince Zuvor brought forth a small gold coin. Pressing it between his hands, he made a twisting motion. The coin came apart. Prince Zuvor revealed one portion in the hollow of his hand.
Engraved within the hollowed coin was a seven-pointed star, identical with the device that lay hidden beneath Cranston’s fire opal.
“The Seventh Star,” said Zuvor, looking intently at Cranston, “is an order of the old regime. It belongs to the years before the revolution. But you are so young — “
“My age,” replied Cranston, with a slight smile, “is deceiving. Like you, prince, I have memories of Russia — as it was.”
He placed his right hand against the bosom of his shirt. His fingers were apart. He closed his hand and extended two fingers.
His quick motion denoted the number seven. The action was observed by Zuvor. The man who called himself Richard Albion responded with the same sign.
Lamont Cranston uttered three words in Russian. Zuvor replied. Then in English, Cranston said:
“The stars are bright to-night.”
“The brightest stars are the planets,” replied Zuvor, in a low voice.
“And they are seven,” whispered Cranston.
“The seven which shall rule,” answered Zuvor.
The two men had exchanged the pass words of the Seventh Star — the secret order of Royalist Russia, which had numbered among its members only the most trusted nobles of the czarist regime.
Yet, despite Lamont Cranston’s prompt responses, Prince Zuvor still eyed him with a remnant of doubt.
“Your age may be deceiving,” he said. “Yet you are not a Russian.”
“I was in Russia during the first months of the War,” replied Cranston. “As the agent of another government, I became a member of the Seventh Star.”
“Ah! Now I understand. You were one of the chosen few.”
Lamont Cranston nodded.
PRINCE ZUVOR glanced anxiously about the room. He and Cranston were alone, isolated in the spacious lounge of the Cobalt Club. Here they could not be overheard.
“We are not in Russia,” he said softly. “Yet there are dangers even here. You, I hope, have not experienced them. But I am watched. There are Red agents in New York.”
Lamont Cranston nodded.
“Yet they are slow to strike,” continued Zuvor. “They hold no menace — to those who are careful. Still, we must not underestimate their power. They can kill.”
“The case of Jonathan Graham stands as evidence of that,” replied Lamont Cranston.
An expression of amazement came over Prince Zuvor’s face. Then his eyes narrowed for an instant. He looked at Cranston sharply.
“You believe that?” he questioned.
“I do?”
“Why?”
“Graham was a millionaire. A capitalist.”
Prince Zuvor indulged in a depreciating smile.
“There are many such in New York,” he said.
“Graham was an importer,” said Cranston. “He may have had dealings with Soviet agents.”
“Perhaps.” Zuvor was still doubtful.
“Then again,” suggested Cranston, “he may have had some private dealings, of which we do not know.”
“Have you any evidence of such dealings?” questioned Zuvor.
“No,” replied Cranston. “It is merely conjecture. I have long suspected that Red agents are at work in New York. They are subtle in their methods.”
“Extremely subtle,” agreed Zuvor, “but their activities are confined to narrow quarters. I, for instance, am under constant observation. It is not safe for any friend to visit me.”
“Indeed.” Cranston’s tone denoted interest. “That intrigues me. I should like to visit you.”
Prince Zuvor smiled in unfeigned admiration.
“You would be quite welcome,” he said. He handed Cranston a card, bearing the name and address of Richard Albion. “But I warn you. If you come openly to my home, and leave openly, you will be a marked man from then on.”
“They watch you that closely?”
“They do. But I can thwart them.”
“How?”
“My house is one of mystery,” explained Prince Zuvor. “One may be seen going in — yet not seen, leaving.
“Not long ago” — he became reminiscent — “I had a visitor. He was the faithful servant of — of a Russian prince who is now dead. This man was under observation. He could not leave New York, because of the Red agents who were watching him. I enabled him to escape.”
“How?”
“By one of my secret methods. I have several. I could leave New York to-night if I chose. But — “
Prince Zuvor frowned and made a motion with his hands. He had evidently decided that he had said enough. He glanced at his watch, and rose from his chair.
“I have many enemies,” he said quietly. “But few friends, here in America. Most of them are dependent upon me. I am glad to know that you are one of us.
“Can I depend upon you, in time of stress?”
“You can,” replied Cranston.
“Very well,” remarked Zuvor. “I shall communicate with you here, when I need your assistance. We are of the old regime. I know that you are my friend.”
“I shall visit you, some time.”
“It will involve a risk.”
“I enjoy risks.”
Prince Zuvor bowed. Lamont Cranston rose and shook hands with him in parting. The Russian left the Cobalt Club.
Cranston was watching through the window, as the man who called himself Richard Albion drove away in a cab. The vehicle had not gone a hundred yards before a sedan pulled away from the opposite curb and followed.
Lamont Cranston took a chair in the corner of the lounge. He drew a pen from his pocket, laid a sheet of paper upon a magazine, and wrote:
Richard Albion is Prince Zuvor. He is being watched. Those who enter his home are watched. X can be traced through those who watch. This is another way of reaching X.
As Lamont Cranston reread the words which he had inscribed, the writing slowly faded away. The young man in evening dress smiled as he crumpled the paper and tossed it in a wastebasket.