William Le Queux (continued 4)

The Professor, bent upon writing a learned article in the Contemporary, giving a story that should startle the world, held his breath for a moment. But only for a single instant.

“Well,” he answered without hesitation, “at first I was, it is true, inclined to regard it as an amazing piece of fiction, but after certain researches and study I have now come to the conclusion that there may be more truth in it than would at first appear. I, of course, regard it from a scholar’s point of view, and not from that of a financier.”

“I believe in money,” declared the ugly little man frankly. “It should be put forward, when ripe, as a sound financial proposition—just as, no doubt, its discoverer, Peter Holmboe, intended to put it forward.”

“Then if so, why will not your friend Mullet join forces with us? It would surely be to his advantage!”

“Because he’s tied to the other side.”

“If it has not prevented him from supplying us in secret with this copy of the document, it surely would not prevent him assisting us further, and placing us upon our guard regarding the actions of our enemies. Have you no idea, Doctor, how these other people obtained a copy of Holmboe’s statement? It surely could not have been kicking about the streets, having in view the fact that he was so careful to destroy it before his death.”

“I haven’t any idea how they obtained it, or even their names. My friend will tell me nothing.”

“Who is this man Mullet? Have you any objection to telling me?”

“The man whom your daughter was discussing—the man known to his friends as ‘Red Mullet’—is a cosmopolitan who lives mostly on the Continent, and, between ourselves, has the reputation of being an adventurer.”

“And a friend of my daughter!” the elder man exclaimed in surprise. “She seems to meet very undesirable people sometimes. The latitude allowed to girls nowadays, Doctor, is very different from that of thirty years ago—eh?”

“What can we expect in this age of the ‘New Woman’ and the Suffragette?” laughed the other, holding up his hands.

“But could we not induce this Mr Mullet to help us—or at least to reveal to us in what direction our enemies are working? They have with them a very clever and ingenious scholar, of that I have already satisfied myself.”

“Ah!” sighed Diamond. “If we only could get ‘Red Mullet’ with us. But I fear that there are certain circumstances which entirely preclude such an arrangement. At least, that is what I suspect.”

“I wonder what my daughter can know of the man?” remarked Griffin, ignorant of the fact that Gwen’s curiosity had got the better of her, or that the door being ajar she had heard the Doctor’s statement.

“It certainly does seem a rather curious fact that they are acquainted,” remarked the Doctor. “But, Professor,” he went on eagerly, “I suppose you now have no doubt that there is more in the remarkable story than mere surmise.”

Griffin was again silent for a few moments.

“Providing that the sacred relics remain still hidden—and there certainly seems nothing against that belief, even though some have declared that Solomon’s golden vessels were afterwards used in Persia—then we have, of course, precise knowledge of certain of them,” he said with great deliberation. Opening the Hebrew-English Bible at 2 Chronicles, iv, 19, he said: “Listen to this as an example,” and he read as follows:

“‘And Solomon made all the vessels that were for the house of God, the golden altar also, and the tables whereon the shew-bread was set;

“‘Moreover the candlesticks with their lamps, that they should burn after the manner before the oracle, of pure gold;

“‘And the flowers, and the lamps, and the tongs, made he of gold, and that perfect gold;

“‘And the snuffers, and the basons, and the spoons, and the censers, of pure gold; and the entry of the house, the inner doors thereof for the most holy place, and the doors of the house of the temple, were of gold.’

“Concerning the Ark of the Covenant, which the cipher says still lies hidden, we have in the next chapter, commencing at verse 7:

“‘And the priests brought in the ark of the covenant of the Lord unto his place, to the oracle of the house, into the most holy place, even under the wings of the cherubim:

“‘For the cherubim spread forth their wings over the place of the ark, and the cherubim covered the ark and the staves thereof above.

“‘And they drew out the staves of the ark that the end of the staves were seen from the ark before the oracle, but they were not seen without. And there it is unto this day.

“‘There was nothing in the ark save the two tables which Moses put therein at Horeb, when the Lord made a covenant with the children of Israel, when they came out of Egypt.’

“The gold, of course, came from the ancient Ophir,” remarked the Doctor, “and curiously enough the site of this El Dorado has only recently been established by Dr Carl Peters as having been at Zimbabwe, and the surrounding region in south-eastern Mashonaland.”

“Yes,” remarked the Professor. “There is, I think, no question that Solomon obtained his gold from that district. The old workings are said by Hall and Neal to number seventy-five thousand, and hundreds of thousands of tons of gold ore must have been dug out during the Himyaritic era. The Kaffirs still call the place ‘Fur.’ and the Arabs ‘Afur.’ It was from there that Solomon’s ships brought the four hundred and twenty talents of gold mentioned in 1 Kings, ix, 26-28, and in 2 Chronicles, viii, 17-18. Again, we are told that in one year Solomon obtained six hundred and sixty-six talents of gold—each talent being worth eleven thousand pounds of our money—from the same region, most of which was used in the manufacture of the vessels for the temple.”

“Some of which we hope to recover, Professor,” laughed the ugly little man.

“We certainly might,” sighed the other, “if only we could discover the solution of this most fascinating yet tantalising problem.”

Chapter Twenty Four.

A Page in Piccadilly.

A long, grey, hundred-horse-power racing motor-car with its two glaring head-lamps drew suddenly up in the falling darkness before the big house in Berkeley Square, and from it stepped Sir Felix Challas in his heavy fur coat, cap and goggles. He was a motor enthusiast, and declared that his runs on his high-power racer cleared the cobwebs from his brain, and braced up his nerves.

He had started forth soon after breakfast, lunched at the Mermaid at Wansford, eighty miles away up the Great North Road, and was now home again, just as darkness had set in.

He had sat beside his chauffeur in silence while being whirled along the great northern highway, for he always thought out the most ingenious of his schemes while travelling thus.

Ere he had ascended the steps of the house, the splendid car, which only a few weeks before had made a record on the Brooklands track, moved off to the well-appointed garage, where he kept his three other cars.

On entering his own luxurious little den on the left of the hall, he found Jim Jannaway comfortably ensconced before the fire, smoking one of his choicest cigars and with a whisky and soda at his elbow.

“Hulloa!” exclaimed Sir Felix surprised. “I thought you were on your way out to the East? You were to have left this morning, weren’t you?” And he threw off his heavy coat and stood with his back to the fire.

“Yes. But I’ve remained, because I’ve discovered something,” replied the other. “I’ve found out the reason why that girl Griffin got away.”

“Oh! Why?” asked Challas quickly. “It was a great misfortune for us. She’s evidently discovered who we are, and why we wanted the information.”

“Well—he played us false.”

“Who—Mullet?”

“Yes. The girl appealed to his honour, and all that, and he found out that she was a friend of that Doctor Diamond, the fellow who attended Holmboe before he died and got hold of a portion of his papers. This man, it appears, had befriended Mullet in some way—so he, like a fool, let her go.”

“Fool—idiot!” cried Challas. “Then the brute’s betrayed us!”

“Absolutely!”

“By letting the girl go, he’s exposed us. Griffin now knows that we are working against him. And he is, according to old Erich, the only man we have to fear.”

“Except that man Farquhar, partner with Sir George Gavin, the newspaper owner.”

“Ah! I forgot him. But surely he doesn’t count?”

“Yes, he does,” protested Jannaway. “He’s in love with the girl. Hence we must see that he turns his back upon her, or there may be further trouble. I foresee pretty awkward complications in that direction.”

“Very well, my dear boy, all that I leave to you,” answered Sir Felix, with a heavy, thoughtful look.

“But it does not lessen our danger. If we’re not careful we’ll lose the thing altogether,” Jannaway pointed out. “I’ve been a full fortnight making careful investigations. The Doctor called on Griffin the day before yesterday, and what’s more, the girl has written to Charlie, asking him to meet her.”

“How have you found that out?”

Jim Jannaway smiled.

“No matter,” he laughed. “Except that Laura, the parlour-maid at Pembridge, is a friend of mine. I took her to the Tivoli last Thursday. Told her I was a lawyer’s clerk.”

“By Jove, Jim,” exclaimed the Baronet, “you’re always ingenious when you’ve set your mind on worming out a secret.”

“A little love costs nothing,” laughed the nonchalant adventurer, “and very often does a lot.”

“Well, we must know what’s going on between them, that’s quite plain,” remarked Challas. “I never expected Charlie to give us away.”

“Bah! he always was chicken-hearted where women were concerned. He must have been in love once, I fancy, and hasn’t got over the attack yet.”

“We must be very watchful, Jim.”

“That’s why I didn’t leave for Constantinople, as you suggested,” was the other’s reply, as he tossed the end of his cigar into the fire and lazily rose from his comfortable chair. “My own idea, Felix, is that Charlie is growing far too scrupulous. One day we shall have him in a fit of remorse making some nasty confession or other, taking the consequences, and putting us both into a confounded hole. Think what it would mean for you!”

“By Jove, yes!” gasped the other, turning pale at the very suggestion of exposure. “We can’t afford to risk that.”

“I maintain that if Charlie lets the girl escape us and give us away, as he has done, then he’ll do something worse before long,” exclaimed the crafty man with a curious glance at the Baronet, whose back was at that moment turned to him.

Challas was silent. He clearly saw the drift of the man’s argument.

“Well?” he asked at last, lowering his voice. “What do you suggest?”

“Suggest? Why there’s only one course open, my dear fellow,” replied the other, glancing apprehensively at the door. “Get rid of him while there’s yet time.”

“He might retaliate.”

“Not if he’s arrested over in France,” Jannaway exclaimed. “The French police won’t bother over any information that he may give concerning us. Your reputation stands too high. They’ll only regard him as a type of gentlemanly blackmailer such as every wealthy man has to contend with. If we don’t do that, then good-bye to all our hopes concerning Holmboe’s secret,” he added.

“I fear I must agree with you, Jim,” said the other, very slowly. “He was a fool for not allowing you to force the truth from the girl. I had intended that she should assist us, and—”

“And by Heaven! she shall do so, even now, if you will only leave matters to me,” interrupted the clever, good-looking adventurer, leaning his back easily against the table.

“I leave them entirely to you,” the Baronet answered quickly. “Act just as you think fit, only remember there must be no exposure. I can’t afford that!”

“The secret discovered by that fellow Holmboe shall be ours,” declared Jim Jannaway, slowly and determinedly.

“It might be, if only Erich could discover the key to that infernal cipher. He told me yesterday that he suspected Professor Griffin had already solved the problem.”

“If he has, then I’ll compel the girl to obtain it for us. You understand!” he exclaimed quickly.

“Even though Charlie has become a weak fool, moved to penitence by some tub-thumping revivalist perhaps, I intend to carry through the scheme I devised. The secret of the treasure of Israel shall be ours, my dear Felix. You shall be the great benefactor to the Jewish race, and discover the sacred relics so long concealed.”

“Benefactor!” echoed the red-faced man with a short dry laugh. “Oh yes, I’ll show the Jews how I can repay them in their own coin. Only be careful—do, I beg of you. Charlie is not the man to take a blow lying down, you know.”

“You ought to know me well enough to be fully aware that I never act without consideration,” the younger man protested. “Jim Jannaway is no fool at a game of checkmate, I think.”

“There was that affair in Bordeaux,” remarked the Baronet in a rather hard voice.

“You believe that Red Mullet knows something of that!” laughed Jim, admiring the fine diamond ring upon his finger. “Bah, he is in entire ignorance. It was an unfortunate incident, I admit. But under the circumstances couldn’t be helped. But there—why need we recall it? You’re so fond of dwelling upon unpleasant themes,” he laughed. “You gave an extra five thousand to the Hospital Saturday Fund as a conscience-soother, didn’t you?”

The Baronet turned upon his heel, and walked to his writing-table, whereon stood an electric lamp shaded with green silk. Then, after turning over some letters, he asked suddenly:

“When does that girl meet Charlie?”

“To-night.”

“At her request?”

“Yes.”

“Very well. I leave everything to you,” Sir Felix said with a mysterious smile. “It would not be against our interests—if—well, if we had her in our hands again.”

Jim Jannaway nodded. He understood the suggestion perfectly.

“Charlie ought, I think, to be sent back to the Continent, don’t you agree?” he asked. “A timely warning that the police had learned of his return here, and he’d skip across by the next Channel service. Once over there, matters would be quite easy. The Leleu affair has never been cleared up, you know!” he added in a lower voice.

“I leave it entirely in your hands,” declared the plutocrat whom the public believed to be a high-minded philanthropist. “Whatever you do must be on your own responsibility, recollect.”

“But with your money. I want a couple of hundred.”

“Ah! hard up again, Jim,” sighed the other. But unlocking the safe opposite, the safe that contained the typed copy of the dead man’s document, the Baronet took out some banknotes and handed them to his cat’s-paw.

They were French notes. They were safer than English to give to persons like Jannaway, for the numbers could not be traced in cases of inquiries, while they could always be at once exchanged at any of the tourist offices. Sir Felix Challas, though compelled to employ men of the racing-tout stamp like Jim Jannaway, and unscrupulous concession-hunters like “Red Mullet,” was ever upon his guard.

He trusted his men, but in “Red Mullet” he had confessed himself sadly disappointed.

“Revivalists and missionaries have a lot to answer for,” was one of his pet phrases.

Jim Jannaway, slipping the notes into his pocket-book without troubling to count them, put on his smart overcoat and well-brushed silk hat, and wishing his employer an airy “good-evening,” strolled out into the damp chilliness of Berkeley Square, where he hailed a hansom and drove away.

He had given the man an address in Knightsbridge, but as the cab was turning from the misty gloom of Berkeley Street into the brightness of Piccadilly several persons were waiting at the left-hand kerb in order to cross the road.

Among them he apparently recognised somebody, for in an instant he drew back and turned his head the other way.

Next second the cab had rounded the corner and was on its way along Piccadilly. Yet he knew that he had sat there for several moments in the full glare of the electric lights in front of the Ritz Hotel, and he felt convinced that he had been recognised by the very last person in the world that he desired to encounter.

Jannaway sat there breathless, staring straight before him into the yellow mist, his eyes glaring as though an apparition had arisen before him.

He tried to laugh away his fears. After all, it must be only fancy, he reflected. Somebody bearing a strange resemblance. It could not be she! Impossible. Utterly impossible.

But if it had been she in the flesh—if she had in that instant actually recognised him! What then!

He huddled himself in the corner of the cab, coward that he was, and shuddered at the recollections that crowded through his mind.

Would he ever have entered that hansom if he had known that it would carry him into such exposure—and worse?

But from Jim Jannaway’s lips there fell a short bitter laugh. Was not his life made up by narrow “shaves?” Had not he been in hundreds of tight corners before, and with his wonderful tact and almost devilish cunning wriggled out of what would have meant ruin and imprisonment to any other man.

He had been a born adventurer, ever since his day as a stable-lad down at Newmarket, and he had the habit of laughing lightly at his own adventures, just as he was laughing now.

Would he have laughed, however, if he had but known how that chance encounter was to result?

Chapter Twenty Five.

The Girl and the Man.

Gwen Griffin had appointed half-past eight as the hour to meet her mysterious friend “Red Mullet” outside the “Tube” station at the corner of Queen’s Road, Bayswater.

Immediately after dinner she had slipped up to her room, exchanging her silk blouse for a stuff one, and putting on her hat and fur jacket, went out, leaving her father alone in the study. He was—as now was his habit every evening—busy making those bewildering calculations, as he tested the various numerical ciphers upon the original Hebrew text of Ezekiel.

Through the damp misty night she hurried along the Bayswater Road, until she came within the zone of electricity around the station, where she saw the tall figure of her friend, wearing a heavy overcoat and dark green felt hat, awaiting her.

“This is really a most pleasant surprise, Miss Griffin,” he cried cheerily, as he raised his hat, and took her little gloved hand. “But—well, we can’t walk about the street in order to talk, can we? Why not drive to my rooms? You’re not afraid of me now—are you?” he laughed.

“No, Mr Mullet,” was her quick answer. “I trust you, because you have already proved yourself my good friend.”

Truth to tell, however, she was not eager to go to that place where she had spent those anxious never-to-be-forgotten days, yet, as he suggested it, she could not very well refuse. One thing was quite certain, she was as safe in his hands as in her own home.

Therefore, he hailed a “taxi” from the rank across the way, and they at once drove in the direction of the Marble Arch.

Hardly, however, had they left the kerb, when a second “taxi” upon the rank, turned suddenly into the roadway and followed them. Within, lolling back and well-concealed in the darkness, sat Jim Jannaway.

A quarter of an hour later, Mullet let himself in with his latch-key, and the girl ascended those carpeted stairs she recollected so well.

In his own warm room Mullet stirred the fire until it blazed merrily, and then helping the girl off with her jacket, drew up a chair for her, taking one himself.

Her sweet innocent face, frankness of manner, and neatness of dress charmed him again, as it had when he had been forced against his will to keep her prisoner there. As he gazed across at her, he, careless adventurer that he had been for years, a man, with a dozen aliases and as many different abodes, recollected their strange ménage.

“Well,” he said with a smile, “I was really delighted to get a note from you, Miss Griffin. You said in it that you wished to consult me. What about?”

“About several things, Mr Mullet,” answered the girl, leaning her elbow upon the chair arm and looking straight in his face. “First, I am very unhappy. My position is an extremely uncomfortable one.”

“How?”

“I have kept the promise of silence I gave you, and as a consequence Frank Farquhar, the man to whom I was engaged, has left me.”

“Left you!” he echoed. “He suspects something wrong—eh?”

She nodded in the affirmative.

“That’s bad, Miss Gwen—very bad!” he said with a changed countenance. “I know well what you must suffer, poor girl. You love him—eh?”

“Very dearly.”

“And I am the cause of your estrangement,” he remarked in a low sympathetic tone.

“Ah! it was not your fault, Mr Mullet,” she cried, “I know that. Do not think that I am blaming you. The real blackguard is that red-faced man and his accomplice—the man who enticed me here on such a plausible pretext.”

“I am also to blame. Miss Gwen,” replied the big fellow with the bristly red moustache. “A deep game is being played, and, alas! I am compelled to be one of the players. It is being played against your father.”

“I know that,” she said. “I overheard Doctor Diamond telling my father how you had furnished him with a copy of that document describing the remarkable discovery of Professor Holmboe.”

“Hush!” cried Mullet quickly, glancing at the door that stood slightly ajar. “There’s nobody here, for the man who usually does for me is ill. Yet we’d better not discuss that action of mine, Miss Gwen. I only did it in order to repay in part a great service the little Doctor has rendered me. So,” he added, “the Doctor took the copy to your father?”

“Yes. He had previously, through Mr Farquhar, consulted my father regarding the half-burnt fragments in his possession. But the other day he came, bearing the full document, which they discussed for a couple of hours or more. Now, Mr Mullet,” she said, “you have been a very good and kind friend to me; therefore, I’m wondering if you would render us a further service?”

“Anything in my power I will most willingly do,” replied the blasé man, seeking permission to light his cigarette.

“I first want to know,” she exclaimed, “who is that blackguard who came here and demanded to know my father’s business?”

“He’s a person of whom you need have no concern,” was his evasive reply.

“But he possesses a copy of the statement by Professor Holmboe?”

“He does. And he has instituted an active search in which three of the greatest scholars on the Continent are assisting, in order to ascertain the key to the cipher alleged by the Russian professor to exist in the prophecy of Ezekiel.”

“But does he possess any manuscript of the Professor’s relating to the cipher?” inquired the girl, eagerly.

“Ah! that I do not know,” was his answer, “as far as I’m aware, he does not.”

“Nothing definite has yet been ascertained, I suppose?”

“Nothing actually definite,” he said. “But you can tell your father that Erich Haupt believes that at last he has struck the right line of inquiry.”

“Haupt!” she repeated. “Who is he?”

“Your father will know him as the great professor of Leipzig. He is now staying at the Waldorf Hotel.”

“But—well, Mr Mullet,” she said with some hesitation. “Pardon me for saying so, but your friends seem a very unscrupulous and remarkable lot.”

“And they are just as influential as they are unscrupulous,” he laughed. Then growing serious next moment, he added with a sigh, “Ah! Miss Gwen, if you only knew all, you’d realise how very delighted I’d be to cut myself adrift from such a rascally association.”

“Why don’t you?” she asked, looking straight into his eyes. “This business of the treasure of Israel is surely a big and lucrative one. Why don’t you leave them, and join my father, Mr Farquhar, and Doctor Diamond?”

“Well—shall I tell you the truth, Miss Griffin?” he asked, blowing a cloud of smoke from his lips as he contemplated the red end of his cigarette, “Because—well, because I dare not!”

“Dare not?”

“No,” he said in a strained voice. “You see my part has not been an altogether blameless one. Need I explain more than to say that very often, for my very bread, I have to depend upon these persons who are working against your father.”

The girl sighed, a painful expression crossing her brow.

“I wish I could help you, Mr Mullet,” she said seriously. “Can’t you possibly disassociate yourself from those scoundrels?”

He shook his head sadly.

The next instant she turned towards the door exclaiming:

“Hark! What was that? I heard a noise!”

“Nothing,” he laughed. “The window of the next room is open a little, and the wind has blown the door to.”

By this, she was reassured, even though she feared that the horrid red-faced man whose name he refused to tell her, might again reappear there as her inquisitor.

“It seems to me,” she said, “that your friends, whoever they are, are dishonourable men whose bread you are compelled to eat. Surely you are in a position quite as wretched as I am?”

“Yes,” he admitted. “But do me one favour, Miss Gwen. Never breathe to a soul that I’ve handed the copy of that document to the Doctor. If they knew that, they would never forgive me.”

“I will remain silent, and I’ll tell my father also to regard your action as confidential.”

“Tell Mr Farquhar also,” he urged.

“Ah!” sighed the girl. “Unfortunately I never see him now. He always meets my father at the Royal Societies Club—in order to avoid me.”

“Then there is an actual breach between you?”

“Yes,” she replied hoarsely. “He asked me certain questions, to which I could not reply without betraying you.”

“And you risked your love for a worthless fellow like myself!”

“Well? And did you not risk your liberty for my sake?” she asked. “Did you not protect me from that blackguard who would have struck me because I refused to answer his questions?”

“Oh, that was nothing, Miss Gwen. I am thinking of you.”

“Can you—will you assist my father?” she urged. “For myself I care nothing. But for my father’s reputation—in order to enhance it, and also that through him Israel shall recover her sacred relics, I am ready to sacrifice anything. Disassociate yourself from these men, and assist us, Mr Mullet. Do.”

“That is, alas! impossible,” was his slow response. “It would mean my instant ruin. Would it not be better if I remained in the enemy’s camp? Reflect for a moment.”

“I wish you could meet my father,” she said.

“Well, if he’d really like to see me, perhaps I might call upon him.”

“He wants so much to know you. He was only saying so when we sat together last night after dinner.”

“But you know, Miss Gwen, I’m not the sort of man that he would care to associate with.”

“You have been my friend and protector, Mr Mullet, and surely that is sufficient I have always found you a gentleman—more so than many others who pose as honest men.”

“Well,” he said. “I don’t pose. I’ve told you the simple truth.”

“And I admire you for it. You once said you’d tell me all about your own little daughter.”

He was silent for a moment, and she saw she had touched a tender chord in his memory.

“I’ll tell you about little Aggie one day; not now, please, Miss Griffin.”

“Well, tell me, then, why your friends are so antagonistic towards my father?”

“For several reasons. One is that the man you don’t like—the one with the red-face—is a fierce hater of the Jewish race. His own avarice knows no bounds, and he has sworn to recover the treasure of Israel if it still exists and when recovered he will break up and melt the sacred vessels and destroy the sacred relies in order to exhibit to the Jews his malice and his power.”

“Why, it would be disgraceful to desecrate such objects—even though he is a Gentile.”

“Certainly. But your father’s known leaning towards the Jews—his friendship with certain Rabbis, and the assistance he has once or twice rendered the Jewish community in London, have aroused the ire of this man, who is now his bitterest and most unscrupulous opponent.”

“Then you can assist us, Mr Mullet—if you will.”

“I fear that is impossible—certainly not openly,” was his reply. “Personally, I would not lift a finger to help one whose fixed idea is despoliation and desecration of the sacred objects. My sympathies, my dear Miss Gwen, are entirely with you in your own unfortunate position, and with your father in his strenuous efforts to discover the key to this cipher, and afterwards place the expedition to Palestine upon a firm business basis, the most sacred treasures to be handed over to their rightful owners, the Jews.”

“Why does this man, whose name you refuse to tell me, so hate the Jews?”

“Because, in certain of his huge financial dealings, they have actually ousted him by their shrewdness combined with honesty,” he answered. “It has ever been, and still is, the accepted fashion to cast opprobrium upon the Jews. Yet, in my varied career, I have often found a Jew more honest than a Christian, and certainly he never hides dishonesty beneath a cloak of religion in which he does not believe, as do so many of your so-called Christians in the City.”

“Then you are, like my father, an admirer of the Hebrew race?” she said, rather surprised.

“I am. In them as a class I find no cant or hypocrisy, no humbug of their clerical life as we have it, alas! apparent so often in our own churches, while among the Jews themselves a helpful hand is outstretched everywhere. They settle their own quarrels in their own courts of law and they adhere strictly to their religious teaching. Of course, there are good and bad Jews, as there are good and bad Christians. But with the anti-Jewish feeling so apparent everywhere throughout Europe, I have nothing in common.”

“And because of that, Mr Mullet, you will assist us—won’t you?” she urged.

The red-haired adventurer hesitated.

Chapter Twenty Six.

In which a Desperate Game is Played.

“To serve you, Miss Gwen, and to return a favour to my friend the Doctor, I’ll keep you informed of what transpires on our side,” he promised at last. “I’d like to call and see your father. When’s the best time?”

“He will be pleased to see you at any time you may appoint! Why not ring me up on the telephone—if you are not able to make an appointment now?”

“Very well,” he replied, “I will.”

He saw that she wanted to ask him something, but was hesitating, as though not daring to put her question.

At last she asked:

“Mr Mullet, will you not reveal to me in confidence who it is who is thus working against us?”

“A person of highest reputation as far as financial reputation in London goes, and of enormous influence. He has at his service every power that wealth can command.”

“And is he nameless?”

“Alas! he must be,” was “Red Mullet’s” decisive answer. The truth was that he feared to tell the girl, lest her surprise might lead her to expose the secret, which must at once reflect upon herself. He was glad that she had not recognised Challas from the many photographs which so constantly appeared in the illustrated papers.

A door somewhere in the small flat clicked again, but neither took any notice of it, attributing it to the wind from the open window.

They had no suspicion of an eavesdropper who had silently entered after them with the latch-key he possessed, and had just as silently left again, and crept down the stairs.

“Miss Gwen,” exclaimed her friend a few moments later, “I would really urge you to have a care of yourself. Your enemies evidently mean mischief. You have, by a blackguardly ruse, been parted from the man you love—hence you are defenceless.”

“Except for you—my true friend.”

“I may have to leave London suddenly, while at any moment, you may, if you are not careful, fall again into the net they will, no doubt, spread and cleverly conceal. They fear your father and his friends, and from him will demand a price for you—a price for your honour, most likely.”

“What do you mean?” she cried, starting, and staring at him.

“I am compelled to speak frankly, Miss Gwen; please forgive me,” he said. “I know these men, remember. I know they will hesitate at nothing in order to gain their dastardly ends. They will compel your father to pay the price—and it will be the relinquishing of the struggle, and the leaving of it to them.”

“We will never relinquish it!” declared the girl. “But do have a care of yourself,” urged the man with the bristly moustache in deep earnestness. “If you again fall into the hands of these two men, you will not, I fear, escape without disaster.”

“I know that, alas! only too well. I owe everything to your kindness and the pity you had for me. How can I ever sufficiently repay you?”

“You are now repairing me—repaying me with all you love most dearly. Your silence has cost you your lover.”

She sighed, and hot tears rose to her splendid eyes. He was quick to notice her sudden change, and deftly turned the conversation into a different channel.

Then, when he had smoked another cigarette, chatting the while, he reminded her to tell her father of Erich Haupt, and to say that he, “Red Mullet”, would call on the following day.

At last they descended together into the street, and at the corner of Oxford Street entered into a taxi-cab in which they drove back to Notting Hill Gate station.

There he raised his hat as she descended and hurried across into Pembridge Gardens, while he gave the man directions to return to his own chambers.

“By Jove!” he exclaimed, aloud, as they went along the Bayswater Road with the horn “honking.”

“The whole situation is now a terribly complicated one. To throw in my lot with the Professor and his daughter would mean a ‘stretch’ for me, without a doubt. Challas is vindictive, because I allowed her to escape from his infernal clutches. He meant to serve her the same as he did that poor young German girl! Hang me! I may be an outsider, but I’m not going to stand by and see another woman fall a victim. Now what is the best game to play in the interests of Griffin and Diamond? Stand by, watch old Erich, and if he gets hold of anything tangible, give it to them at once. That’s the only way that I can see. Yet—yet I may already be suspected of playing a double game—and if I am, it means that I’ll be given away to the police at the first opportunity. No,” he added with great bitterness, “in this game Felix Challas and Jim Jannaway hold all the cards. Money talks here, and it does always,” he sighed.

And he sat back in his cab in a deep reverie. Already he was tired of London, though he had not set foot in it for three years. He was too near Challas. When absent on the Continent, he simply obeyed orders, and led the easy-going life of the cosmopolitan concession-hunter, always well-dressed, always apparently flush of money, always merry and prosperous-looking, and always outwardly, at least, presenting the appearance of a gentleman.

Here, in London, however, he was simply the cat’s-paw of an unscrupulous parvenu who cloaked his evil doings beneath the remarkable sanctity and generous philanthropy.

“It’s a blackguardly shame that poor little Gwen, a smart little girl and yet sweet and innocent as a child, should be parted from her lover like this!” he went on, still murmuring to himself. “No doubt this man Farquhar, whoever he is, doubts her. I’d do the same if the girl to whom I was engaged ran away from home, stayed away a few days, and then on her return refused to give any account of herself. Frank Farquhar isn’t a fool, and I admire him for that. I’m to blame for the whole thing,” he added with a bitter imprecation, “because I’m a coward and fear nowadays to face the music. Yes,” he went on, “Red Mullet is in fear of his enemies! It’s no good denying it. Hitherto he’s always defied them, even at the muzzle of a gun! But recently they’ve become just one too many for him!”

He paused and lit a cigarette. Then with a sudden gesture of despair he asked himself aloud: “How can I assist the little girl to get back her lover? Frank Farquhar is a good fellow, I’ve discovered. And he’s devoted to her. How can I compel him to believe in her?”

When he entered his chambers, he flung himself again into the armchair in which Gwen had sat.

“It would be a cursed shame if ever the sacred relics of Israel fell into the hands of such a blackguardly hypocrite as Challas. What does he care for their antiquity, or their religious significance? Nothing. The gold he’d melt down and sell at its market value per ounce, while the sacred objects of the Holy of Holies he would wantonly destroy, in face of the Jews and in order to laugh them to scorn. He shan’t do that! By Heaven! he shan’t. If the treasure is still there it shall be recovered by the Doctor and Griffin. I’ll help them, and I’ll still remain little Gwen’s protector, even if it costs me my liberty to do so. Besides—”

His fierce words of determination were interrupted by a ring at the front door bell, and he went along the small hall to open it.

Jim Jannaway, in a light overcoat and crush hat, stood upon the mat.

“By Jove, Charlie!” he cried, “I’m jolly glad you’re at home, old chap!”

“Why?” asked Mullet admitting him, and closing the door.

“Well, my dear fellow,” he said in a breathless voice. “Something ugly has happened. You’ve been given away. Somebody has recognised that you’re back in London!”

“Who?” gasped the red-haired man.

“Ah! that we don’t know yet. The ‘boss’ has just sent me round to tell you to clear out at once—this instant!”

“H’m,” remarked “Red Mullet.” “Now that’s deuced funny! Why didn’t he keep his fears to himself, and let me take the consequences—eh?”

“Why, of course he wouldn’t do that. He never lets us down—you surely know him too well for that,” remarked the other.

“And he gives me the tip to clear out!” said Charlie Mullet. “It’s really very kind and considerate of him.”

“Well, my dear fellow. You don’t seem to appreciate his kindness very much.”

“I never appreciate the solicitude of my enemies, my dear Jim,” he replied with perfect nonchalance. “It’s my failing, I suppose.”

Jannaway disregarded the sarcasm, and said:

“I was with him only half an hour ago round in Berkeley Square, and he told me to come along at once to you, and urge you to get away. He gave me these for you,” and from his pocket he produced three thousand-franc notes.

“My dear Jim, both you and Felix seem to take me for a silly mug,” laughed Red Mullet defiantly, “but you must please remember that I’ve been mug-hunting too long to be bluffed like this. The exemplary Baronet is desirous that I should leave London, and sends you, his emissary, to give me timely warning. Well, my dear boy. I want no warning,” he said, for he was now on his mettle. “I shall simply remain here. If they send anybody from Scotland Yard—well, here’s a drink for them,” and he indicated the tantalus and glasses upon a side table.

“But surely you don’t wish to remain here, and give the whole game away!” cried Jannaway, anxiously, standing in the centre of the room, his hat pushed slightly to the back of his head.

“What does it matter to me? I never move without just cause. I’m growing rather sceptical in my old age. What proof have I of this extraordinary contretemps?”

“What proof do you want? I’m here to warn you. Are you a fool, Charlie?”

“Yes. Until I know why this warning has been given me. How does Felix know?”

“He has a pal down at Scotland Yard—a sergeant whom he helped ‘over the stile’ a few years ago. He gives him valuable tips sometimes. One of them is that you’ve been recognised, and that the warrant has been given for your arrest to-night.”

“Ah, my boy,” replied “Red Mullet,” lighting a fresh cigarette without turning a hair, “that’s really interesting. And if I go down to Bow Street depend upon it I shan’t go alone. So you can just go back to Berkeley Square, and tell Felix what I say.”

“Why—what’s the matter with you to-night, Charlie?” asked the other, looking at him in surprise.

What could the man know, he wondered? He seemed to scent the betrayal intended as soon as he was across the Channel.

“Matter?” he echoed. “Why, my dear Jim, I merely keep my eyes skinned, that’s all.”

“And you refuse to heed Felix’s warning?”

“Yes, I’m very comfortable at home here—and here I mean to stay. Let the police come along if they like and I’ll entertain them with a very interesting story. They re fond of hearing stories from men like myself, Jim.”

“What the devil is the matter with you!” cried Jannaway, turning upon him fiercely.

“Nothing, I’m only surprised to find you such a fool, Jim. I thought better of you,” was the other’s calm response. “Do you know,” he added, “you people who live in London want the moss scraped off you. We boys on the Continent are a lot sharper. We see the word danger written up, even when it’s beyond the horizon and the detective is still off the map. You people here deliberately run your heads into nooses.”

“How?”

“Well, you and Felix have arranged the little loop for yourselves in this affair, my dear boy. So do go home and sleep on it,” he laughed merrily.

“You’re a fool!” declared the other, turning from him impatiently.

“Of course. I’m a fool for not falling into the very clever trap which Sir Felix Challas and his sharp ‘cat’s-paw’, Jim Jannaway, have laid for me,” he answered, looking the fellow straight in the face.

“Bah! All this quarrel arises over a girl—a little chit of a girl who, after all, hasn’t much of a reputation to lose.”

“And to whom do you refer, pray?” asked Charlie, indignantly.

“To Griffin’s girl, of course—the girl who was with you so long in these chambers, and whom you pretended to regard with such paternal care,” he sneered.

“You cast a slur upon the poor girl who was your victim!” cried the red-haired man angrily.

“I cast no slur. I speak the truth.”

“Then you’re an accursed liar!” cried Mullet, angrily. “Having failed to entrap her, you come here to-night to try and have me! But your ruse is a little bit too thin! Let the police come and learn from me the truth concerning our beautiful Birthday Baronet! I’ll welcome them. So first go back with my compliments to Berkeley Square.”

“Then your intention, now you’re in danger, is to give us away—eh?” exclaimed Jannaway, now flushed and excited. And in a second he had snatched up a heavy bronze ornament from the mantelshelf, intending to bring it down upon the other’s head with a blow that must have crushed him.

In an instant, however, Mullet was on his guard. He was not a man to be taken by surprise.

“Now put that down at once, Jim, and clear out of my rooms,” he cried, and Jannaway found himself looking down the plated barrel of a serviceable-looking Smith-Wesson revolver.

“Curse you!” cried the man, and he cast the ornament heavily upon the floor.

“My dear Jim,” said the other, “the best place for you would really be on the Continent. You would learn wisdom, and would never attempt a bluff on a pal like this. You can’t attempt a four-flush with me, you know. So first go back to the ‘Birthday Money-Spinner’ and tell him ‘Red Mullet’s’ decision is to remain in London, and if necessary—to tell Scotland Yard the tale!”

“But—”

“Curse you! There are no buts!” cried Red Mullet, his eyes now flashing with anger while he held his revolver straight at his enemy’s head. “Out of my rooms with you, or by Gad! I’ll plug you! I see through your clever little game. Once I’m over there, then you’d send me to prison without the least compunction—because I let the girl slip through your blackguardly fingers. But no more gas. I mean business to-night. Out you go—and quick!”

“You wouldn’t say this if I had a gun!” remarked Jannaway between his teeth.

“I care less for your gun than I do for you, my dear boy,” laughed “Red Mullet;” “go back to Challas, and tell him that to-night he’s tried to bluff the wrong man, and that he’ll have to pay heavily for losing the game.”

“You talk like an idiot.”

“And you’ve acted as one. Out and begone!”

And the man who, when he had entered, believed that he held all the honours in the game, was compelled to walk slowly out beneath the threatening muzzle of the weapon, cowed and vanquished.

“And now, Jim Jannaway!” Mullet cried, when he was on the threshold, “send your detectives along as soon as you like, for I’ll go to bed in an hour, and if they come afterwards I shan’t admit them. Understand that? Good-night and bad luck to you!” And with a laugh he slammed the door.

Then he held his breath, and stood staring straight before him, wondering whether that bold action had not been his own undoing.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

Explains Frank’s Attitude.

Christmas had passed, the New Year had been welcomed, its advent quickly forgotten, and London now lay dark and fog-bound in the yellow gloomy days of mid-January.

As far as Professor Griffin was concerned, little had occurred. His surprise when Gwen had told him of Erich Haupt being interested in the investigation of the secret was unbounded, and he had taken a cab at once to the Waldorf Hotel. He was anxious to meet the great German scholar, but was disappointed to learn that he had suddenly left the hotel on the previous night for the Continent.

Once again was he prevented from meeting the man who was working in opposition to him, even though he was now aware of his identity.

It puzzled him, as it also puzzled Diamond and Gwen, to know who was behind the German scholar. That there was some one was evident from what the girl had admitted. But his identity was still kept a profound secret.

Gwen had expected to be rung up on the telephone by Mullet, but having waited for three anxious days, found his number in the telephone directory and rang him up. She did so on four different occasions, but on each the response from the exchange was the same. “No reply.”

What could have happened?

Was it possible that he could have left hurriedly for the Continent? She recollected how he had told her that perhaps he would be compelled, by force of circumstances, to leave London, and leave her alone. She wrote him a brief note, and posted it, hoping that it might be forwarded to him.

Then she had waited—for nearly four long weeks.

Doctor Diamond came up from Horsford on several occasions, but the interviews he had with the Professor carried them no further. The key to the cipher was still an enigma which none could solve.

Griffin’s one thought was of Erich Haupt. He had returned to the Continent. Perhaps he was hot upon a solution of the tantalising problem.

In those four weeks, with the interval of a dreary Christmas spent alone with her father, nothing startling had occurred. The estrangement had driven Frank Farquhar to distraction. Jealousy had caused him to think ill of the girl he so dearly loved, and in order to try and forget, he had gone South for a week or so at Monte Carlo. But as soon as he stepped inside the Hotel de Paris, he had longed to be back again at Gwen’s side in Pembridge Gardens. The smart women he saw in their white serge gowns, golden chatelaines, and picture hats, all nauseated him. Of the lilies of France, none were half so fair as his own sweet English rose. Christmas he had spent with a big and merry house-party up in the Highlands, but the gaiety of it all bored him to death, and at last, when he returned in the New Year, he had, after a severe struggle with himself, driven down to Notting Hill Gate, and again bowed over the soft little hand of the girl whose wonderful eyes held him in such complete fascination.

For Gwen, that evening was a never-to-be-forgotten one.

She was seated by the fire at the further end of the study buried in the big saddle-bag chair with a book, while her father was busily writing, when the maid announced the young man’s arrival.

She held her breath. Her heart gave a great bound, and then stopped and she sat rigid, her face blanched, her hands grasping the arms of the chair.

She heard his well-known voice, and rising slowly, faced him without a word.

And he, without a word also, took her hand, bowing gallantly over it.

Then, with a half-timid look into her pretty face, he stammered:

“I—I’ve been wondering, Gwen, how you’ve been all this time. I’ve been away, first at Monte Carlo and afterwards up in Scotland. How did you spend your Christmas?”

“Well—it was not very exciting,” she laughed, “was it, dad?”

“No, my dear,” replied the old man, “I fear it was a very very dull time for you.”

Her lover glanced at her, and she saw by the expression of his eyes that he was full of genuine regret. That absence had, indeed, caused both their hearts to yearn for each other. He had, alas! been too hasty, he declared within himself. Would she ever forgive him? Would she ever allow him to kiss her again upon the lips?

Before her father his greeting was, of necessity, a somewhat formal one; besides, he was compelled to sit and discuss with him the present situation, and ask his opinion as to the next move in the game.

“The possession of a complete copy of Holmboe’s statement has carried us a good deal further. Professor,” he said, “but how are we now to act?”

“I really don’t know, my dear Farquhar,” was the elder man’s response, as he rubbed his big round glasses.

“I only wish this man Mullet would tell Diamond a little more,” he sighed. “We ought to discover who is directing the opposition against us.”

“That’s just where we are so completely handicapped. We’re handicapped in two directions,” said the Professor. “First, we remain in ignorance of the identity of our enemy, and secondly we are at a loss to discover the key to the cipher. We now know the truth concerning the Russian’s discovery, and naturally we are beckoned on to see what more may be added to the mental outfit of our religion and our civilisation, by recovering the sacred treasures that yet remain. The occasional excavations scattered through the last two centuries in Palestine, Egypt, Rome and Assyria, have shown but a fraction of all that has to be done. Such a prospect is most attractive, and if we could but find the key to the cipher the interest of the whole Jewish race would instantly be stimulated, and we should certainly not lack funds for the expedition, the purchase of the land in question, and the necessary excavations. It would be a great undertaking of international co-operation, but no loophole must be allowed for vandalism and wrecking, of which we have so much evidence in the past few centuries. Such wrecking is, alas! by no means unknown, even down to our day. The Department of Antiquities in Egypt, for instance, at the present moment, sells the right to dig up and destroy all the Roman buildings in Egypt at so much per thousand bricks removed by the speculators! We must allow no such sort of speculation with the treasures of Israel.”

“I take it, Professor, that our opponents are anti-Semitics of the most pronounced type,” said Farquhar. “At least, so the Doctor informs me. Once it is in their hand their chief object will be to destroy the sacred relics, and melt down the golden vessels. Diamond says, that according to his information, those working against us are rich, and have no need of gain. The whole of their energies are directed towards an anti-Semitic demonstration—one that would convulse the whole civilised world.”

“We will not allow it, Farquhar!” cried the old Hebrew scholar, bringing his hand down heavily upon his writing-table. “I am not a Jew, but while it remains within my power I will never allow the sacred relics of Israel to be desecrated.”

“If they exist,” added Gwen from the depths of her armchair.

“They do exist!” exclaimed her father, “of that I now feel quite convinced. At first I was very sceptical, but I have spent many weeks in close and ardent study, and my first opinion is now greatly modified.”

“And you anticipate that we shall one day gain a knowledge of the mode of reaching that cipher record?” asked Frank, eagerly.

“I fervently hope so,” was the elder man’s response. “I hope so in the interests of the Hebrew race. As soon as I write my article in the Contemporary or in the Jewish Chronicle, the world will instantly be agog.”

“But until you have read the hidden message for yourself you will write nothing?” remarked Farquhar.

“Of course not. We must closely preserve the secret for the present. Not a soul must know, or Holmboe’s discovery will most certainly get to the ears of some enterprising journalist. Why, we’d be having one of your papers, Frank, sending out an expedition in search of the Ark of the Covenant!” he laughed. “And that would surely be fatal.”

Farquhar held his breath for a few seconds.

“Why fatal, Professor?” he asked, for it was at the bade of his head to suggest to Sir George the advisability of despatching an expedition when the time was ripe.

“Fatal to the scheme as well as to the newspaper,” was the elder man’s response. “Even you modern journalists cannot make money by exploiting sacred relics of such importance.”

“No, but we could investigate for the benefit of the Hebrew race. We sorely would not lose prestige by that?”

“Yes, you would. No Jew, or even Christian for that matter, would ever believe that a newspaper defrayed the cost of an expedition out of pure regard for the interests of the Hebrew faith.” He laughed. “The public know too well that a ‘boom’ means to a newspaper increased circulation, and, therefore, increased income. Before these days of the yellow journalism, the press was supposed to be above such ruses; but now the public receives the journalistic ‘boom’ with its tongue in its cheek.”

“You’re quite right, Professor, quite right!” remarked Frank, for the first time realising that to “work” the treasure of Israel as a “boom” for his group of newspapers and periodicals was impossible. “I’ve only regarded it from the business side, and not from the sentimental. I see now that any newspaper touching it would be treading dangerous ground, and might at once wound religious susceptibilities.”

“I’m glad you’ve seen it in that light!” replied the old scholar, stroking his grey hair. “As far as I can discern, the best mode of procedure—providing of course, that we can discover the key number to the numerical cipher—is for me to write an article in the Contemporary with a view to obtaining the financial assistance of the Jewish community. I know the Jew well enough to be confident, that all, from the Jew pedlar in the East End to the family of Rothschild itself, would unite in assisting to discover the sacred treasures of the Temple.” And for half an hour or so they chatted, until Frank was able to slip away with Gwen into the drawing-room where, without a single word, he clasped her in his arms passionately and kissed her upon the lips.

He held her closely pressed to his breast, as he stroked her soft hair tenderly, and looked into those wide-open, trustful eyes. Surely that frank expression of true and abiding love could not be feigned! There is, in a true woman’s eyes, a love-look that cannot lie! He saw it, and was at once satisfied.

In a low voice he begged forgiveness for misjudging her, repeating his great and unbounded affection. She heard his quick strained voice, and listened to his heartfelt words, and then, unable to restrain her joy at his return, her head fell upon his shoulders, and she burst into tears.

She was his, she whispered, still his—and his alone.

And he held her sobbing in his strong arms, as his hand still stroked her hair and his lips again bent until they touched her fair white brow in fierce and passionate caress.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

Describes certain Curious Events.

Has it never struck you that this twentieth century of ours is the essential age of the very young girl?

Supreme to-day reigns the young woman between the age of—well say from sixteen to twenty—who dresses her hair with a parting and a pigtail, wears short skirts, displays a neat ankle, and persists in remaining in her teens. Grumpy old fossils tell us that this species is a product of an advanced state of civilisation which insists that everything must be new, from a dish of pèches à la Melba to the tint of that eternal hoarding in front of Buckingham Palace. One can only suppose that they are correct. Ours is a go-ahead age which scoffs at the horse, and pokes fun at the South-Eastern Railway, which forsakes Saturday concerts for football, yet delights in talking-machines.

Is it any wonder therefore that the statuesque beauty and the skittish matron of a year ago no longer finds herself in demand for supper-parties, Sandown or Henley? No, she must nowadays stand aside, and watch the reign of her little sister who dashes off from the theatre to the Savoy in a motor-brougham still wearing her ribbon bow on her pigtail, much as she did in the schoolroom.

The young of certain species of wild fowl are termed “flappers,” and some irreverent and irascible old gentleman has applied that term to the go-ahead young miss of to-day. Though most women over twenty-one may attempt to disguise the fact, it is plain that the young girl just escaped from the schoolroom now reigns supreme. Her dynasty is at its zenith. She is the ruling factor of London life. Peers of the realm, foreign potentates, hard-bitten soldiers from the East, magnates from Park Lane all hurry to her beck and call. The girl in the pigtail and short skirt rides over them all roughshod. And what is the result of all this adulation upon the dimple-faced little girl herself? In the majority of cases, I fear it results in making her a stuck-up, blasé and conceited little prig, for she nowadays takes upon herself a glory and exalted position to which she is entirely unsuited, but which she has been taught to consider hers by right.

Gwen Griffin was a perfect type of the very young girl, courted, petted and flattered by all the men of her acquaintance. Having no mother to forbid her, she was fond of going motor-rides and fond of flirtation, but through it all she had, fortunately, never developed any of those objectionable traits so common in girls of her age. She had managed to remain quite simple, sweet and unaffected through it all, and six months before, when she had found the man she could honestly love, she had cut her male friends and entered upon life with all seriousness.

A week had gone by, and Frank had called every evening. Once he had taken her to dine at the Carlton, and on to the theatre afterwards, for now they had, by tacit though unspoken consent, agreed that all bygones should be bygones.

Often he felt himself wondering what had been the real cause of her mysterious absence from home, yet when such suspicions arose within him, he quickly put them aside. How could he possibly doubt her love?

The Doctor was back again at Horsford, leading the same rural uneventful life as before, but daily studying everything that had any possible bearing upon the assertion of Professor Holmboe.

Frank came down to visit Lady Gavin one day, and as a matter of course was very soon seated with the ugly little man in his cottage home.

Diamond, over a cigar, was relating the result of his most recent studies, and lamenting that they were still as far from obtaining a knowledge of the actual cipher as ever.

“Yes,” murmured the young man with a sigh, “I’m much afraid that old Haupt will get ahead of us—even if he has not already done so. How is it that you can’t get your friend Mullet to assist us further?”

“He has left London, I believe. He disappeared quite suddenly from his rooms, and curiously enough, has sent me no word.”

“You hinted once that he’s a ‘crook.’ If so, he may have fled on account of awkward police inquiries—eh?”

“Most likely. Yet it’s strange that he hasn’t sent me news of his whereabouts.”

“Not at all, my dear Doctor,” responded the other. “If a man is in hiding, it isn’t likely that he’s going to give away his place of concealment, is it?”

“But he trusts me—trusts me implicitly,” declared Diamond.

“That may be so. But he doesn’t trust other persons into whose hands his letter might possibly fall. The police have a nasty habit of watching the correspondence of the friend of the man wanted, you know.”

“Perhaps you’re right, Mr Farquhar,” said the Doctor, with a heavy expression upon his broad brow. “The more I study the problem of the treasure of Israel, the more bewildered I become,” he went on. “Now as regards the original of the Old Testament, it is not all written in Hebrew, I find. Certain parts are in Aramaic, often erroneously called Chaldee. (From Daniel, ii, 4, to vii, 28; Ezra iv, 8, to vi, 18; vii, 11 to 26; and Jeremiah x and xi.) Again, we have a difficulty to face which even Professor Griffin had never yet mentioned to me. It is this. On the very lowest estimate, the Old Testament must represent a literary activity of fully a thousand years, and therefore it is but reasonable to suppose that the language of the earlier works would be considerably different from that of the later; while, on other grounds, the possible existence of local dialects might be expected to show itself in diversity of diction among the various books. But, curiously enough—though I am handicapped by not being acquainted with the Hebrew tongue—all the authorities I have consulted agree that neither of those surmises find much verification in our extant Hebrew text.”

“I’ve always understood that,” Frank remarked. “Yes. I’ve been reading deeply, Mr Farquhar. Curiously enough the most ancient documents and the youngest are remarkably similar in the general cast of their language, and certainly show nothing corresponding in the difference between Homer and Plato, or Chaucer and Shakespeare. Though we know that the Ephraimites could not give the proper (Gileadite) sound of the letter shin in Shibboleth, (Judges, xii 8) yet all attempts to distinguish dialects in our extant books have failed.”

“I think,” said Farquhar, “that such remarkable uniformity, while testifying to the comparative stability of the language, is in part to be explained by the hypothesis of a continuous process of revision and perhaps modernising of the documents, which may have gone on until well into our era.”

“Exactly,” remarked the Doctor, “yet in spite of this levelling tendency there appear to remain certain diversities, particularly in the vocabulary, which have not been eliminated, and these serve to distinguish two great periods in the history of the language, sometimes called the gold and silver ages, respectively, roughly separated by the return from the exile. To the former belong, without doubt, the older strata in the Hexateuch, and the greater prophets; to the latter, almost as indubitably, Chronicles, Ezra, Nehemiah, Ecclesiastes and Daniel, all of which use a considerable mixture of Aramaic of Persian words. Then, the great question for us is whether the ancient text of Ezekiel preserved in St. Petersburg is an original, or a modernised version. If the latter, much of the cipher, perhaps all, must have been destroyed!”

“I quite follow your argument, my dear Diamond,” Farquhar replied, “but has not Holmboe established to his own satisfaction that the cipher still exists in the manuscript in question? He has, therefore, proved it to be an exact copy of the original—if not the original itself.”

“Experts all agree that it cannot be the original,” declared the Doctor. “It is quite true that Holmboe alleges that the cipher exists, and gives quotations from it. Yet now that I have been reading deeply I have become a trifle sceptical. I’m anxious for Griffin to discover the key number, and prove it for himself. Personally, I entertain some doubt about the present text of Ezekiel being the actual text of the prophet.”

“That can only be proved by the test of the cipher,” was Farquhar’s reply. “If you accept any part of the dead man’s declaration, you must surely accept the whole.”

“I have all along accepted the whole—just as Griffin accepts it.”

“Then why entertain any doubt in this direction? The Professor has never mentioned it, which shows us that there is no need why we should query it.”

“Yes, but may not the fact of the text having been modernised be the reason of Griffin’s non-success in discovering the key number?”

“Holmboe discovered it,” remarked the other, “therefore, I see no reason why Griffin—with Holmboe’s statement before him and in addition that scrap of manuscript which evidently relates to the key—should not be equally successful.”

“Ah!” sighed the ugly little man whose fidgety movements showed his increasing anxiety, “if we could but know what the old German was doing—or in what direction he is working.”

“He’s not back at his own home. I received a telegram from our Leipzig correspondent only yesterday. His whereabouts is just as mysterious as that of your friend Mullet. By the way—would he never tell you who were the principals in this opposition to us?”

“No, he has always steadily refused.”

“Some shady characters, perhaps—men whom he is compelled to shield, eh?”

“I think so,” answered the Doctor. “I wanted him to stand in with us, but he’s a strange fellow, for though he promised to help me, he refused to participate in any part of the profit.”

“Has some compunction in betraying his friends, evidently,” laughed Frank. “I’m very anxious to meet him. He promised to call on Griffin, but has never done so.”

“He’s been put on his guard, and cleared out, that’s my candid opinion. ‘Red Mullet’ is a splendid fellow, but a very slippery customer, as the police know too well. He’s probably half-way across the world by this time. He’s a very rapid traveller. I’ve sometimes had letters from him from a dozen different cities in as many days.”

“To move rapidly is always incumbent upon the adventurer, if he is to be successful in eluding awkward inquiry. He never writes to the child, I suppose?” Frank asked, as Aggie at that moment passed the window.

“Oh, yes, very often. But he always encloses her letter to me. He never gives his address to her, for fear, I suppose, that it should fall into other hands. I wired to his rooms in Paris a week ago, but, as yet, have received no response. His rooms in London are closed. I was up there on Thursday. Why he keeps them on when he’s away for years at a time, I can never understand.”

“Probably sub-lets them, as so many fellows do,” Farquhar suggested, “yet it’s unfortunate we can’t get into touch with him.”

“Miss Griffin is acquainted with him—I wonder if she knows his whereabouts?” remarked Diamond quite innocently.

“She knows him!” Frank echoed in surprise. “Are you quite sure of that?”

“Quite. She told me so.”

“How could she know a man who is admittedly an outsider?” asked Frank.

“My dear Mr Farquhar,” he laughed, “your modern girl makes many undesirable acquaintances, especially a pretty go-ahead girl of Miss Griffin’s type.”

Frank bit his lip. This friendship of Gwen’s with the man Mullet annoyed him. What could she possibly know of such a man? He resolved to speak to her about it, and make inquiry into the circumstances of their acquaintance.

He must warn her to have nothing to do with a man of such evil reputation, he thought. Little did he dream that this very man whom the world denounced as an outsider had stood the girl’s best and most devoted friend.

He walked back along the village street to the Manor, and dressed for dinner, his mind full of dark forebodings.

What would be the end? What could it be, except triumph for those enemies, the very names of whom were, with such tantalising persistency, withheld.

Half an hour after he had left the Doctor’s cottage the village telegraph-boy handed Aggie a message which she at once carried to her foster-father.

He tore it open, started, read it through several times, and then placed it carefully in the flames.

Then he hurriedly put on his boots, overcoat and hat, and went forth, explaining to his wife that he was suddenly called on urgent business to London.

That evening, just before ten o’clock, a short dark figure could have been seen slinking along by the railings of Berkeley Square, indistinct in the night mist, which, with the dusk, had settled over London.

The man, though he moved constantly up and down to keep himself warm, kept an alert and watchful eye upon the big sombre-looking mansion opposite—the residence, as almost any passer-by would have told the stranger, of Sir Felix Challas, the anti-Semitic philanthropist.

Over the semicircular fanlight a light burned brightly, but the inner shutters of the ground floor rooms were closed, while the drawing-room above was lighted.

Time after time the silent watcher passed and repassed the house, taking in every detail with apparent curiosity, yet ever anxious and ever expectant.

The constable standing at the corner of Hill Street eyed the dwarfed man with some suspicion, but on winter nights the London streets, even in the West End, abound with homeless loafers.

The Doctor, wearing a shabby overcoat several sizes too large for him and a felt hat much battered and the worse for wear, watched vigilantly and with much patience.

He saw a taxi-cab drive up before Sir Felix’s and a rather tall, good-looking man in opera hat and fur-lined coat descend and enter the house. The cab waited and ten minutes later the visitor—Jim Jannaway it was—was bowed out by the grave-faced old butler, and giving the man directions, was whirled away into Mount Street, out of sight.

“I suppose that’s the fellow!” murmured the ugly little man beneath his breath, as he stood back in the darkness against the railings opposite. Hardly had the words escaped his lips when a hansom came from the direction of Berkeley Street, and pulling up, an old, rather feeble white-bearded man got out, paid the driver, and ascending the steps rang the bell.

He was admitted without question, and the door was closed behind him.

“Erich Haupt, without a doubt,” remarked the Doctor aloud. “Why has he returned to London? Has he made a further discovery, I wonder. The description of him is exact.”

For half an hour he waited, wondering what was happening within that great mansion.

Then Jim Jannaway suddenly returned, dismissed his “taxi,” and was admitted. All that coming and going showed that something was in the wind.

“Red Mullet” had given him due warning from his hiding-place. His telegram had been despatched from Meopham, which he had discovered was a pleasant Kentish village, not far from Gravesend. He was evidently in concealment there.

Just before eleven o’clock another hansom turning out of Hill Street in the mist, pulled up before the house, and he watched a dark figure alight from it.

Notwithstanding the dim light he recognised the visitor in an instant. The figure was that of a tall, dark-eyed girl.

“Good Heavens!” he gasped, staring across the road, rigid. “Mullet was right! He was not mistaken after all! By Jove—then I know the truth! We are betrayed into the hands of our enemy!”

And as the Doctor stood there he was entirely unaware that he, in turn, was being watched from the opposite pavement—and by a woman!

Chapter Twenty Nine.

Which Solves a Problem.

That day had been an eventful one at Pembridge Gardens. Indeed, the event of the great scholar, Arminger Griffin’s life had occurred.

It happened in this way. The January morning had been so dark that he had been compelled to use the electric light upon his study table, and during the whole morning he had been engaged upon that same futile task—the problem of the cipher.

With the Hebrew text of Ezekiel open before him, and sheets of manuscript paper upon the blotting-pad, he had been absorbed for hours in his cabalistic calculations which, to the uninitiated, would convey nothing. They appeared to be elementary sums of addition and subtraction—sums consisting of ordinary numericals combined with letters of the Hebrew alphabet.

And curiously enough, in a back bedroom in the Waldorf Hotel, in Aldwych, the white-bearded old German, Erich Haupt, who only the previous night had returned from the Continent, sat making almost similar calculations. Before him also he had a copy of the Hebrew Bible, and was taking sentences haphazard from Ezekiel xix, the lamentation for the Princes of Israel under the parable of the lion’s whelps taken in a pit.

Early in the morning he had rung up Sir Felix on the telephone beside the bed, announcing his arrival, and obtaining an appointment for later in the day.

Both scholars, unknown to each other, were busy upon the same problem, each hoping for success and triumph over the other.

Through weeks and weeks Griffin, seated in his big, silent, rather gloomy study, had tried and tried again, yet always in vain. He was a calm, patient man, knowing well that in cryptography the first element towards success is utmost patience.

It was noon. The fog had not lifted, and Bayswater was plunged in the semi-darkness of the London “pea-souper.”

Gwen was out. She was trying on a new evening frock at Whitley’s—a dainty creation in pale blue chiffon ordered specially for a dance which Lady Duddington was giving in Grosvenor Street in a few days’ time.

Alone, his grey head bent on the zone of shaded light upon the big writing-table, the Professor had ever since breakfast time been putting a new cipher theory to the test.

All the thirty odd numerical ciphers known to the ancients he had applied to certain chapters of the Book of Ezekiel, but each one in vain. The result was mere chaos. The ancients employed numerous methods of cryptography besides the numerical cipher, among them being the use of superfluous words where the correspondents agreed that only some of the words, at equal distances apart, was necessary to form the message; by misplaced words; by vertical and diagonal reading; by artificial word grouping; by transposing the letters; by substitution of letters; or by counterpart tabulations with changes at every letter in the message, according to a pre-arranged plan.

All these, however, he had, in face of the reading of the scrap of the manuscript of the dead discover of the secret, long ago dismissed.

He held the firm opinion—perhaps formed on account of that crumpled paper found at the Bodleian—that the cipher was a numerical one, and based upon some variation of the numerical value of the “wāw” sign, or the number six.

He now fully recognised how very cleverly old Erich Haupt had endeavoured to put him off the scent. The German was a very crafty old fellow, whose several discoveries, though not altogether new, had evoked considerable interest in academic circles in Europe. He was author of several learned studies in the Hebrew text, as well as the renowned work upon the Messianic Prophecies, and without a doubt now that he had possessed himself of the dead professor’s discovery he intended to take all the credit to himself. Indeed it was his intention to pose as the actual discoverer.

Continuing his work in silence and without interruption Griffin had been making a long and elaborate calculation when, very soon after the little Sheraton clock upon the mantelshelf had chimed noon, he started up with a cry of surprise and stared across at the long old-fashioned bookcase opposite.

Next moment his head was bent to the paper before him, as he rapidly traced numerals and Hebrew characters, for he wrote the ancient language as swiftly as he wrote English.

“Yes!” he whispered, as though in fear of his own voice. “It actually bears the test—the only one that has borne it through a whole sentence! Can it be possible that I have here the actual key?” For another half-hour he remained busy with his calculations, gradually evolving a Hebrew character after each calculation until he had written a line. Then aloud he read the Hebrew to himself, afterwards translating it into English thus:

“...the house of Togarmah, of the north quarters...”

The old man rose from his chair, pale and rigid, staring straight through the window at the yellow sky.

“At last!” he gasped to himself. “Success at last! Holmboe’s secret is mine—mine!”

He was naturally a quiet man whom nothing could disturb, but now so excited had he become that his hand shook and trembled and he was unable to trace the Hebrew characters with any degree of accuracy.

He walked to the window, and looked out into the foggy road below.

He, Arminger Griffin, though Regius Professor, had, in the course of that brief hour, become the greatest Hebrew scholar in Europe, the man who would announce to the world the most interesting discovery of the age!

He gazed around that silent restful room, like a man in a dream. His success hardly seemed true. Where was Haupt, he wondered? Would his ingenuity and patience lead him to that same goal whereby he could read the hidden record?

Pausing at his table he recalculated the sum upon the sheet of paper. No. He had made no mistake. There was the decipher in black and white, quite clear and quite intelligible!

He stretched his arms above his head, and standing upon the hearthrug before the blaring fire, reflected deeply.

The declaration of the dead professor was true, after all. The cipher did exist in Ezekiel, therefore there was little doubt that the treasure of Israel would be discovered through his instrumentality.

Haupt fortunately did not possess any of that manuscript which was evidently a written explanation of the mode of deciphering the message. Hence he would not be aware that the “wāw” sign formed the basis of calculation necessary. But he, Arminger Griffin, had elucidated a problem of which bygone generations of scholars had never dreamed, and Israel would, if the secret were duly kept, recover the sacred relics of her wonderful temple.

His face was blanched with suppressed excitement. How should he act?

After some pondering he resolved to make no announcement to Diamond or to Farquhar, both of whom he knew were away in the country, until he had made a complete decipher of the whole of the secret record.

He intended to launch the good news upon them as a thunderclap.

“They both regard me as a ‘dry-as-dust’ old fossil,” he laughed to himself. “But they will soon realise that Arminger Griffin has patience and ability to solve one of the most intricate problems ever presented to any scholar. We can now openly defy our enemies—whoever they are. Before midnight I shall be in possession of the whole of the secret record contained in the book of the Prophet, and if I do not turn it to advantage it will not be my fault. That man Mullet evidently fears to call upon me. Ah! his friends little dream that I have solved the problem—that success now lies in my hands alone.”

Crossing again to the table he slowly turned over the folios of the text of Ezekiel which he had been using, glancing at it here and there.

Then he touched the electric bell, and Laura, the tall, dark-haired parlour-maid, answered.

“Is Miss Gwen in?” he inquired.

“No, sir. She’s not yet returned.”

“When she comes, please say I wish to see her at once.”

“Very well, sir,” was the quiet response of the well-trained maid who, by the expression upon her master’s face, instantly recognised that something unusual had occurred.

She glanced at him with a quick interest, and then retired, closing the door softly after her.

The Professor, reseating himself at his table, pushed his scanty grey hair off his brow, and again readjusting his big round spectacles settled down to continue his intensely interesting work of discovery.

“Holmboe says that the cipher exists in nine chapters,” he remarked aloud to himself. “I wonder which of the forty-eight chapters he alludes to! Now let’s see,” he went on, slowly turning over the leaves of the Hebrew text, “the book of Ezekiel’s prophecy is divided into several parts. The first contains chapters i-xxiv, which are prophecies relating to Israel and Judah, in which he foretells and justifies the fall of Jerusalem. The second is chapters xxv-xxxii, containing denunciations of the neighbouring nations; the third is chapters xxxiii-xxxix, which gives predictions of the restitution and union of Judah and Israel, and the last, chapter xl-xlviii, visions of the ideal theocracy and its institutions. Now the question is in which of those parts is hidden the record?”

The few words of the cipher which he had been able to read were continued in chapter xxiv, beginning at verse 6; “Wherefore thus saith the Lord God; Woe to the bloody city, to the pot whose scum is therein, and whose scum not gone out of it! bring it out piece by piece; let no lot fall upon it. For her blood is in the midst of her; she set it upon the top of a rock; she poured it not upon the ground, to cover it with dust,” etc, down to the end of verse 27. If those twenty-two verses only contained eight words of the hidden record, then it was apparent that the Professor had a greater task before him than he imagined.

Gwen, in emerging from Whiteley’s into Westbourne Grove, had met a young naval officer she knew. He was home on leave, therefore she had strolled leisurely with him down Queen’s Road and along Bayswater Road, in preference to taking a cab. A couple of years before, when she was still a mere girl and he only an acting sub-lieutenant, they had been rather attached to each other. He was, of course, unaware of her engagement to Frank Farquhar, and she did not enlighten him, but allowed him to chatter to her as they walked westward. His people lived in Porchester Terrace, and he had lately been at sea for a year with the Mediterranean Fleet, he told her.

The yellow obscurity was now rapidly clearing as, at the corner of Pembridge Gardens, he raised his hat and with some reluctance left her.

Then she hurried in, just as the luncheon gong was sounding, and had only time to take off her hat and coat to be in her place at table. Her father was most punctual at his meals. He believed in method at all times, and carried method and the utmost punctuality into all his daily habits.

When he entered the dining-room the girl saw, from his preoccupied expression, that something had occurred.

She, however, made no inquiry before the servant, while he on his part, though bursting with the good news, resolved to keep his information until they had had their meal and retired into the study together.

Then he would explain to her, and show her the amazing result.

Therefore she chatted merrily, telling him how sweet her new gown looked, and gossiping in her own sweet engaging way—with that girlish laughter and merriment which was the sunshine of the old scholar’s otherwise dull and colourless existence.

Little did she dream, he thought, as he sat at table, of the staggering announcement which he was about to make to her.

He had solved the problem!

Chapter Thirty.

Closed Doors.

“Will you come up with me into the study, dear?” asked the Professor, in as quiet a voice as he could, when they had finished luncheon.

“I have a letter to write, dad,” replied the girl in excuse. “I’ll come in and sit with you before tea.”

“But I want to speak to you, dear,” he said. “I want to tell you something. Come with me now.” Rather surprised at her father’s somewhat strained and unusual demeanour, the girl ascended the stairs to the book-lined room, and when the door was closed the old man crossed to where she stood, and said:

“Gwen, congratulate me, child.”

“Upon what, dad?” she said, looking into his face, surprised.

“I have discovered the key to the cipher!”

The girl started. Then with a wild cry she threw her arms about her father’s neck, kissed him passionately, and with tears of joy welling in her eyes, congratulated him.

“What will Frank say!” she exclaimed breathlessly. “How delighted he’ll be! Why, dad, we shall discover the position of the hiding-place of the sacred relics, after all!”

Her enthusiasm was unbounded. Her father who had worked so hard by night and by day upon those puzzling cryptic numericals, was at last successful.

“Can you really read the cipher?” she asked quickly.

“Yes, dear,” was her father’s response. “I have already deciphered part of the extraordinary statement.”

“Then we must telegraph to Frank,” she said. “He is down at Horsford, visiting his sister and seeing Doctor Diamond at the same time.”

“No, not yet, my child,” he replied quietly. “Let me complete the work before we announce the good news to our friends. I have told you, because I knew you would be gratified.”

“Why, of course I am, dad,” replied the girl eagerly. “It will greatly enhance your reputation, besides preserving the sacred relics to the Jews. Our opponents had other intentions. Their efforts are directed towards causing annoyance and bringing ridicule upon the Hebrew race. But,” she added, her arm still affectionately around his neck, “how did you accomplish it, dad?”

“Sit down, dear, and I’ll explain to you,” he said, pointing to the armchair near his writing-table, while he took his writing-chair, and drew towards him the open Hebrew text of Ezekiel.

“You see,” he commenced, “for some weeks I have been applying all the known numerical ciphers to this text, but without result. More than once I was able to read a couple or three words, and believed that I had discovered the key. But, alas! I found it to fail inevitably before I could establish a complete sentence. I was about to relinquish the problem as either impossible of solution, or as a theory without basis, when this morning, almost as a last resource and certainly without expecting any definite result, I applied a variation of the Apocalyptic Number, which though appearing in the Book of Revelation, (Revelations, xiii, 13) was no doubt known at a much earlier period. In the text of Ezekiel xvii, the first and second verses: ‘And the word of the Lord came unto me, saying, Son of man, put forth a riddle and speak a parable unto the house of Israel;’ I had long recognised certain signs by which I had suspicion that there was a hidden meaning, and again in verses 14, 16 and 16, ending with the words ‘even with him in the midst of Babylon he shall die.’

“To my utter amazement I found, by applying the numbers 666—the Hebrew ‘wāw’ sign three times repeated, that I could read an intelligible sentence which was nothing less than a portion of the cipher exactly as quoted by Holmboe! Since my discovery I have been hard at work, and have deciphered many ominous sentences.”

“Then there is no doubt whatever now that the cipher record exists in the writings of the prophet?”

“Not the slightest.”

“But I don’t quite understand how you arrived at the key, dad?” she said. “Explain to me, for, as you know, I’m all curiosity.”

“Well, as you don’t know Hebrew, dear, I’ll try and explain it as clearly as I can,” he said. “Each Hebrew letter has its own numerical value, as you know, A-leph representing 1, Bêth 2, Gi-mel 3, and so on to Yodh 10, and the nine tens to 100, or Qoph, to 400, represented by the last of the twenty-two consonants, Tâw. The fact that Holmboe mentioned ‘wāw,’ or the number 6, in his manuscript, first caused me to believe that he did so as a blind, because this also signified ‘hook’ and was the sign of evil. I applied it diligently in nearly two hundred places in the Book of Ezekiel, but without a single success. I used other numbers, indeed most of the combinations of the twenty-two consonants, especially the one of three and thirty-three which was one of the earliest numerical ciphers. You know well how diligently I worked, and how unsuccessful I have been until to-day.”

“I know, dad,” exclaimed the pretty girl, “but I confess I can hardly follow you, even now.”

“Well, listen,” he said. “The Apocalyptic Number is 666, and its interpretation rests upon the fact that in Hebrew, as well as in Greek, the letters of the alphabet did service for numbers. Hence, a writer, while avoiding a direct mention of some person or thing, could yet indicate the same by a number which was the sum of the various values comprising the name. First establishing the point where the actual message commences, which I may as well explain is at Ezekiel, x, 8; ‘And there appeared in the cherubim the form of a man’s hand under their wings,’ I took the first ‘wāw’ or 6 sign, then the eleventh letter, being the sixth of sixty-six, then the sixty-sixth letter, and afterwards the six hundred and sixty-sixth letter. Following this, I made the additions which are known to the Greeks and also to the Hebrews, working it out thus: The fiftieth letter, the two-hundredth letter, the sixth letter, the fiftieth letter, the hundredth letter, the sixtieth letter and the two-hundredth letter—making in all six hundred and sixty-six. The Hebrew signs of each I wrote down in a line, and having divided them into words, I found to my amazement, that I was reading the secret record alleged by the dead professor!”

“But, surely, dad, that is a most ingenious cipher!” remarked his daughter.

“Most intricate, I assure you. By sheer good fortune I discovered the starting-point.”

“What led you to it?”

“A slight, almost unnoticeable deviation of the present Hebrew text from the St. Petersburg codex. I had never before noticed it, and it only arrested my attention because I was studying the subject so very closely.”

“And after making the additions of 666, how did you proceed?” urged the girl.

He paused for a few seconds as though in hesitation.

“By starting at the first ‘wāw’ sign and repeating my key. Sometimes, in a whole chapter, there is not a word of cipher, but following the numbers with regularity it reappears in the next. It is a most marvellous and most cunningly concealed record accounting, of course, for the number of superfluous and rather incongruous words in the writings of the prophet.”

“Was it written in the text—or placed there afterwards?” she asked.

“Placed there afterwards, without a doubt,” was the Professor’s quick reply. “Holy writ was inspired, of course, but some temple priest, an exile in Babylon probably, worked out the cipher and placed the record in the text in order that it might be there preserved and the existence of the treasure be known to coming generations of Jews who would be then aware of the existence of their war-chest.”

“It really is a most amazing discovery, dad dear,” declared the girl much excited. “When you publish it the whole world will be startled!”

“Yes, my dear,” was the old fellow’s response, as he ran his fingers through his scanty grey hair. “We have here before us,” and he placed his hand upon the open Hebrew text, “a secret explained which is surely the greatest and most remarkable of any discovered in any age.”

The girl, rising from her chair, saw upon the manuscript paper on her father’s blotting-pad, a number of lines of hastily-written Hebrew words.

“Is that part of the deciphered record?” she inquired, greatly interested.

“Yes, dear.”

“Oh, do read them to me, dad,” she cried, “I’m dying to learn exactly the purport of this message hidden through so many generations!”

“No, Gwen,” was the old man’s calm response, “not until I have worked out the whole. Then you shall, my child, be the first to have knowledge of the secret of Israel. And remember it is my wish that you write nothing to Farquhar regarding it. We must keep our knowledge to ourselves—very closely to ourselves, remember. Erich Haupt must have no suspicion of my success. Otherwise we may even yet be forestalled.”

“I quite see the danger, dad,” remarked his daughter, “but I’m so interested, do go on with your task and show me how it is accomplished.”