“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.
CHAPTER XIII
THE RED MEETING
PROKOP was seated at the desk in his apartment. He was busily engaged in writing. A clock on the desk showed half past ten. Prokop went to the bookcase and removed the encyclopedia which he used to conceal his important papers.
He removed a few documents. Then he looked puzzled. An envelope lay among them — an envelope which was addressed to him in bright-red ink. The color of the writing carried significance.
Prokop opened the envelope. He had not placed it there himself. He could not imagine how it had come among his papers.
The letter was also in red ink; its characters had been carefully printed, and its words were short in their explanation:
You will not find this letter until just before the meeting. I have just been to see Berger. He will commit suicide. He was about to betray us. Watch Harry Vincent, who lives at the Hotel Metrolite. He is an enemy.
A strange, cryptic sign appeared at the bottom of the note. Prokop knew that it had come from the Red Envoy. That mysterious individual had come unknown to the apartment, last night and had left this message.
Prokop added it to the papers which he had just written. He thrust the entire lot into his pocket, and donned an overcoat. Then he left the apartment.
After walking several blocks, Prokop hailed a taxicab. It took him to a corner near an elevated station. He took the “L,” and rode a few stops onward.