William Le Queux (continued 3)

The strange story told by that shabby Dane as he sat in the gorgeous room of the Grand Hotel in Paris, had attracted him from the very first. Here was a chance of getting the better of his natural enemies, the Jews. Ah! how he hated them! Yes. He would search, and if he found any of those sacred relics, his intention was to laugh in the face of the whole Hebrew community and hold the discovery up to the derision of the Christians.

What mattered it to him that the Dane had died in penury in that obscure hotel near the Gare du Nord? His secret agent, who had watched the poor fellow from the moment he left the Grand Hotel, had informed Sir Felix of the man’s tragic end, but he had only smiled with evident satisfaction. The agent had ascertained that the present document had not been found among the dead man’s possessions, hence the Baronet believed that the man, before his death, had destroyed it. It was a blow to him when he discovered that certain fragments of it had been carefully preserved by Doctor Diamond. It meant that opposition had arisen—a very serious opposition which he must forcibly crush down.

“Charlie returns from Brussels to-day, doesn’t he?” the Baronet was asking.

“Yes. He ought to be back in his rooms by now. And he’ll find the girl there. I’ve left him definite instructions how to act.”

“The girl must be sworn to silence,” Sir Felix said with heavy brow. “She must assist us. We must compel her.”

Jim Jannaway nodded. From instructions given by the man before him his eyes had already been opened, and ten minutes later he left the house, the Baronet’s last words being:

“Remember, Jim, there’s millions in this business. We mustn’t lose it for the sake of that chit of a girl, however innocent and pretty she may be. Understand that!”

An hour previously Gwen Griffin, struggling slowly back to consciousness, found that, straight before her, was a square window over which was drawn a smoke-blackened, brown holland blind. The gas was still burning, although the grey wintry day had dawned some hours ago.

She was lying upon the bed in a fairly big room, still dressed, but with her clothes torn, as they had been in the desperate struggle of the previous night. Slowly and painfully she rose, and as she slipped off the bed she felt her limbs so weak and trembling that she could scarcely stand.

She caught sight of her dishevelled self in the long mirror of the wardrobe, and her own reflection startled her. All the horrors of that struggle crowded upon her. She put up her hands and pushed her thick dark hair from her white fevered brow.

“Where am I?” she cried aloud. “What will dad think?”

She staggered to the door, but found it locked and bolted from the outside. Then she went to the window and pulling aside the blind judged by the light that it must be about eleven o’clock in the morning. She tried to open the window but the sashes had been screwed together. The outlook was upon a blank wall.

Before the glass she rearranged her disordered dress, and sinking upon the side of the bed tried to recollect all that had occurred. But her head throbbed, her throat burned, and all the past seemed uncertain and indistinct.

The only fact which stood out clear in her mind as she sat there, inert and helpless, was the bitter truth which the man had spoken. The scoundrel who had represented himself to be “Captain Wetherton,” the friend of her lover, had showed himself in his true colours. He had brought her there for one dastardly purpose alone—to ruin her in Frank’s esteem.

She wondered what had really occurred—and while wondering, and dreading, she burst into a flood of bitter tears.

At one moment she made up her mind to batter down the door, or smash the window. But if she did that, she would, she feared, bring forth that man now so hateful to her.

She detested him. No. Rather would she starve and die there than ever look upon his blackguardly face again. The fellow was a coward, a vile scoundrel who had taken advantage of her eagerness to meet her lover, and had matched his brute strength against hers.

What should she do? How could she ever face Frank again?

She must have been carried there and placed upon that bed. She must, too, have lain for fully twelve hours in blank unconsciousness.

What had she done, she wondered, that this shameful trick should be played upon her? Alas! she had read accounts in the newspapers of how young girls had been decoyed and betrayed in our great world of London. Ah! it was no new thing she knew. Yet how long, she asked herself, was her imprisonment to continue? How long before she would be able at least to reassure her father of her safety?

For a full hour she sat in bitter tears, alone, disconsolate, and full of grave apprehension, until of a sudden she heard a footstep outside the door.

She held her breath. Horror! It was that man again.

The bolts were withdrawn, the door opened, and on the threshold stood a man, much taller, thinner and slightly older than the false “Captain Wetherton,” a pale-faced man she had never seen before.

“Hullo!” he asked, looking her straight in the face. “How are you this morning, my dear? You haven’t had any breakfast, I suppose?”

“I want none, sir,” was her haughty reply. “I only wish to leave this place. I was entrapped here last night.”

“Unfortunately, my dear girl, I know nothing about last night,” replied the man. “I returned from the Continent only this morning. These happen to be my chambers, and I find they now contain a very charming tenant!”

She looked at him with her big eyes.

“I hope, sir, you do not intend to add further in suit to that which I have already received here,” she said in a voice of bitter reproach, holding her torn silk blouse together with her hand.

He noticed the state of her dress, and saw what a fierce struggle must have taken place between her and Jim Jannaway.

“My dear girl,” he said in a reassuring tone, “providing you are reasonable, and don’t create a scene, my intention is to treat you with the deference due to every lady.”

“Is that your promise?” asked the girl in breathless eagerness.

“It is my promise—but upon one condition,” said the man in a slow voice. And then she detected in his closely set eyes a strange look that she had not hitherto noticed.

She asked him his condition, to which he replied in a few hard concise words, a smile playing upon his lips.

But the instant she heard him she fell wildly at his feet, and taking his hand in her trembling grasp, begged of him to show her mercy.

But the man only laughed—a laugh that was ominous in itself.

Chapter Seventeen.

Contains an Expert Theory.

Frank Farquhar had been at the Hotel Angleterre in Copenhagen, the hotel with the prettiest winter-garden in Europe, for four days.

They had been four days of constant activity. As guide, he had the resident correspondent of the morning newspapers of which he was one of the directors, and he had already satisfied himself that, in the Danish capital, there was but one first-class Hebrew scholar, namely Professor Axel Anderson, of the Royal University.

Copenhagen he found a bright pleasant little city full of life and movement, the shops gay and the streets thronged by well-dressed people. In ignorance of what had befallen Gwen, he was thoroughly enjoying himself, even though he saw that his visit could have no satisfactory result as far as the quest for the authorship of the mysterious document was concerned.

One morning he had called by appointment upon Professor Anderson at his pleasant house in the Norrevoldgade and sat down to chat. The Professor, a well-preserved, rather stout man of about forty-five, with a fair beard, spoke English quite well.

“As far as I am aware,” he said, “there are only two professors of Hebrew in Denmark beside myself. They are close personal friends of mine, and I feel sure that neither of them entertains any unusual theory concerning the Book of Ezekiel, or they would have consulted me. Of course, we have a good many scholars come to Copenhagen to study the Northern and Oriental codices in the Royal Library here. Hence I have become acquainted with many of the chief professors of Hebrew. Have you consulted Professor Griffin in London? He is one of the first authorities upon the matter in which you are interested.”

“Yes, I happen to know him,” responded the young man.

“And what is his opinion?”

“A negative one.”

“Ah! Then most probably this typewritten manuscript you tell me about was some baseless theory of an irresponsible crank. I would accept Griffin’s opinion before that of anybody else. There is only one other man of perhaps equal knowledge—old Erich Haupt, of Leipzig. He is a great Hebrew authority, as well as a recognised expert in cryptography.”

“What is your opinion broadly upon the matter?” Farquhar asked.

“Well, candidly, I believe the theory to be without foundation,” answered the Danish scholar. “I do not believe in the existence of a cipher in the Hebrew scriptures. There is nothing cryptic about the sacred record. As regards the vessels of gold and silver from Solomon’s temple, they were restored by Cyrus. It is true that an ancient Talmudic tradition exists to the effect that the Ark of the Covenant, together with the pot of manna, the flask of anointing oil and Aaron’s staff that budded are still hidden beneath the temple mount at Jerusalem. And my opinion is that your half-destroyed document is simply based upon this ancient tradition with which every Jew in Christendom is acquainted.”

“But, Professor,” exclaimed the other, “I know that you yourself are an authority upon cryptography. Have any ciphers been discovered in the original of the Book of Ezekiel?”

“Well, yes,” was the Dane’s answer as he stirred himself in his armchair, and reaching his hand to a bookcase took down a Hebrew-Danish Bible. Then turning to Ezekiel, he said: “There is certainly something in the Hebrew of the thirty-sixth chapter which has puzzled scholars through many centuries. It begins at verse 16: ‘Moreover the word of the Lord came unto me saying, Son of man—’ Now in the constant repetition of ‘Son of man’ certain scholars declare they have discovered a numerical cipher. In the first verse of this chapter we have, ‘Son of man, prophesy unto the mountains.’ In the third verse of the following one he asks: ‘Son of man, can these bones live?’ Again in verse 9 of the same chapter, he says: ‘Prophesy, son of man, and say to the wind.’ And in verse 11, still addressing him by the same title, he tells the prophet: ‘Son of man, these bones are the whole house of Israel.’ By the title ‘Son of man’ Ezekiel is so often addressed, ‘Son of man’ is so constantly sounded in his ears and ours, that it forces on our attention that God deals with man through the instrumentality of men, and by men communicates his will to men. Hence certain cryptographers have set to work and formed the theory of a hidden meaning in all this.”

“But is the actual cipher known?” asked Frank, at once excited.

“Certainly. It was deciphered by Bamberg, of Paris, forty years ago. But the secret message had no bearing whatsoever upon the lost vessels of Solomon’s temple,” was the Professor’s reply.

“What was the message?” inquired the young Englishman.

“Well—the alleged message which Bamberg deciphered commenced in the thirty-sixth chapter beginning at verse xvi. The passage has peculiar claims upon the attention of any one searching for cryptic writings. Addressed in the first instance to the Jews, and applicable, in the first instance, to their condition, it presents a remarkable summary of gospel doctrines, and that in a form approaching at least to systematic order. In the seventeenth verse we have man sinning: ‘Son of man, when the house of Israel dwelt in their own land, they defiled it by their own way and by their doings.’ In the eighteenth verse we have man suffering: ‘Wherefore, I poured my fury upon them.’ In the twenty-first verse man appears an object of mercy: ‘but I had pity.’ In the twenty-second verse man is an object of free mercy—mercy without merit: ‘I do not this for your sakes, O house of Israel.’ In the twenty-fourth verse man’s salvation is resolved on: ‘I will bring you into your own land.’ In the twenty-fifth verse man is justified: ‘Then will I sprinkle clean water upon you, and ye shall be clean.’ In the twenty-sixth and twenty-seventh verses man is renewed and sanctified: ‘A new heart also will I give you, and a new spirit will I put within you; and I will take away the stony heart out of your flesh and I will give you an heart of flesh. And I will put my spirit within you, and cause you to walk in my statutes, and ye shall keep my judgments and do them.’ In the twenty-eighth verse man is restored to the place and privileges which he forfeited by his sins: ‘Ye shall be my people, and I will be your God.’ ‘This land that was desolate is become like the garden of the Lord.’ We have our security for these blessings in the assurance of the thirty-sixth verse: ‘I, the Lord have spoken it, and I will do it;’ and we are directed to the means of obtaining them in the declaration of the thirty-seventh verse: ‘I will yet for this be inquired of by the house of Israel, to do it for them.’”

“And in these verses the French professor discovered a hidden message?”

“Yes. It read curiously, and was most difficult to decipher. But according to Bamberg it was an additional declaration of God’s kindness to man. God was named as ‘the God of Salvation,’ and ‘the author and finisher of man’s faith.’ It consisted briefly in an exhortation to those who discovered the cipher to read, and to believe. But as for the hiding-place of the treasure of Israel being therein designated—well, even Bamberg, whom half the scholars of Europe denounced as a crank, had never dreamed of such a thing. No, Mr Farquhar,” he added, “you may rest assured that the remarkable screed never emanated from a Hebrew scholar in Denmark. Perhaps it might have come from Gothenburg,” he laughed; “more than one hare-brained theory has come from over there!” Anderson was a Dane, and the Danes have no love for the Swedes.

“You mentioned some one in Leipzig. Who is he?” asked Farquhar.

“Oh! Haupt—Erich Haupt,” replied the other. “He’s Professor of Hebrew at the University, and author of several well-known books. His ‘Christology of the Old Testament’ is a standard work. Besides Griffin in London, he is, I consider, the only other man in Europe competent to give an opinion upon the problem you have put before me.”

“How can I find him?”

“You’ll no doubt find him in Leipzig.”

Frank felt that this German was a man to be consulted, yet he was anxious to pursue the inquiry he had started in Denmark. The man who had died in Paris, and had been so careful to destroy his secret, had been a Dane, and he felt that the originator of the remarkable theory must have been a Dane himself. Briefly this was what Farquhar explained, but Professor Anderson assured him that no such theory could have come out of Denmark without his knowledge.

“Search in Gothenburg, or in Stockholm, if you like,” he answered with a smile. “My own idea is that the unfortunate man was deceived by some ‘cock-and-bull’ story, probably an attempt to raise money in order to carry out a scheme to recover the treasure of Solomon. He believed the story of the existence of the temple treasure, and in order that no other person should obtain knowledge of the secret destroyed it before his death.”

“But who was the discoverer of the secret?” asked the Englishman.

“Who can tell,” remarked the Danish professor, shrugging his shoulders. “Perhaps it was only some ingenious financial swindle. You have surely had many such in London in recent years. You call them in English, I believe, ‘wild-cat’ schemes.”

“There are many ‘wild-cat’ schemes in the City of London at the present moment,” Frank remarked with a laugh, “but I guarantee that none is so extraordinary as this.”

“Probably not,” laughed the Dane. “I confess that, to me, the whole thing seems like a fairy tale.”

“Then you don’t discern any foundation in fact?”

“Only of tradition—the Old Testament tradition that the treasures are still hidden in the temple mount. Yet, in opposition to this, we have another tradition to the effect that the vessels of Solomon’s temple were used in Persia four hundred years after the captivity. Mention is made of this in a Persian manuscript preserved in your British Museum in London. I forget the number, but it can easily be looked up in the catalogue of Oriental manuscripts.”

“You believe that statement authentic?”

“As authentic as any statement in the ancient records,” was his reply. “But I would suggest that you consult Haupt. He knows more of Hebrew cryptograms and ciphers than any one else on the Continent of Europe. What does Professor Griffin think?”

“He’s inclined to treat the whole theory with levity.”

Professor Anderson smiled.

“Of course,” he said. “Supposed ciphers in certain books of the Old Testament are many. And as you know quite well, a cipher may be invented to fit any message or record desired. Your Baconian theory in regard to Shakespeare was sufficient proof of that.”

“Then in your opinion no real cipher exists in the Book of Ezekiel?” asked the Englishman.

“The Bible was inspired,” was his reply. “If so, there is no cipher in it except what cryptographers invent.”

Frank Farquhar was silent. His inquiries in the Danish capital had nearly carried him into a cul-de-sac.

The dead man was, according to his own story, a Dane. But what more natural than that he had received the extraordinary manuscript from Germany, or from Sweden?

“To me,” remarked the Professor, “the situation of the man who died in Paris was this. Either he himself was the inventor of the whole story or else he had paid something for it and was trying to dispose of it to some financier or other.”

“Doctor Diamond, my friend who attended him before his death, says that the man was evidently a scholar.”

“Then possibly he was the inventor,” remarked Anderson decisively. “But if he was a scholar he was certainly unknown to us. Therefore we may be permitted to doubt his bonâ-fides. My advice to you is to find Haupt.”

“Yes, Professor,” answered the young man, “I will.”

And an hour later he sent a long telegram to the Doctor at Horsford, while that same afternoon he received a brief telegraphic message from Professor Griffin, asking him to return to London at once.

His belief was that the great expert had found some clue, and he left that same evening direct for London, by way of Kiel, Hamburg and Flushing.

Chapter Eighteen.

Shows the Enemy’s Tactics.

The tall, thin man into whose chambers Gwen Griffin had been enticed treated the trembling girl with a certain amount of politeness. Her head reeled. She hardly knew where she was, or what had occurred.

The stipulation he had made, at the instructions left by Jim Jannaway, was that she must remain there in order to meet some person who was desirous of making her acquaintance. He did not say who this person was, but she, on her part, had a dozen times begged him to release her, or at least to telegraph to her father assuring him of her safety.

“My dear girl,” the tall man had answered, “don’t distress yourself. Come, do calm yourself.” And he assisted to raise her to her feet again. “No harm will befall you, I assure you.”

“I—I don’t know you, sir,” she faltered through her tears, “therefore how can I possibly trust you?”

“I can only assure you that I am acting upon instructions. As far as I’m concerned, you might walk out free—only I dare not disobey my orders.”

“You dare not—and you a man!” she cried.

“There are some things that a man such as myself dare not do, miss—pardon me, but I haven’t the pleasure of knowing your name.”

“Griffin—Gwen Griffin is my name,” and she also told him where she lived. Then she asked: “Why have I been brought here?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” was the stranger’s reply. “These are my chambers, and a friend of mine has had the key during my three years’ absence abroad. I returned only this morning to find you locked up in here and a note left for me, giving me instructions to keep you here until a gentleman calls to see you.”

“Ah! that horrid blackguard!” she screamed. “That man who met me, and called himself ‘Captain Wetherton.’ He told me I should find Frank in hiding here.”

“And who’s Frank?” asked the stranger.

“The man to whom I’m engaged.”

“H’m,” grunted the other; “and he wouldn’t be very pleased to find you here, with me, would he?”

“No. That is why I’ve been entrapped herein order to compromise me in the eyes of the man who loves me.”

“Why?” asked the owner of those bachelor chambers, leaning upon the bed-rail and looking at her.

“How can I tell?” said the frightened girl. “As far as I know, I’ve done nothing whatever to warrant this.”

“Ah! in this world it is the innocent who mostly suffer,” he remarked.

“But will you not allow me to go?” she implored eagerly. “Remember that all my future happiness depends upon your generosity in this matter.”

“My dear child,” he replied, placing his hand upon her shoulder, “if I dare, I would. But to tell you the truth, I, like yourself, am in the hands of certain persons who are utterly unscrupulous. I tell you, quite frankly, that I couldn’t afford to excite their animosity by disobeying these orders I have received.”

“But who is this gentleman who desires to see me?” she demanded quickly.

“I don’t know. No name is given.”

“Why—for what reason does he wish to see me? Could he not have called at Pembridge Gardens, or even written making a secret appointment in Kensington Gardens or in the Park?”

“To that I am quite unable to give any reply, for I’m in ignorance like yourself.”

“But is it that brutal fellow who threw me down and tore my clothes last night?” she asked. “Look!” and she showed her torn blouse.

“I think not,” was his response. “But those rents look a bit ugly, don’t they,” he added. “Come through into the sitting-room, and see if we can’t find a needle and cotton. I used to keep a travelling housewife, full of all sorts of buttons and needles and things.”

So the pair passed along the short, narrow passage of the flat into the sitting-room which she so vividly recollected the night before. Before her was the couch upon which the man who had called himself “Wetherton” had flung her fainting and insensible.

After a brief search in the drawers of an old oak bureau, over in the corner, the stranger produced a small roll of khaki, in the pockets of which were all sorts of cottons, buttons, needles and odds and ends, the requisites of a travelling bachelor.

She laughed as she selected a needle and a reel of cotton, and then retired into the bedroom where, for a full quarter of an hour, she sat alone mending her torn garments.

The man remained in the sitting-room, staring out of the window into the street below, damp and gloomy on that winter’s morning.

“A fine home-coming indeed!” he muttered to himself. “They’ve put a nice thing upon me—abduct a girl, and then leave her in my charge! Jim’s afraid of being connected with the affair, that’s evident. I wonder who she is, and why they want her? Devilish pretty, and no mistake. It really seems a blackguardly shame to treat her badly, and wreck her young life, as they no doubt intend. By Gad! Jim and his friends are cruel as the grave. Poor little thing!” And he sighed and, crossing the room, applied a match to the fire that had already been laid.

“Yes,” he remarked under his breath. “A fine home-coming. The devils hold me in the hollow of their hands, alas! But if they dare to give me away, by Jove! I wouldn’t spare one of them. These last two years I’ve tried to live honestly, and nearly starved in doing so. And now they bring me back by force—back to the old life, because they want my assistance. And if I refuse? Then—well, I suppose they’ll compel me to act according to their instructions. Here is a specimen of the dirty work in progress. I’m holding a poor innocent girl a prisoner on their behalf! I’d let her go now—this very moment, but if I did—if I did—what then? I’d be given away to the police in half an hour. No. I can’t afford that—by God, I can’t. She must stay here.”

Presently Gwen emerged from the bedroom with her blouse repaired, and he induced her to seat herself reluctantly in the armchair before the fire.

He lit a cigarette and, taking another chair, endeavoured to reassure her that she need have no fear of him.

Then they commenced to chat, he endeavouring to learn something from her which might give him an idea of the reason why she had been enticed there. But with a woman’s clever evasion, she would tell him nothing.

He inquired about her lover, but she was silent regarding him. She only said:

“He is abroad just now. And they are evidently aware of his absence. The telegram I received was worded most cleverly. I unfortunately fell a victim to their vile conspiracy.”

“Is it a plot to prevent you marrying him, do you think?”

“It must be. It can be nothing else,” declared the girl quickly. “Oh, when will he return—when will I be able to see him again?”

The tall man shrugged his shoulders. He saw that she was desperate and might make a rush to escape, therefore, though he begged her pardon he kept the doors locked and the keys in his pocket.

Before his arrival, it seemed, Jim Jannaway had placed provisions in the small larder in the kitchen, for there they found bread, tinned tongues, bottled beer, tea, condensed milk and other things. Hence he had no necessity to go forth to obtain food.

This struck him that an imprisonment of several days must be intended. He felt sorry for the unfortunate girl, yet he dare not connive at her escape. He knew, alas! that he was now upon very dangerous ground.

The whole day they sat together gossiping. For luncheon they had cold tongue and bread, and for dinner the same.

The situation was indeed a curious one, yet as the hours went by and he attempted to amuse her by relating humorous incidents in his own adventurous life, she gradually grew to believe that he was devoid of any sinister intention.

Times without number she tried to persuade him to release her, but he explained his inability. Then, at evening, they sat at the fireside and while he smoked she chattered, though she told him practically nothing concerning herself.

He could not help admiring her neat daintiness and her self-possession. She was a frank, sweet-faced girl, scarce more than a child, whose wonderful eyes held even him, an adventurer, in strange fascination. And that night, when she retired to her room, he handed her the key of her door that she might lock herself in, and said:

“Sleep in peace, Miss Griffin. I give you my promise that you shall not be disturbed.”

And he bowed to her with all the courtesy of a true-born gentleman.

He sat smoking, thinking deeply and wondering why the girl had been confined there. He was annoyed, for by her presence there he also was held a prisoner.

Just before midnight the bell of the front door rang, and a commissionaire handed him a telegram. The message was in an unintelligible code, which however, he read without hesitation. Then he tossed the message into the fire with an imprecation, switched off the light, and went to bed.

Next day passed just as the first, but he saw, by the girl’s pale face and darkening eyes, that the constant anxiety was telling upon her. Yes, he pitied her. And she, on her part, began to regard him more as her protector than as her janitor.

He treated her with the greatest consideration and courtesy. And as they sat together at their meals, she presiding, they often burst out laughing at the incongruity of the situation. More than once she inquired his name, but he always laughingly evaded her.

“My name really doesn’t matter,” he said. “You will only remember me with hatred, Miss Griffin.”

“Though you are holding me here against my will,” she replied, “yet of your conduct towards me I have nothing to complain.”

He only bowed in graceful acknowledgment. No word passed his lips.

On the third morning, about noon, a ring came, and Gwen, startled, flew into her bedroom and locked the door.

The visitor was none other than Sir Felix Challas, who, grasping the tall man’s hand, said:

“Welcome back, my dear Charlie. I’m sorry I couldn’t come before, but I was called over to Paris on very important business.” Then lowering his voice he said: “Got the girl here still—eh?”

The other nodded.

“I want to put a few questions to her,” Sir Felix said in an undertone, when they were together in the sitting-room, “and if she don’t answer me truly, then by Heaven it will be the worse for her. You remember the girl of that German inventor, three years ago—eh?” he asked with a meaning smile.

The tall man nodded. He recollected that poor girl’s fate because she had refused to betray her father’s secret to the great financier.

And this man whom the world so firmly believed to be a God-fearing philanthropist intended that pretty Gwen Griffin, sweet, innocent and inoffensive, little more than a child, should meet with the same awful fate. He held his breath. He could have struck the man before him—if he dared.

He must blindly do the bidding of this cruel, heartless man who held him so entirely in his power, this gigantic schemer whose “cat’s-paw” he had been for years.

And he must stand helplessly by, unable to raise a hand to save that poor defenceless victim of a powerful man’s passion and avarice.

Alas! that the great god gold must ever be all-powerful in man’s world, and women must ever pay the price.

Chapter Nineteen.

Is about the Doctor.

Doctor Diamond, in his long Wellington boots and overcoat, was descending the steep hill into Horsford village one gloomy afternoon with Aggie at his side.

It had been raining, and the pair had been across the meadows to Overton, a small hamlet where, from a farmhouse, they obtained their weekly supply of butter. This, the fair-haired child, her clean white pinafore appearing below her navy-blue coat, carried in a small basket upon her arm. She had been dancing along merrily at the little man’s side, delighted to be out with him for a walk, when, as they came over the brow of the hill, they saw a man in a long drab mackintosh ascending in their direction.

The man raised his hand to them, but at first Diamond did not recognise him. Then, as they drew nearer, he said:

“Why—who’d ever have thought it! Here’s your father, Aggie!”

“Father!” echoed the girl, staring at the man approaching. “No, dad, surely that isn’t my father! You’re my own father.” And the child, with her fair hair falling upon her shoulders, clung affectionately to his arm.

In a few moments the two men met.

“Hulloa, Doc!” cheerily cried the man known to his intimates as “Red Mullet”. “Thought I’d give you a bit of a surprise. And little Aggie, too! My hat! what a big girl she grows! Why, my darling,” he exclaimed, bending and kissing her, “I’d never have recognised you—never in all my life!”

Her father’s bristly red moustache brushed the child’s face, and she withdrew bashfully.

“Ah! my pet,” cried the tall, gaunt man, “I suppose you hardly knew me—eh? You were quite a little dot when I was here last. But though your dad travels a lot, and is always on the move, yet he’s ever thinking of you.” He sighed. “See here!” And diving his hand into his breast-pocket, he took out a well-worn leather wallet which contained a photograph. “That is what your other dad sent to me last year! Your picture, little one.”

The child exchanged glances with the Doctor, still clinging to his arm. To her, Doctor Diamond was her father. She loved him, for he was always kind to her and always interested in her childish pleasure. True the payments made by “Red Mullet” were irregular and far between, but the ugly little man had formed a great attachment for the child, and when not at the village school she was usually in his company.

“Your wife told me the direction from which you would come, so I thought I’d just take a stroll and meet you,” the tall fellow said. “Horsford does not seem to change a little bit.”

“It hasn’t changed, they say, for the past two centuries,” laughed the Doctor. “We are quiet, steady-going folk here.” And as he spoke the sweet-toned chimes rang forth from the square grey Norman tower on their left, the tower to see which archaeologists so often came from far and near.

“Well, well,” exclaimed Mullet. “I had no idea my little Aggie had grown to be such a fine big girl. Very soon she’ll be leaving school; she knows more about geography and grammar now than her dad does, that I’ll be bound.”

“Mr Holmes, the schoolmaster, is loud in her praises,” remarked the Doctor, whereat the girl blushed and smiled.

“And how would you like to go back with me, and live in Paris—eh?” inquired the father.

In a moment, however, the child clung closer to Diamond, and, burying her face upon his arm, burst into tears.

“No, no, dear,” declared the red-haired man. “I didn’t mean it. Why, I was only joking! Of course you shall stay here, and finish your education with the Doctor, who is so good and kind to you. See—I’ve brought you something.”

And taking from his pocket a child’s plain hoop bangle in gold, he placed it upon her slim wrist. Aggie, with a child’s pardonable vanity, stretched forth her arm and showed the Doctor the effect. Then at the letter’s suggestion, she raised her face and kissed her father for the present of the first piece of jewellery she had ever possessed in her life.

They walked back together to the cottage, and after a homely cup of tea, “Red Mullet” sat with the Doctor in the cosy panelled dining-room, the fire burning brightly, and the red-shaded lamp upon the table.

“I’m glad you’re pleased at the appearance of little Aggie,” remarked the Doctor between deep puffs of his pipe. “She’s quite a sweet child. Every one in the village loves her.”

“I wonder, Doctor, what they’d think if they knew she was my daughter—the daughter of ‘Red Mullet’—eh?” asked the red-haired man grimly.

The Doctor pulled a wry face but did not reply. Alas, he was well aware that Mr Mullet did not bear the best of reputations, and as a matter of fact he was wondering the reason why he now risked a sojourn on British soil.

“But—I—er—is that door closed?” he asked of the ugly little man as he glanced suspiciously behind him.

The Doctor rose and latched it. Then he resumed his seat.

“The fact is, I came down here to-day for two reasons—to see little Aggie and also to make some inquiries.”

“Inquiries!” echoed Diamond. “What about?”

“About something that concerns you,” was “Red Mullet’s” reply. “About certain papers which belonged to a man named Blanc, who died in a little hotel opposite the Gare du Nord.”

“I—I don’t understand you. What do you mean?” asked Diamond, with a perceptible start.

“Come, my dear Doc, you may just as well be frank and open with me. You know the kind of man I am. You’ve got hold of papers which don’t belong to you—and well, all praise to you, I say, if they’re worth anything. I don’t see why you shouldn’t deal with a dead man’s property if he deliberately wished to destroy it.”

“How do you know all this, Mr Mullet?” asked the Doctor, his face pale and much surprised.

“Well, my source of information don’t matter very much, does it?” remarked the other, stretching out his long legs to the warmth of the fire. “But I can tell you it’s lucky for you and your friends that I’ve found out about it—or—well, I can only tell you something would have happened—something very unfortunate.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“I don’t expect you do,” was “Red Mullet’s” reply, as he laughed lightly. “Just be open with me, Doc, and I’ll tell you something—something that’ll interest you, no doubt. What is the purport of this precious document about which there’s all this fuss?”

“It’s a secret—a great and remarkable problem which, up to the present, I’m unable to solve.”

“My dear old chap, there are a good many problems in this world which want solving. The first of them is Woman,” laughed the other.

“Admitted. But woman doesn’t concern this particular matter.”

“That’s just where you are mistaken, Doc,” Mullet interrupted. “You live down in this rural solitude, and you don’t know what goes on up in London. There is a woman in the case—a woman who is very deeply involved in it.”

“Who?”

“We can leave her out of it for the present,” replied Mullet. “I want to know something about the document.”

Doctor Diamond hesitated. Had this man, whose reputation was so bad, and against whom he had so often been warned, come there for the purpose of levying blackmail? It seemed as though he had! “Well,” he answered, “I really see no reason why we should discuss what is, after all, my own private business, Mr Mullet.”

“I should not ask you if I had not a distinct object,” said the other. “I may as well tell you that I’ve already acted in your interests, and at considerable risk to myself, too,” he added.

“For which I thank you most sincerely,” responded the ugly little man, now very much on the alert.

He was extremely puzzled to know by what means Mullet had learnt his secret. Surely he could not have been a friend of that man who, on his deathbed, had refused his name?

“I merely came down here to give you warning,” Mullet said. “You are not the only person interested in the discovery.”

“I know. I have been compelled to take certain persons into my confidence, and they will share in the profits which, we hope, will eventually accrue.”

“I’m not speaking of your friends, Doc. I’m speaking of enemies—people who are working actively against you.”

“Against me!” cried Diamond, starting. “Who else knows about it besides ourselves?”

“Ah!” exclaimed Mullet, smiling. “That’s just the point. While you possess only a few scraps of the dead man’s manuscript, those working in opposition to you have in their possession a complete copy!”

“What!” cried the ugly little Doctor, starting up. “Then the context is known! The whole document has been read!”

“Without a doubt. And I should have been in ignorance of your connection with it had it not been for a pure accident,” answered Mullet.

“Who are my enemies?” demanded the Doctor. “They are powerful—but I’m not at liberty to mention their names. I can only say, Doctor, that if I can help you in secret in this affair I will. There’s money in it—lots of money—that’s my firm opinion.”

“Then you know all about it?”

“Well—I know that the discovery is one of the most remarkable of the age, and that it seems more than likely you’ll be able to locate the hidden treasure of Solomon’s temple. I’m not much of a classical or Biblical scholar, but I understand that the theory has utterly staggered certain great authorities. And as a mining engineer by profession, I’m interested. I’ve been on more than one treasure-hunt, once in Guatemala, and again I went out with a party prospecting three years ago for those sunken Spanish galleons in Vigo Bay. We located nine of the vessels by means of that new Italian invention, the hydroscope, and got up an old cannon, several gold doubloons and silver ‘pieces of eight.’ According to authentic records in the Archives at Madrid, there are seventeen vessels full of gold and silver lying at the bottom of the bay, and the treasure is believed to be worth at least twenty-eight millions sterling.”

Diamond smiled. Even that huge sum did not cause him dismay. The treasure of Solomon’s temple would surely be worth a dozen times as much. Besides, would not he, Raymond Diamond, become one of the most noted men in the world if, by his instrumentality, the historic treasure of Israel was recovered.

“A company has been formed to work the Vigo treasure. They asked me to join them,” “Red Mullet” went on. “It’s a tempting business, but I have other matters to attend to just now. I wonder you don’t form a syndicate to work this scheme of yours, Doctor.”

“No syndicate is necessary,” replied the Doctor confidently. “We can do it ourselves.”

“You might—if it were not for the strong opposition against you,” Mullet remarked. “No, Doc. Don’t be too sure of your position. You’ve got others who intend to cut in before you, when the time is ripe. But,” he added, “what proof have you that this treasure actually exists. I’m ignorant in these matters, you know.”

“In a dozen places in the Old Testament it is referred to. Nebuchadnezzar, when he took Jerusalem, carried away over five thousand vessels of gold and silver from the temple. Yet this was only the portion which the Jews allowed to remain there. The greater part of the treasure, including the Ark of the Covenant and the tablets of the law, were hidden and have never been recovered. We learn from the Book of Ezra that when Cyrus, Nebuchadnezzar’s successor, gave the Jews their liberty, that he restored to Jerusalem five thousand four hundred basons and vessels of gold and silver which the King of Babylon had taken away. Those were, no doubt, placed in the new temple which Zerubbabel erected, but of which we unfortunately possess so very few particulars. What we are in search of is not this treasure, but the vessels of Solomon’s temple that were hidden by the priests before the capture of Jerusalem by the King of Babylon.”

“So I understand, Doctor. But what actual statement have you that they are still concealed?”

“The plain, straightforward statement in Holy Writ,” was the other’s reply, as he sat huddled in the big armchair, a queer, ugly little figure. Then, reaching across to a small table whereon lay the Bible, which he now daily studied, and opening it, he said: “Now, listen to this. Jeremiah, xxvi, 19-21, reads as follows:

“‘For thus saith the Lord of hosts concerning the pillars, and concerning the sea, and concerning the bases, and concerning the residue of the vessels that remain in this city, Which Nebuchadnezzar, king of Babylon, took not, when he carried away captive Jeconiah, the son of Jehoiakim king of Judah from Jerusalem to Babylon, and all the nobles of Judah and Jerusalem:

“‘Yea, thus saith the Lord of hosts, the God of Israel, concerning the vessels that remain in the house of the Lord, and in the house of the King of Judah and of Jerusalem.’”

“By Jove!” exclaimed Mullet, starting up. “I didn’t know of those words of the prophet. But I’m ashamed to say, Doctor, that I never was very much of a Biblical scholar. But it really looks as though there is something in the theory after all, doesn’t it?”

For a long time the two men sat together, but though the Doctor was eager to learn how Aggie’s father had obtained his knowledge, the latter was equally determined to tell him nothing.

“If you carry on this inquiry, Doctor,” he said, “it will be a very risky proceeding—I can tell you that much.”

“What! Your object then is to frighten me into inactivity, Mr Mullet—eh?” asked the little man, jumping up.

“Not at all—not at all, my dear fellow. You don’t understand. You and I are friends, and—well, we’ll continue to be, if you will allow me.”

Raymond Diamond confessed that he did not understand the object of his visitor’s presence there.

But “Red Mullet” only laughed, and taking another cigar from his case, said drily:

“Then let us drop the subject, Doctor, and talk of something else.”

Chapter Twenty.

The Inquisitor.

The police inquiries into the whereabouts of Gwen Griffin had been futile.

The Professor, beside himself with grief and apprehension, complained most bitterly that the authorities had not treated his daughter’s disappearance with sufficient seriousness. In all the interviews he had had, both at the local police-station and at New Scotland Yard, the officials had apparently taken the view that the girl had left home of her own account. He had been told on all hands that, in the end, her escapade would be found to be due to some unknown love-affair.

In frantic bewilderment he had telegraphed to Frank Farquhar at the Bristol at Copenhagen, but unfortunately he had not received the message because on arrival at the Danish capital he had found the Bristol full, and had gone on to the Angleterre. Hence he was still in ignorance of the disappearance of his well-beloved.

Those mystic figures which the Professor had found scrawled upon his blotting-pad—the same that were upon that discarded scrap of waste-paper—also puzzled him to the point of distraction. Could they have anything to do with the girl’s fate? By whose hand had they been traced?

As far as they could discover, no stranger had entered the study. Yet those figures—“255.19.7”—had been written boldly in blue upon the pad. Could Gwen have done it herself? Had she left him some cryptic message which he now failed to decipher? But if so, why did those same numbers appear upon the scrap of paper discarded by the unknown man who was endeavouring to learn his secret?

After three days, during which time he puzzled over the meaning of those figures, applying to them all sorts of ciphers, he took a taxi-cab to a friend of his named Stevens, who lived at Streatham and was a Professor of Hebrew at London University.

The pair sat together for some time, Griffin having apparently called to pay a formal visit to his less illustrious confrère, when suddenly producing the figures upon a piece of paper he sought Professor Stevens’ opinion as to their meaning.

The other stared at them through his spectacles, and after a long consideration inquired:

“Were they written by a Hebrew scholar?”

“I believe so.”

“Then I think their meaning must be quite plain,” replied the other coolly. “I should decipher it as the duration of the Kingdom of Israel. Did it not end after 255 years—namely from B.C. 975-721—under nineteen kings and seven dynasties, not reckoning among the latter, of course, the ephemeral usurpations of Zimri and Shallum?”

“I never thought of that!” gasped Griffin. “Those figures have greatly disturbed me, my dear Stevens. They have appeared twice in circumstances extremely strange—traced by an unknown hand.”

“But the hand of a scholar without a doubt,” was the other’s reply. “Perhaps some crank or other who has the habit of signing himself in that manner. I have known men addicted to such peculiarities. There used to be a don at Oxford who had the humorous habit of appending his signature in most excellent imitation of that of Napoleon.”

Griffin, recognising that Stevens was correct in his elucidation of the mysterious signification of those figures, became more puzzled. The man in search of the great secret was evidently a crank. That was most conclusively proved. Yet why should that mystic signature appear upon his blotting-pad?

Was it possible that Gwen and he were acquainted, and that he had actually entered the house.

The Professor was beside himself in his utter bewilderment. His daughter had slipped away, and left him without a word of farewell. Yet towards his friend Stevens he wore a mask, and only laughed heartily at the rapid solution of the problem which he had placed before him.

Was it possible, he thought many times, that Gwen, with a love-sick girl’s sudden yearning, had slipped across to the Continent to join her lover? There could be no reason whatever for that, because he had never for a moment opposed their engagement. Yet girls were a trifle wild sometimes, he reflected, especially motherless girls like the dainty Gwen.

After an hour, however, he bade farewell to Stevens, and re-entering his “taxi” in King’s Avenue, drove back into London, refusing his friend’s invitation to remain for luncheon.

He crossed Westminster Bridge, and alighted at the British Museum to inquire if the mysterious searcher had been seen there of late.

The assistant-keeper in the Oriental room replied in the affirmative. The old gentleman had been there three days before, and had afterwards gone to the great reading-room.

Proceeding there. Professor Griffin quickly made inquiries, discovering presently that the man had given the name of Rosenberg. He was shown a slip upon which was written the titles of the two rare works he had consulted. They were:

“Cryptomengsis Patefacta (1685),” and “Kryptographik, Kluber (1809).”

These were, he recognised, the two leading works on cryptography, explaining, as they did, all the early systems of secret writing from the scytalc in use by the early Greeks down to the biliteral cipher of Sir Francis Bacon. It was therefore quite plain that the stranger, whoever he might be, though at Oxford he had made those calculations in order to test the existence of a numerical cipher in the Book of Ezekiel, had not yet discovered any true key.

This knowledge gave Griffin great satisfaction. The loss of that crumpled paper from his pocket was, he recognised of no import.

Inquires of the librarian showed that the stranger was not known in the reading-room as a regular reader. Yet he agreed, as indeed had other librarians and keepers of manuscripts, that the old man was undoubtedly a scholar.

This person’s will-o’-the-wisp existence was most tantalising. In appearance he was described as an old white-headed man with deep-set eyes and a longish white beard, rather shabbily dressed and wearing a long black overcoat much the worse for wear. Great scholars are not remarkable for their neatness in dress. They are mostly neglectful, as indeed was Professor Griffin himself. To Gwen, her father was a constant source of anxiety, for only at her supreme command would he even order a new suit, and his evening clothes were so old and out of shape that she had, times without number, declared herself ashamed to go out to the smart houses at which they were so often asked to dine.

But genius is always forgiven its garments, and the fact that the bearded stranger was described as shabby and almost threadbare did not surprise the man who went about equally shabby himself.

If he were interested in the “Cryptomengsis Patefacta,” then one thing was proved. His researches at the Bodleian had been without result.

The continued absence of Gwen, however, prevented Griffin from continuing his inquiries. Though times without number he opened the Hebrew text of Ezekiel and tried to study it, yet he was unable to concentrate his mind upon it, and always closed the book again with a deep sigh.

The house was dull and empty without little Gwen’s bright smile and musical voice. This, he realised, was a foretaste of his loneliness when she was married.

Next day dragged by. The following day was cold and wet, and he spent it mostly alone in his study, after he had been round to the police-station and obtained a negative reply to his question as to whether his beloved daughter had been discovered.

That she was absent against her will he was convinced. She would never have left him in that manner to allow him to fear for her safety.

Seated alone, he brought out those large photographs of Diamond’s half-destroyed manuscript, and tried to centre his mind upon them. But, alas! he was unable. Therefore, as the short grey afternoon drew in, with a sigh he rose, put on his overcoat, and telling Laura he would not be back to dinner, he went forth to wander the London streets. He could bear the dead silence of that house no longer.

Just before seven o’clock the dining-room bell rang, and the dark-eyed parlour-maid, ascending the stairs, entered the room.

“Lor’, miss!” gasped the Cockney girl. “You did give me a fright! How long have you been ’ome?”

Gwen, who stood before her, pale and thin-faced and with hair slightly dishevelled, explained that she had just let herself in with the latch-key.

“The Professor’s out, miss. ’E said ’e wouldn’t be ’ome to dinner,” the girl remarked. “Oh, we’ve been very worried about you, miss! The perlice ’ave searched ’igh and low for yer. We all thought something dreadful ’ad ’appened. Wherever ’ave you been all these days?”

“That’s my own business,” answered the Professor’s daughter. “I’ve come back safe and sound, and I’m now going to my room. Tell my father when he comes in that I’m very tired. Perhaps he won’t return till late.”

“Shall I bring you up something, miss?” asked the girl.

“Yes, some tea. I want nothing else.”

And she ascended to her own neat bedroom on the second floor where, after closing the door, she flung herself upon the bed and burst into tears.

Her nerves had been unstrung by the severe ordeal she had gone through. When the maid brought her tea, she dried her eyes and allowed the girl to assist her to change her dusty skirt and torn blouse, and after a good wash and a cup of tea she felt decidedly better and refreshed.

Laura lit a fire, and when it had burnt up Gwen flung herself into her cretonne-covered armchair to rest and to think.

Since she had last sat in that cosy well-remembered room of hers there had been hideous happenings. The past seemed to her all like a bad dream. She shuddered as she recalled it. Even the events of that day hardly seemed clear and distinct. Her recollection of them was hazy, so agitated and anxious had she been. Why she had been so suddenly released from that hateful bondage was also to her a complete mystery.

She was recalling that first interview with the coarse, red-faced man whose name she had not been told: with what little consideration he had treated her, and how he had compelled her to come forth from her stronghold in order to speak with him.

He had asked her many curious questions, the purport of which she could not discern. Some of them concerned her father’s recent actions and movements; some of them concerned the man she loved.

But she was independent, and refused point-blank to answer anything. She defied that man who, in turn, jeered at her helplessness, and so insulted her that the flush of shame rose upon her white cheeks.

“You shall answer me these questions, young lady,” cried the pompous man in firm determination, “or it will be the worse for you!” he added with a look, the real meaning of which she was unable to disguise from herself.

Yet she stood defiant, even though she was helpless in his hands.

“My father’s business does not concern you,” she had cried, “and if you think his daughter will betray him into the hands of his enemies you are mistaken, sir!”

The bloated, red-faced brute blurted forth a quick imprecation, and would have struck her had not the tall man who was her janitor interfered, saying:

“No, don’t. She’ll reconsider her refusal, no doubt.”

“If she does not tell me everything—everything we want to know—and if she does not consent to do our bidding and bring to us whatever we desire, then she need not look for mercy. She is ours, and we shall treat her as such. The man who called himself ‘Wetherton’ shall come back to her. He’ll very soon overcome her scruples and cause her to reflect!” the man had laughed hoarsely.

“Give her time,” suggested the tall man.

“We want no more of these heroics about her betraying her father,” the other sneered. “If so, she’ll regret it. You know, Charlie, what I mean: how more than one girl has bitterly regretted her defiance.”

Gwen fell suddenly upon her knees, imploring to be allowed to go free. But her tormentor only repeated his threats in terms which left no doubt as to what he intended should be the poor girl’s fate, and laughing he took up his hat and strode forth.

From that moment the tall man addressed as Charlie, though he would give no explanation whatever as to the reason those strange questions had been put to her concerning her father and her lover, treated her with the greatest consideration, yet at the same time kept constantly expressing a fear that, if she still refused, the danger threatened would certainly befall her.

Again, on the following day, the fat red-faced inquisitor came and put those questions to her. But he still found her obdurate. She recognised that those people were her father’s enemies, therefore she had determined to say nothing.

Ah! would she ever forget all the horror of those dramatic interviews—the dastardly threats of that blackguard who laughed at her unhappiness and who uttered words which caused her face to burn with shame.

And then came the final scene, just as suddenly as the first.

The inquisitor came again, and after another violent scene left, declaring that the false “Wetherton” should return and become her janitor in place of the man she knew as Charlie.

The latter seemed pained and very anxious after the red-faced man had gone. She inquired the reason, but he only sighed, declaring that the man under whose power they both were would most certainly carry out his threat towards her.

Half mad with anxiety and grief, she had then confided in the tall man, telling him a brief disjointed story of the half-burned manuscript, in the course of which she had mentioned the name of a man whom she had never met—Doctor Diamond, of Horsford. Her lover, she explained, was the Doctor’s friend.

The man had put to her a few rapid questions to which she had replied; then, as though with sudden resolve, he had risen from the table where he had been sitting, and clenching his fists poured forth a flood of execrations upon some person he did not name.

She was surprised at the action, and her surprise increased when, a few minutes later, he had halted before her saying:

“Though I risk my own liberty in assisting you, Miss Griffin, I will not keep you here, the innocent victim of that heartless blackguard and his sycophants. I have a daughter of my own—a little daughter who is all in all to me. ‘Red Mullet’—that’s my name, Miss—may bear a pretty bad reputation, but he will never lift a finger against a defenceless girl, nor will he act in opposition to a man who has stood his friend. My only stipulation is that you will say nothing. We will meet again ere long.”

And then, five minutes later, having given her solemn promise of secrecy, she had left the house, wandering the dark streets until she had found herself in Oxford Street, where she had hailed a cab and driven home.

Over all this she sat thinking, gazing thoughtfully into the dancing flames and wondering.

But from her reverie she was awakened by the re-entry of the maid, who said:

“Both the Professor and Mr Farquhar are downstairs, miss. Will you please go down to them at once?”

She started quickly. A cold shudder ran through her.

With that vow of secrecy upon her, the vow given to the man who had been her protector, what explanation of her absence could she give to Frank.

She rose slowly from her chair, her great dark eyes fixed straight before her.

Chapter Twenty One.

The Falling of the Shadow.

Gwen stood before her father and her lover, a pale, wan, trembling figure, evasive in all her answers.

With the seal of silence upon her lips what could she say?

As Professor Griffin had entered the door with his latch-key a hansom had drawn up at the kerb, and Frank, who had come straight from Charing Cross, after dropping his kit at his rooms, sprang out and ran up the steps to the porch to meet the elder man with a merry greeting.

His first inquiry had been of Gwen, but the Professor’s face told him that something was wrong, and they entered the hall together. Next moment, however, the maid rushed forward exclaiming: “Miss Gwen’s come home, sir. She’s upstairs.”

“Tell her we are here,” said her father, “and we’d like to see her at once.”

Then the two men walked into the dining-room, where, in a few brief sentences, the Professor explained to young Farquhar his daughter’s sudden disappearance.

Frank was quick to notice that the girl he loved had scarce dared to raise her eyes to his as she entered the room. The grey gown she wore, unrelieved by any touch of colour, served to accentuate the deadly pallor of her soft countenance. A change had been wrought in her—a great astounding change.

“Why, Gwen dear!” gasped her father. “What’s the matter? What has occurred?”

“Nothing, dad,” faltered the girl.

“That’s quite absurd, my child,” cried the elder man. “You’ve been absent from home all these days, and sent me no word! Something unusual must have occurred.”

“Nothing, dad dear—at least, nothing that I can tell you.”

Frank started, staring straight at her, utterly amazed at her response.

“But, Gwen,” he exclaimed, “you surely can explain where you’ve been. The police, it seems, have been searching for you everywhere.”

Her eyes were cast quickly around the room, as though seeking means of escape from that cross-examination. Then she answered:

“I really don’t see what my business concerns any one—so long as I am at home again.”

“This is scarcely like you, Gwen,” exclaimed the grey-haired man reproachfully. “You are usually so very thoughtful for me, and careful not to give me cause for a moment’s anxiety.”

“It was quite inevitable, dad,” she replied. “I would not have remained silent intentionally—as you well know.”

“But surely,” interrupted Frank in a voice which showed that his suspicions were already aroused, “surely you can at least allow us the satisfaction of knowing where you’ve been, dear!”

“No harm has befallen me, has there? Therefore, why trouble about my absence?” she asked. To utter those words required all her self-control. She knew in what an awkward position she was now placing herself.

“Well, you seem to regard very lightly all the anxiety you have caused me, my child,” protested Griffin sharply.

“I am very sorry—truly sorry, dear dad,” was the pale-faced girl’s reply, “but my silence really was not my own fault.”

“At least you might be frank with us now, Gwen!” declared her lover. “You surely have nothing to hide!”

“Nothing whatever,” she said, smiling bitterly, “only I am, for certain reasons, compelled to regard my recent whereabouts as a secret.”

“Why?”

She was silent. What could she say! What indeed? The man Mullet, who had been her protector, and who had treated her with such kindness and consideration, making her confinement much the less irksome than it would have been; the man who had stood between her and her brutal, red-faced inquisitor, and who, just at the moment when a grave peril threatened her, had opened the door and allowed her to escape, and laid upon her a solemn vow of secrecy. His words rang distinctly in her ears: “Remember, Miss Griffin, if you tell your friends what has happened to you it will result in my ruin. Our enemies will avenge themselves by giving me over to the police. Therefore, I beg of you to remain silent—at all hazards—for my sake!” And she had promised.

Could she break that pledge, given to the man who had saved her from shame and dishonour?

By her hesitation, grave suspicions had gathered within the minds of both her father and her lover. Ignorant of the true facts, they both misjudged her.

Frank’s quick jealousy had been fired by her determination not to make explanation. Yet he had tried to suppress the bitter thoughts growing within him, hoping that it was her father’s presence which prevented her from telling him in confidence what had occurred.

“I cannot see why you should make such a great mystery of the affair, my dear child,” remarked the Professor, clearly annoyed.

“Well,” and she laughed nervously, “perhaps I may tell you something some day, dad. But please excuse me now, dear. I—I’m tired and—and very upset.”

The old man recognised from her pale, hard-drawn features that she was not herself. Her highly strung nerves were at their greatest tension. And, perhaps, after all, he thought, it was injudicious of him to submit her to that cross-examination in Frank’s presence.

Indeed, both men desired to speak with her alone, both believing that they would then induce her to tell the truth.

Little did they dream that the truth could never issue from her lips—that the vow she had made was to a man to whom the exposure meant loss of his liberty.

Her own position was a ghastly one. She had already realised that. She shuddered at the recollection of those hideous insults of that fat, brutal tormentor—and of the fate which he had marked out for her because she would not satisfy him concerning either her father or her lover.

Her sole thought was of “Charlie”—Mr Mullet, or “Red Mullet” as his friends were in the habit of calling him. She smiled at the humour of the appellation. It fitted him so well on account of his red hair and bristly red moustache.

Half an hour later the subject of her absence having by mutual consent, been dropped, the Professor went to his study to write some letters, while Gwen and her lover strolled into the big drawing-room, gaunt and cheerless without a fire.

When they were alone he took her white, trembling hand, and, looking steadily into her eyes, begged her to afford him the satisfaction of knowing the truth about her absence.

She had been dreading that moment, and she only shook her head.

“But, dearest!” he urged, “surely I have a right to know!”

“I thought you said only the day before your departure for Copenhagen that you could always trust me, Frank,” she answered, in a voice full of quiet reproach.

“I said so, I admit. But almost immediately I had gone it seems that you slipped out of the house without a word, and have only just returned. You will make no explanation, therefore what am I to think? What can I think!”

“You must think as evil of me as you may, Frank,” was the girl’s calm reply.

“No, no,” he cried. “Come darling, tell me all about it—in confidence. I won’t say a word to any living soul.”

“I cannot tell you,” was her faint response, standing rigid, with her eyes fixed straight before her. “Please do not ask me again.”

“Do you refuse, even me?”

“Yes, Frank—even you.”

He was silent. What ugly incident could she have to hide from him? He knew that before their first meeting she had, like many a young and pretty girl, been a sad flirt; that men had hovered about her continually, attracted by her sweet beauty and charming daintiness. He was not her first love. On the contrary, she had more than one little serious affair of the heart; first with a young Italian officer of infantry at Florence, where she had spent a winter with her father, and again with the son of a north country ironmaster while staying at the Empire at Buxton. She had confessed to those, and others. Indeed, hitherto she had never withheld from him any secret concerning her past. Therefore, why should she now refuse to give any account of her mysterious absence!

He was puzzled—puzzled by her attitude and puzzled by her determination to evade his questions. And, as was but natural, there sprang up in his breast the burning fire of jealousy.

The amazing, horrifying thought occurred to him that she, the sweet-faced girl he loved with his whole heart and soul, had, while he had been absent abroad, met some secret lover, an old “flame” most probably, believing that she could excuse herself to her indulgent father and induce him to make no mention of the affair to him upon his return. He, however, had returned to London a day too early—returned to learn the bitter and astounding truth.

Time after time, still holding her tiny white hand in his, and looking into those dark timid eyes, he urged her to give him some satisfaction. But she steadily refused, declaring:

“I am unable, Frank. And even if I were able, you would never believe me—never!”

“Why are you unable?” he inquired, suspiciously.

“Because secrecy has been imposed upon me.”

“By one who is in fear of certain consequences—eh?” he asked furiously.

“Yes,” was her faltering response.

“Then is it not right that I, your future husband, should be acquainted with what has occurred, Gwen?” he demanded quickly. “By your silence, you are only arousing suspicions within me that may be cruel and unjust towards you.”

“I regret, Frank, that it must remain so. I have given a pledge that I cannot break—even at your request.”

“Ah! then your love for me is not so strong as I believed it to be!” he cried reproachfully, letting her hand drop. “How many times have you placed your arms about my neck and declared your affection for me?” he asked bitterly.

“I do love you, Frank—I swear I love you as much as I have always done!” she cried wildly, stretching forth her arms to him in her despair.

“Impossible. You have made a solemn pledge to another—a man. Do you deny that it is a man?”

“No. I deny nothing that is the truth,” she whispered hoarsely, “I dare not tell you the truth for—for that man’s sake!”

“You apparently think a great deal of him!” exclaimed Farquhar, with rising anger.

“He is my friend—my best friend, as you will some day learn.”

“And you actually tell me this, Gwen!” he cried, staring at her. “You—whom I’ve loved so truly!”

“I am telling you the truth,” she replied, in a voice again strangely calm. “You need entertain no jealousy of him. He is my friend—my devoted friend—nothing more.”

“And you stay from home for days, and on returning tell me this!” he exclaimed, his brows contracted in fierce anger. “What is this fellow’s name?” he demanded.

“I am not at liberty to tell you,” she responded, “believe me if you will—if not,”—and she shrugged her shoulders without concluding her sentences.

“I have a right to know,” he blurted forth.

She realised the effect her words had had upon him. She saw his fierce jealousy and his dark suspicion. Yet what more could she say in the hideous circumstances. She was now the innocent victim of a silence imposed upon her by the man who had been her protector. How could she betray him into the hands of his enemies? Ah! her situation was surely one of the most difficult and maddening in which a girl had ever found herself.

To tell Frank Farquhar the truth would be to rouse his mad jealousy to a great pitch. He would seek out Mr Mullet, face him, and create a scene which must inevitably bring down upon her friend and protector the vengeance of those who held him so helpless in their unscrupulous hands.

Hence she foresaw the inevitable. It was as plain as it was tragic. Her refusal to give satisfactory replies to Frank’s most natural questions had aroused his darkest suspicion. He, on his part, discerned in her determination a deliberate attempt to mislead him. During his absence she had changed towards him, changed in a most curious way that held him mystified.

“You appear, Gwen, to be utterly unconcerned and careless as to whether I believe you or not,” he said gravely, after a few moments’ silence. “Well, I would like now to speak quite plainly and openly.”

“Speak,” she said, “I am all attention.” She was struggling valiantly with herself.

Her coolness was feigned. Ah! what would she give if she were at liberty to tell Frank the whole strange and ghastly truth!

“I have put to you a question which you refuse to answer,” he said in a low, hard voice. “You have admitted that, by this silence of yours, you are protecting another man. Well—in that case I can only say that I must leave you in future to your friend’s protection. I hope he loves you better—better than I!”

“Leave me!” she gasped in a hoarse whisper. “You—you will leave me! Ah! no—no Frank,”—she shrieked in her despair, “you can’t mean that—you won’t let—”

But her lover had already turned upon his heel, and without further words he left the room—and the house.

She heard the front door slam, and then with a sudden cry of despair she flung herself upon the couch and buried her head among the silken cushions sobbing.

Chapter Twenty Two.

Increases the Mystery.

The morning was foggy, damp and dark in London, one of those to which dwellers in the Metropolis are so accustomed in the short December days.

In “Red Mullet’s” sitting-room off Oxford Street—that same room in which Gwen Griffin had endured her imprisonment—he and Doctor Diamond were seated.

A fortnight had passed since the red-haired man’s visit to Horsford, but in accordance with a promise made he had, late the previous evening, telegraphed to the hunchback, and in response to the message the latter had left Peterborough by the up-express at nine o’clock that morning.

“Well, Doc,” the tall man was saying as he lay stretched lazily in his chair smoking a cigarette. “I’m giving away my friend in order to oblige you, and I’ve had a lot of difficulty, as you may imagine. My friends are a pretty tough crowd, as you know. But I’ve fulfilled the promise I made to you, and all will be well providing that young lady, Miss Griffin, only holds her tongue.”

“Then you’ve really obtained a copy of the document for me—eh!” interrupted the ugly little man, his face brightening quickly.

“Yes. I was very nearly caught in the act of taking it. It was kept in a safe, and I had to get hold of the key by a ruse. I kept it a day, and got a typed copy made. Then I retained it to its place.”

“By Jove, Mr Mullet, you’re a real friend!” cried the Doctor, starting up. “As you know, we’ve been handicapped hitherto by not knowing the context of the document. Ours has been all guesswork.”

“Well, it needn’t be any more,” remarked the red-haired man with a light laugh, “for here’s a complete copy. You’d better read it out. It’s a very remarkable statement.” And he produced a typewritten manuscript which the Doctor, after clearing his throat, eagerly read as follows:

“THE TREASURE OF ISRAEL.

“Revealed by a Hebrew Cipher in the Old Testament.

“I, Peter Holmboe, graduate of Helsingfors University, in Finland, late Professor of Hebrew at St. Petersburg University, and now resident at Langenfelder Strasse, 17, Altona, Germany, make oath and declare as follows:

“Curious, and perhaps improbable as it may at first appear, I claim to have discovered the actual whereabouts of the hidden treasure of the Jewish Temple, which includes among other things the Ark of the Covenant, the Tablets of moses, and the enormous treasure of gold and silver known to exist before the capture of Jerusalem by Nebuchadnezzar, King of Babylon.

“The Secret.

“The secret of the place of concealment is contained in a cipher which runs through certain chapters of the Book of Ezekiel, and which clearly relates the whole story and gives absolute and most complete directions with measurements by which the spot is indicated. And not only this. The same story, in a much more abbreviated form, is, curiously enough, also repeated in the same cipher in certain chapters of Deuteronomy.

“It is a historical fact that when Nebuchadnezzar seized Jerusalem nearly the whole of the treasure of the Temple had disappeared, and it would seem that into the Book of Ezekiel the secret was incorporated, so that the treasure, which formed the war-chest of the Jews, could be recovered at the coming of the Messiah.

“Many points are, of course, highly interesting and curious. Perhaps my discovery—which, by the way, was by pure accident—will create much controversy and arouse great excitement among scholars and archaeologists. Nevertheless the cipher exists, as I am ready, under certain conditions and on certain financial considerations, to indicate its existence to any competent Hebrew scholar who may be appointed to investigate my discovery.

“The Cipher.

“For many years I had been greatly interested in the various astronomical, astrological and cabalistical signs and cycles so apparent in the chronology of the ancient peoples. In the Bible, and more especially during the five hundred or so years before Christ, I found evidences of the astrology that was used in the division of time, and therefore set to work, using the comparing method in order to obtain an insight into the different ciphers most universally used, and also into the methods of concealing secret messages and statements. Many of the ciphers used were highly ingenious and most difficult to decipher. The Jews in Jerusalem used them, so did the Jewish Greeks in Alexandria and the Buddhists in India, as well as the Gnostics, etc.

“I had been studying certain curious expressions in the ‘Mischna,’ which seemed to me to contain certain hidden meanings, when one day, in studying the Book of Ezekiel in the original, I was amazed to come across an expression which, habituated as I was to the presence of ciphers, told me at once that a hidden message was contained there.

“After countless failures through several years, I one day applied one of the earlier known cabalistic ciphers—which, by the way, is so complicated and ingenious that the whole message must be deciphered before the first word becomes apparent—and, to my intense astonishment, on making the complete decipher I found myself able to read a clean declaration (extending through nine chapters) of the secret hiding-place of the Great Treasure of Israel!

“The cipher declaration opens with an intimation of 490 years before the arrival of the Messiah, and continues as follows:

“‘The lapse of years are nearing its filling. The relief of the Doom will come in spite of all. The people’s right is nearing. The Period of the Blood-Debts and that of the Suppression will lose its power.’

“It is then stated that Moses’ tablets, the archives of the Temple, the Ark of the Covenant and ‘the Chair of Grace between two cherubims of fine gold,’ ‘the insignias Urim and Thummim with two rubies of extraordinary size surrounded by a multitude of other precious stones,’ the ‘written archives of the earliest period of the Jews’ till about B.C. 600, ‘the great treasures of the Temple, gold and silver vessels, coined gold, and precious stones of every description’ were all ‘concealed beneath the earth in a dry-room in connection with which is a series of water-tunnels.’

“The secret declaration goes on to give the most complete details of how the treasure may be reached. It is stated that there are three entrances, one of which is impossible as it is inaccessible, being closed up by masonry in a labyrinth of caves; the second is also too difficult. But the third is accessible by draining the water and will not present much difficulty.

“The cipher continuing, declares:

“‘The tablets shall remain in their hiding-place till the arrival of the Messiah, who alone may open their place of concealment, in order that He may furnish proof of the faith, and if necessary the treasure shall provide a war fund when the Messiah conquers the world and establishes his residence in Jerusalem.’

“The cipher concludes by declaring:

“‘Six curses, yea! sixty times six curses, shall be upon the head of any one who dare to attempt to violate the treasure-house.’

“That the messages, each identical, run through both Ezekiel and Deuteronomy is indisputable, and I am quite ready to explain them, provided my secret is properly protected.

“Among the many curious and interesting features which go far to prove that the treasure is still lying undisturbed, I may perhaps indicate the Biblical fact that, after the Babylonian imprisonment, the tablets of Moses were never again exhibited in the Temple. Yet did not Nehemiah convince himself that they were intact and in good condition?

“We know that Nebuchadnezzar received certain vessels from the Temple at Jerusalem (Ezra, i, 7-11) but no mention is made of the tablets, of the Ark, or of any other of the things mentioned in the cipher!

“Again, when Titus destroyed Jerusalem he did not obtain the Ark. On the Arch of Triumph still existing in Rome are representations of the candlesticks, but there is no representation of the Ark.

“Through the whole prophecy of Ezekiel I can point out many evidences of the existence of the treasure.

“And, finally, it is extremely curious that the Crusaders searched actively for it, but mostly in the neighbourhood of Engeddin.

“Whether the treasure of Israel still exists or not, the cipher declaration stands out in black and white, one of the best known and most difficult of all the various modes used by the ancients for concealing messages.

“I claim that it is a most amazing discovery which must be of deepest interest to the whole civilised world, and should be at once investigated. I have not, of course, space to give complete Biblical references, etc. These I will supply later on, if necessary.

“Any Jew who may be consulted will no doubt scorn the idea of the existence of the treasure. He will do so because he will argue that no cipher can exist in a book inspired. Again, he may declare that all the treasure was all carried off to Babylon. This is, I maintain, disproved by historical facts.

“Again, there may be considerable argument as to whether the Books of Ezekiel and of Deuteronomy were written about the same period. According to the latest theory, Deuteronomy was written before Ezekiel, nevertheless this discovery of the same cipher record in both now conclusively proves that they were written at very nearly the same time.

“Further, I am aware of the Talmudic tradition which states that the treasures I have enumerated, with the addition of Aaron’s staff, the pot of manna and the flask of anointing oil, are hidden beneath the Temple Mount. But the cipher in question shows plainly that they are not concealed upon the site of the Temple, which is now occupied by the Mosque of Omar, but at some considerable distance away.

“The Key.

“As regards the key to the cipher and the manner in which to decipher it, I have, believing my existence to be now short-lived—for alas! I am suffering from a disease that I am told is incurable—placed the key, with such directions as are necessary to read it, in a place where it will remain hidden until such time as I have arranged with a capitalist or syndicate of financiers to despatch an expedition to secretly purchase the land in question and excavate for the holy relics. To them alone it will be revealed.

“The key, which will disclose a statement that must cause the whole world to be surprised and thrilled, is divided into two parts, the one useless without the other. One part now lies in one city and another in a second. Therefore, for any person to attempt to discover the truth without first entering into business relations with me will be utterly impossible. And even if both keys were illegally obtained, the requisite knowledge could not then be ascertained without a third direction, that can be supplied by myself alone.

“If I live, then I hope to search and recover the sacred objects. If, however, Providence wills my death ere my task is done, none shall complete it; for none shall ever profit by the secret which the Unseen Power has revealed unto us, a statement of which I have herein written and signed by my own hand.

“(Signed) Peter Holmboe, Professor of Hebrew.”

The following note, with the impression of a rubber stamp, was appended in German:

“Sworn before me, Karl Weizel, notary public at 38, Neuer Junugferustieg, in the Free City of Hamburg, on the eighth of July, One thousand Nine hundred and Seven.”

Chapter Twenty Three.

His Ugliness at Pembridge Gardens.

An hour later the Doctor called upon Frank Farquhar in Half Moon Street, and excitedly showed him the precious copy of the document which “Red Mullet” had secured for him.

Frank was highly interested, of course, but refused to accompany the hunchback to Pembridge Gardens. As his reason, he gave that he had a directors’ meeting down in Fleet Street which he was bound to attend. Sir George was absent and he was therefore compelled to be in his place. The truth was that he had no desire to meet Gwen.

The girl had written him several pitiful and reproachful letters during the past fortnight, but to these he had made no response, except by one brief note in which he had repeated his very pointed question.

“No, Doctor,” he said, “go yourself to Pembridge Gardens. The Professor will, I’m sure, be delighted to meet you, and you can discuss the matter thoroughly with him. I’ll see him this evening.”

Therefore Diamond had taken a cab out to Notting Hill Gate, and on inquiring for Griffin and giving his name, was shown at once upstairs to the study.

The Professor, with his usual courtesy, expressed his pleasure at the meeting, though if the truth were told he had not expected to see a man of the little Doctor’s extreme ugliness. Then, when his visitor produced the precious copy of the dead man’s manuscript, the great scholar sat down and breathlessly read it through from end to end.

“This is exactly what I surmised from the burnt fragments,” he remarked, taking off his glasses as he turned to where the Doctor was sitting. “But the great and fascinating problem we have to solve is the whereabouts of the two keys to the cipher. One thing seems clear from the document, namely, that the dead man was Holmboe, the discoverer of the hidden secret.”

“Exactly. He knew the uncertainty of his life. Indeed he told me so when he had his first attack,” replied the little man, “the initials ‘P.H.’ were also upon his clothing.”

“He told you he was a Dane. But in all probability he was a Russian or a Finn,” remarked Griffin slowly turning over the leaves of a reference book before him. “Yes—here he is—Peter Holmboe, Professor of Hebrew at St. Petersburg, University, appointed four years ago. He apparently occupied a very high post for so young a man. He made the declaration in Hamburg, I see, therefore he had, no doubt, resigned his professorship in order to devote his time to finding capital to exploit the remarkable secret he had discovered.”

“Yes. But what’s the use of the secret without the key to the cipher?” queried the Doctor.

“None whatever. We must work to discover the key,” Griffin replied. “If I close study, discover the key myself.”

“Farquhar’s journey to Copenhagen was utterly fruitless. We were led there upon a wild goose chase,” the Doctor said. “The unfortunate fact is that others are also in search of the secret.”

“I am aware of that. But how did you discover it?”

“I was told by my friend—the man who secured for me this copy—an old friend named Mullet. He knows more than he will tell me!”

While the Doctor was speaking, Gwen had opened the door and entered the room.

She heard the visitor utter the name of her protector, and became instantly interested.

“This is Doctor Diamond, dear,” explained her father. “You have heard Mr Farquhar speak of him.”

The little Doctor jumped to his feet and bowed, while the girl, in dark skirt and clean white blouse, graciously acknowledged his greeting.

She was anxious to learn what connection this dwarfed man could have with her mysterious protector.

“I heard you speak of a Mr Mullet, Doctor,” she remarked. “Is that a man known as ‘Red Mullet’?”

“Yes, Miss Griffin. He is a friend of mine.”

“Or rather you are a great friend of his, I have heard—eh?”

“Then you know him!” exclaimed the Doctor, much surprised. “You met him abroad, I suppose?” The girl did not reply. She was puzzled at the curious connection between the red-haired man who had been her janitor and the ugly little Doctor who was Frank’s friend.

“I know him,” she said at last. “And being a friend of yours, he is a friend of ours.”

“That’s so,” declared the Doctor, laughing. “Some people say ill things of him, but I have known him for some years, and he has always acted straight and honourably towards me.”

“Well,” exclaimed the Professor with some impatience. “Leave us, child. We want to get on with the examination of this paper which Doctor Diamond has just brought me.”

“Does it concern the Treasure of Israel, dad?” inquired the girl, walking up to his table.

“Yes, dear. It is a copy of the complete document, so you may imagine how deeply I’m interested in it.”

“Has Frank seen it?” she asked quickly, to which the Doctor replied in the affirmative.

Then when the girl had, with some reluctance, left them together, they resumed their discussion.

“We can discover nothing tangible without a knowledge of the cipher,” remarked Griffin very gravely. “And in my belief, though it is here stated that the key is concealed in two separate cities, at the time of Holmboe’s death he had it in his possession. That was a portion of it which you rescued—the one folio in manuscript. The typewritten document was evidently prepared to place before a financier with a view to the equipment of an expedition to Palestine. But the additional manuscript was evidently a record of the cipher, together with its key. Have you a copy of it?”

“Yes,” replied the Doctor, taking from his breast-pocket some papers from among which he took a copy he had made in his own handwriting. “As far as I could judge, the manuscript of which this is one folio, consisted of about seven folios. I recollect quite well noticing, as I placed it in the stove, that certain characters in Hebrew were written upon it.”

“Well,” exclaimed Griffin, spreading the copy of the half-destroyed leaf before him, “that the cipher is a numerical one is quite apparent. It seems that it is based upon the wāw sign, or sixth letter of the Hebrew alphabet. Six is the sign of evil. Nevertheless I have turned up the reference to Ezekiel, xli, 23, but cannot find anything unusual in the Hebrew text.”

“Because we do not possess the key,” remarked the hunchback with a sigh.

“Admitted. But we have the basis of the calculation—the regular occurrence of the letter ‘w’ or ‘v’ in the text. For days, nay, weeks, I have been trying to solve that problem, using each of the known cabalistic ciphers of the ancients, but without the slightest success.”

“It is an unknown cipher, without a doubt—even though you recognise the basis.”

“Numerical ciphers are always most difficult,” Griffin declared. “Yet was it not Edgar Allen Poe who declared that human ingenuity could not invent a cipher which human ingenuity could not solve. I have tried my calculations upon the earliest known text, that preserved in St. Petersburg—but in vain.”

“What do you think of the dead man’s statement that the key is divided into two parts—one portion being concealed in each city?”

“I don’t accept that as genuine,” declared the Professor. “I regard it as a mere embellishment of facts, in order to prevent any one from trying to unriddle the message. The unfortunate man ordered you to destroy the directions for reading the message, together with the statement itself.”

“I rather wish I had disobeyed,” remarked the Doctor with a grin. “The fact that it was in manuscript and not in typing shows that he would not trust any one with sight of it.”

“Which goes far to prove the truth of my argument. There is a key number, depend upon it. When once you have that, and we ascertain at what point to start, then the secret record will soon be revealed.”

“But how can we obtain it—that’s the question,” the Doctor said. “I would like to know how far the inquiries of our enemies have advanced. This copy was obtained from the complete copy in their possession.”

“Who are our enemies? Do you know them?” asked the Professor, starting forward quickly.

“No. My friend, though he had supplied me with this, refuses all information concerning them, except to say that they are both powerful and wealthy.”

“What do they know concerning the key?”

“Not so much as ourselves. They do not possess even the few words concerning it that we do.”

“But will not your friend divulge the identity of our enemies?” asked Griffin, “not if we take him into partnership with us, and allow him to share in the huge profits which must accrue if anything is actually recovered?”

“I thought that your opinion upon the whole story was a negative one,” remarked the Doctor with a strangely wily look.