William Le Queux (continued 2)

Mention of the police caused me to wince. This young man was in ignorance of what had really occurred.

“I should remain patient a little while if I were you,” I said. “Antonio may return at any moment; he surely cannot have gone far.”

“On the contrary, I think he has.”

“Why?”

“Well, curiously enough, this afternoon, when I alighted from the Paris express and was passing through the buffet at Calais, I caught sight of a man who strangely resembled him. He turned his head and hurried away. At the moment I failed to recognise the likeness, and not until half an hour later, when the boat was already on its way across to Dover, did I recollect that he was very like the Professor’s faithful Antonio.”

I held my breath.

Chapter Eight.

A Fresh Turn in Affairs.

Here was the whole affair in danger of being exposed to the police and public by this young man’s encounter with the Professor’s servant! If it were exposed, then I should be compelled to give some account of myself. It would certainly be difficult to convince the police that I had no knowledge of the Professor’s death.

“Well,” I remarked, “that Antonio should be leaving Calais seems somewhat curious, but perhaps it may have only been somebody resembling him.”

“Of course, I’m not quite sure,” the young man replied; “but is it not curious that Miss Greer and the servants are all out? The Professor is always so very careful of his experiments and the contents of his laboratory that the house is never left untenanted.”

“I’ve called quite by chance and upon business,” I explained. “I’m a motor-car engineer, and I live in Chiswick. My name is Holford.”

“Mine’s Langton—Leonard Langton,” he answered. Then, after a second’s hesitation, he added, “Ethelwynn—Miss Greer—is to become my wife. That’s why I’m surprised that she hasn’t kept the appointment I made.”

I was silent. What if I told him of the girl’s mysterious death? What would he say? How would he act?

He seemed a smart, active, well-set-up fellow, quick, energetic, with a pair of merry grey eyes and a good-natured smile. Indeed, I took to him from the first. Yet how dare I divulge a word of what I knew?

“The only thing is to wait,” I suggested.

“But if the Professor is in Scotland, as you say, why have you called this evening?” he asked, with some little suspicion, I thought.

For the moment I was nonplussed.

“I wondered whether he had returned,” was my rather lame reply. “I simply called on the off-chance of seeing him.”

“Was your business of a pressing nature?” he asked, still wondering, I think, whether I might not have some connection with thieves who might be within. Perhaps he now suspected me of being an accomplice, set to watch outside. My hesitation when he suggested calling the police had no doubt aroused his suspicion. Besides, I suppose my agitation had caused him some surprise, for I was in deadly fear lest the police should be called, and should enter there.

The dead girl’s lover was a man of strongly marked character, that I could see. When once he learned the truth I should surely be suspected of having secret knowledge of the crime!

“Well?” he asked, as we still stood before the closed door, “what shall we do?”

“Wait,” I again suggested, “the Professor is evidently still away. He may have sent Antonio across to the Continent upon some business.”

“If so, then there are undoubtedly thieves within. Since I’ve been waiting here the light in the small drawing-room overlooking the Park has been extinguished—put out, no doubt, immediately I rang. No,” he went on, “we must call the police. Will you go and get a constable—or shall I?”

“You go,” I said, in a blank voice. “I—I’ll wait here.”

I saw that the game was up. His suspicions were aroused, and he intended to take immediate action.

“There’s sure to be a policeman along at Clarence Gate,” he said; “I’ve often noticed a man on point-duty there. But,” he added, suddenly facing me and looking straight into my eyes, for the street-lamp shone brightly upon the spot where we were standing, “tell me, Mr Holford, have you told me the actual truth?”

“The truth!” I echoed. “Why, of course I have! Here is my card,” and I gave him one from my cigarette-case, wherein I always carried them.

He read it eagerly, and in exchange gave me one of his, laughing as he said:

“I feared, perhaps, that you might be in association with the men inside. Forgive me for suspecting you, won’t you?”

“Of course. I knew you doubted me,” I answered, smiling. “I’ll remain here until you return, though, to be frank, I don’t see very much cause for alarm.”

“I do. There’s a mystery here—one which we must fathom. Keep watch. I’ll be back in a few moments.”

And he left the steps and, turning to the left, disappeared round the corner.

I stood outside the door, my ears strained to catch the slightest sound. The young man’s presence there was indeed an unfortunate contretemps.

In the silence I could hear my own heart thumping. Of a sudden, however, I thought I could detect a sound of movement within. I listened attentively. Yes, I was not mistaken, someone was actually in the hall! What if it were the unknown assassin, returned to the scene of his crime?

My heart-beats quickened. The dead girl’s lover had not been mistaken. The lights had been put out when the person or persons inside were disturbed by his ring. In a few moments he would be there with the police, and the crime would be properly investigated. But what account could I myself give of the reason of my call? If I were suspected, the police might inquire into my movements during the past few days and gain knowledge of my visits there!

My position was growing to one of great seriousness. Every moment increased my peril.

Across the narrow road rose the great blank wall of a mews, while in the room on the first floor above where showed the high, dark window stretching across nearly the whole frontage of the house, lay huddled, I knew, the body of the dead Professor.

I was still listening, full of wonder as to who might be lurking in that house of death, when, of a sudden, I heard the latch touched, and slowly and silently the big door opened.

I drew back, prepared for a fight, but next second a cry of amazement escaped my lips when I saw in the darkness of the cautiously-opened door a man’s face—the thin, sallow, frightened face of Kershaw Kirk.

“It’s I, Holford?” he gasped. “I must get away. Langton must not see me. Remember you must not breathe a single word of your knowledge of myself! Success now depends entirely upon your silence. I will wire an appointment with you to-morrow. Be careful, or you yourself may now be suspected.”

“But why not tell the police?” I demanded, barring his way.

“Police be hanged!” he cried impatiently. “Have I not already told you? I have no time to argue. Langton must not see me—he must know nothing of me. A word from you would mean loss incalculable, and all hope of elucidating the mystery would instantly be at an end. Which way did young Langton go?”

“Towards Clarence Gate,” I replied almost mechanically, for his sudden appearance there had startled me.

“Good!” he cried; “then I’ll go in the opposite direction. Be silent, Holford, and rely upon me. Whatever you may discover, do not betray any surprise. In this affair you will probably meet with a good deal that will surprise you—as it has already surprised me.”

“Where’s Antonio?” I demanded.

“Gone.”

“Abroad?”

“I—well, how can I tell? He’s left here. That’s all I know,” replied this mysterious man very lamely.

I sniffed in suspicion.

“Do, I beg of you, tell me more of this affair, Mr Kirk,” I urged, speaking quickly. “If you are really my friend, if you really wish me to assist you, why not instruct me how to act? If you will tell me the truth, I will keep a still tongue.”

“You will be more silent if you remain in ignorance,” was his response. “Listen! I must get away,” and before I could prevent him he had closed the door quietly behind him. I noticed that he was attired in clothes quite different from his usual habit. Indeed, he was smartly dressed, wearing a black overcoat with a velvet collar, and well-ironed silk hat.

“Stay and face Langton,” I urged. “Take him into your confidence. Surely no good can be served by this elusiveness.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying, man!” he cried. “Let me pass. I’ve been listening to all you told the young man. Your story was quite a feasible one. Keep it up, and affect entire ignorance of me. It is the only way if we are to place our hand upon poor Greer’s assassin.”

“The proper course for me to pursue, Mr Kirk, is to—”

“Footsteps! I must go!” he cried hoarsely, in a voice which plainly betrayed his intense agitation and anxiety not to come face to face with the dead girl’s lover. “I’ll try and see you to-morrow or next day. Remain in patience till you hear from me. Good-bye.”

And the next instant he ran lightly down the steps and sped away to the left, out of sight. All this had happened within three minutes.

Scarce had he disappeared, when Langton, accompanied by two constables, turned the corner, and found me on guard at the door. I felt bewildered. Kirk’s sudden appearance at the door of that house of mystery had taken me so aback that I had scarcely yet recovered. Did not his admission that the faithful Antonio had left bear out Langton’s story of having seen the fellow passing through the buffet at Calais station?

The young man had, I saw, been explaining his suspicions to the constables on their way to the house. I was glad that there was only a blank wall opposite, otherwise my action in allowing Kirk to leave the place might easily have been observed and misconstrued.

What, I wondered, was the reason of my strange friend being in there alone? Why had the lights been so suddenly extinguished when Langton had rung the bell? That he feared Langton was evident.

Why?

Within myself I resolved to put some guarded questions and ascertain, if possible, what Ethelwynn’s lover knew of this man who had so ingeniously drawn me into that maelstrom of doubt and grim tragedy.

The two constables were instantly on the alert. They examined the lock of the front door, conversing in low whispers, then, after a brief consultation, one of the pair left hurriedly, in order to place a guard upon the front of the premises, overlooking the garden, which divided the crescent from the park.

Presently he returned, accompanied by a brown-bearded sergeant, who recognised Langton as having been witness in a motor-car accident in Cumberland Terrace a couple of months before.

The sergeant pressed the button of the electric bell for a long time, and though we waited anxiously there was, of course, no response.

“I’m certain somebody is within,” declared Langton excitedly; “I saw the light quite distinctly.”

“Very well, sir, if you’re certain,” replied the sergeant gruffly, “we’ll have to force an entry. But remember, if you’re mistaken, it will be a trifle awkward. The owner might come upon you for damage.”

“I’ll stand the racket of all that,” declared the young man readily. “There are thieves in here, I’m certain.”

“It may be only a maid who has a visitor, and who believes her master, or young mistress, has returned,” I suggested, full of apprehension at the alarming discovery which must be made as soon as the police entered and searched the place.

“Then all the worse for her, sir,” answered one of the constables grimly.

And again they banged at the door and continued ringing. All, however, was silence and darkness.

What would they have thought had they known that I had allowed the mysterious Kirk, who had been lurking there, to escape?

Had I acted foolishly in doing so? I was forced to the conclusion that I had.

While sergeant and constables were in counsel as to what course should be adopted, an inspector, who had been warned by the constable on guard at the front, arrived, and was told Langton’s story.

“This is Professor Greer’s,” he remarked; “I think we’d better force an entry, sergeant. That basement window down there looks easy of access,” and he pointed to a window of the back-kitchen.

“Yes,” replied the bearded man addressed, as a constable shone his lantern down upon it, “we could break the glass and turn back the catch. There are no bars there.”

This course was quickly adopted. The inspector, taking one of the men’s truncheons, tapped the glass lightly until he had cracked it, and then pulled the pieces forward till he could insert his hand and release the catch.

The window thus opened, the two constables, truncheons in hand and lights turned on, crept into the kitchen and disappeared, while we stood waiting anxiously without, our ears strained in listening.

A few moments later, one of the men threw open the front door, and together we entered the dark and silent house of mystery.

I stood back, passing into the wide hall last of all. There was now no hiding the grim, astounding truth from police and public.

I held my breath, awaiting the sensation that must be caused by the discovery.

As I anticipated, a discovery was made very quickly.

But, strangely enough, it was not at all what I had looked for. It only added further mystery to the altogether inscrutable problem.

Chapter Nine.

I Discover Something.

On the light being switched on in the dining-room, I held my breath, expecting that Langton would there find the body of the girl he loved.

It had, however, been removed.

The yellow cushion was still there, flung upon the leather couch where the unfortunate girl had lain, but there was no sign of any tragedy having been enacted.

Strangely enough, however, a bright fire burned in the grate, while upon the table were the remains of a repast—dinner, no doubt—of which three persons had partaken. Dessert had been finished, and the three coffee-cups had been drained, while about the room was a strong odour of cigars.

Who had been entertained there by Kirk?

The set table did not, of course, strike any of my companions as at all unusual, and so they passed across to the morning-room on the opposite side of the hall, one of the constables remaining at the foot of the stairs in order to prevent the escape of any persons who might be secreted in the house.

In the dining-room I loitered, for I had noticed in the grate a quantity of burnt paper. Therefore, when I was alone, I stooped, and snatched up a few half-consumed scraps—leaves of a manuscript-book they appeared to be. But at the moment, having no time to examine them, I crushed them into the pocket of my jacket, and followed the quartet on their tour of investigation.

Every nook and corner, behind chairs, in cupboards, everywhere they searched, expecting to discover somebody secreted. But they, of course, found the house untenanted.

In the smaller drawing-room, where the clean-shaven young man had noticed the light, there was a fire burning and an odour of cigars, showing that some man or men had been in the room. What consultation, I wondered, had taken place there?

The large drawing-room—the room from whence the Professor had signalled—was cold and cheerless, while in the study nothing had apparently been disarranged.

“I think, sir,” remarked the inspector to young Langton, “that you must have been mistaken. I don’t see any evidence of the presence of thieves here. The master is away, and the servants are all out for this evening. That’s all.”

“But I’m quite certain there was a light when I first rang,” declared Langton.

“Then if anyone was here, he or she must still be here,” replied the officer with a slightly incredulous smile, while at the same moment I recollected that as dinner had been served in the dining-room, there must also have been servants there during that evening.

“Is there no other door—no back door?” I queried.

“No,” replied Langton promptly; “both front and back doors are in Sussex Place. The door leading to the park was bricked up by the Professor, as he was always afraid that undesirable people might enter and steal the secrets of his experiments. There are two locked doors leading to the laboratory, of which he always keeps the keys. I’ll show you them in a moment.” And he led the way across the landing from the study to the boudoir.

Here I noticed that the drawers of Miss Greer’s little rosewood escritoire stood open, and that upon the table was a miscellaneous collection of odds and ends; letters, fancy needlework, and other things, as though a hasty search had been made among the dead girl’s effects. To me it appeared that whoever had been making the investigation had been disturbed in the act and had escaped.

The police noticed it, while Langton exclaimed:

“Look! Ethelwynn is usually so very tidy! Somebody has, no doubt, been turning over her treasures. For what reason?” and he halted before the open door leading to the passage to the laboratory. “Look!”

Inspector, sergeant, and constable all looked, but saw nothing unusual. The door stood open—that was all.

“Don’t you see!” cried the young man excitedly. “This door—the door which Professor Greer always keeps fastened—has been burst open. Somebody has been here! I was not mistaken after all!”

And he made his way along the passage, opening the second door and entering the darkness of the great lofty room. The constable followed with his lamp, while I held behind, knowing that in a few seconds the ghastly truth must be discovered.

Langton quickly found the switch, and the place was flooded with light.

At the same moment a strong and pungent smell of some acid greeted our nostrils, causing us to catch our breath. It was due, we noticed, to a bottle of some liquid which had been knocked off the table nearest us, and lay smashed upon the tiled floor.

Full of fear and trembling, I glanced to the corner in which I had seen the Professor’s huddled-up body; but my heart gave a quick bound of joy. It was not there!

Already evidences of the double tragedy had been removed. Was it for that reason, in order to remove them, that Kershaw Kirk had been there?

“Why!” exclaimed Langton. “Look! the furnace is alight. The Professor certainly cannot be in Scotland!”

I glanced to the left where he had indicated, and saw that the good-sized brick furnace built in the right-hand wall, in which, by means of a great electric fan, the Professor could generate, by forced draught, the intense heat he sometimes required for his experiments, was aglow. A fierce fire had evidently been burning there, but it was now slowly dying out. The warmth of the laboratory and of the brickwork of the furnace showed that the draught fan must have been used.

“I wonder what the Professor has been doing to-day?” remarked the inspector, examining the place with considerable curiosity.

“I wonder rather what intruders have been doing here!” exclaimed Langton. “You forget that both doors have been forced.”

The inspector stood gazing round the place in silent wonder.

“Well,” he exclaimed at last, “I don’t see the slightest evidence of burglars here, sir.”

“They may be hidden upstairs,” suggested the young man. “Remember there are many people very anxious to obtain knowledge of the Professor’s discoveries. That is why he is always so careful to keep these doors locked. His daughter, Ethelwynn, is the only person he ever allows in here. He and she even carry in the coal for the furnace, the servants being excluded.”

“But thieves would hardly light up the furnace!” said the officer.

“Unless they wished to destroy something in the fire,” responded the other.

That suggestion held me aghast. Upon me, like a flash, came the astounding suspicion that that furnace might have been lit for the purpose of destroying the evidence of the mysterious crime. I remembered Kirk’s curious and guarded response when I had referred to the burial of the body.

Was this, then, the reason why I had found him alone in the house?

I stood staggered by the suggestion.

I was near the furnace—nearer than the others.

Then, when I found speech again, I said:

“If there are intruders in this place, they could not have escaped; they must certainly be upstairs. I agree with Mr Langton that it is certainly very curious that these doors should have been forced.”

“How did you know that the Professor is in Scotland?” he inquired of me eagerly.

In an instant I had a ready reply.

“Antonio told me so when I called on Monday.”

“Did he say when his master would be back?” asked the inspector.

“He said he expected him to return last night, as he had an engagement to go with his daughter to a ball.”

“Then he may have returned and gone to the dance,” remarked the officer. “He may also have lost his keys and been compelled to break open the doors—quite a likely circumstance. Three persons dined downstairs to-night. He and his daughter and a friend probably dined and afterwards went out; while the servants, knowing they would not return before midnight, may have followed them out to spend the evening. That at least is my theory at the present.”

“That certainly seems to be the most logical conclusion, inspector,” I remarked.

“We must search the upper premises before I accept it,” exclaimed Langton, who, I could see, was still very suspicious that something unusual had happened. The meeting with Antonio in the buffet at Calais had caused him to doubt, and most naturally so.

My eager eyes were fixed upon the glowing furnace, the large, square, iron door of which was still red-hot, though the heat was now decreasing. At the side was a large air-shaft, in which were fitted electric fans, while on the wall were three switches by which a strong forced draught could be obtained.

Before the furnace door was a portion of the tiled floor railed off, to prevent the cinders from being trodden about, and in there I saw a quantity of ashes. At the side were several large crucibles, one of which, still gripped by the iron tongs or holders, contained some metal which looked like steel.

Carelessly I made a tour of the place, passing the corner where had lain the Professor’s body. I saw that all traces of blood had been carefully removed from the tiles. No one would suspect that any tragedy had occurred there.

Was this Kirk’s work? Had the man who had such a contempt for the police—whom he denounced as red-taped blunderers—succeeded in removing all trace of the crime?

If so, was not that sufficient proof of his own guilt? Was he not fooling me when, all the time, he was the actual assassin?

Every fresh fact as presented in that house that night increased rather than elucidated the mystery.

I longed to take the dead girl’s lover into my confidence and tell him, there and then, all I knew, just as I have told you; but I hesitated. Had I not given my word of honour to be silent? And, moreover, like a confounded fool, I had allowed Kirk to escape!

So now, more than ever, were my lips sealed. I was bound hand and foot.

In a few moments the four men passed out of the laboratory, while I, as I had done below, remained behind for a moment.

I stood before the furnace peering into the ashes.

I saw there something which they had overlooked, or, if they had seen it, could convey nothing to them.

Among those grey ashes lay a black horn overcoat button!

This I snatched up and transferred to my pocket.

Had that bottle of acid been purposely smashed in order to dispel any unpleasant odour arising from the furnace?

I longed to throw myself upon my knees and examine those ashes, but, alas! I dare not.

So I was compelled to follow my companions, rigid and speechless.

Chapter Ten.

Leonard Langton Makes a Statement.

Search of the upper portion of the premises revealed nothing—nothing, at least, to arouse the undue suspicions of the searchers.

My eager glance was everywhere, but I discerned nothing further of an unusual nature. The one great truth had become impressed upon me that the man Kirk, madman or master criminal, had got rid of the evidences of his crime.

He must have disposed of the poor girl’s body in the same manner as that of her father!

I recollected that when seated with him in Bath Road, Bedford Park, he had admitted that he possessed another home. Was it in Foley Street, that squalid house where I had heard a woman’s frantic screams?

I knew my duty, yet I still hesitated to perform it. My duty as a good citizen was to tell the police, openly and frankly, all that I knew. Yet if I did so, would I be believed? Now, after I had allowed them to search the place, I should, if I spoke, surely be suspected of trying to shield myself.

No, having assumed an attitude of ignorance, I saw I was now compelled to retain it. Kirk, clever, crafty, and far-seeing, had most ingeniously sealed my lips.

Yet why, if he were the actual criminal, had he taken me, a perfect stranger, into his confidence? And again, what connection could the Eckhardt tyre have with the strange affair?

Who were those two mysterious callers who had followed his visit, and whom Pelham had seen? What could have been their object?

I stood in the large drawing-room listening to the discussion between the searchers, who had now returned there disappointed.

“I can only repeat, sir,” remarked the inspector, addressing Langton, “that you must have been mistaken regarding the light in the window of the next room.”

“I’m certain I was not,” replied the young man doggedly. “Someone was in this house—someone who, when I rang, extinguished the light and escaped!”

“But how could he have escaped?” queried the officer.

“Ah! that’s the mystery. By the roof, perhaps.”

“The trap-door is bolted on the inside,” declared the constable; “I examined it, sir.”

“Or by a window leading out on to some leads somewhere?” I suggested.

“There are no windows unfastened by which anyone could have escaped,” the sergeant exclaimed; “I’ve looked at them all.”

“Well,” exclaimed the young man with a puzzled air, “nothing will ever convince me that I’ve brought you all here upon a fool’s errand. I still maintain that something unusual has happened. Why has Antonio fled to France?”

“We must ask the Professor,” replied the inspector. “He may have been sent by his master upon perfectly legitimate business. He was entirely trusted, you say.”

“But he saw me in the buffet at Calais, and, turning, hurried away,” Langton said. “In other circumstances he would certainly have raised his hat in greeting; he is a most polite, tactful man.”

“Well, sir,” laughed the officer, “I don’t think we can assist you any further. Just go out, 403,” he added, turning to the constable, “and tell the two men in the park that we’ve finished, and they can go back to their beats.”

“Very well, sir,” responded the man, replacing his truncheon as he left the room.

Both inspector and sergeant soon followed him, leaving Langton and myself alone.

After the front door had closed, we returned to the big dining-room.

“Well,” he exclaimed, “I don’t know what your theory is, Mr Holford, but I’m absolutely certain that something has happened here. There is some crooked circumstance,” and I saw deep lines of thought upon his shrewd, clever, clean-shaven countenance.

Why dare not Kirk meet him?

“The absence of everybody is certainly mysterious,” I admitted.

“Doubly mysterious when one takes into consideration the fact that the doors leading into the laboratory have been forced,” he remarked quickly. “Three persons dined here to-night. The Professor entertained a man-friend. Who was he?”

“That we can only discover when the servants return,” I said.

“Or from the Professor himself,” he suggested.

I held my breath. What would he have said if I had told him the truth—that the Professor was dead, and that a button from his overcoat had been lying among the ashes of the furnace?

I glanced around the comfortable room where the fire glowed cheerfully and the electric lights were so cunningly shaded. The Professor was, among other things, a connoisseur of old silver, and upon the sideboard were a number of fine Georgian pieces, tankards, salvers, candelabra, salt-cellars, decanter stands, and other things, all of which I recognised as perfect specimens.

My hand went to my jacket pocket, and I there felt the button. I withdrew my fingers in horror.

We had decided to await the return of the Professor. Await his return! Surely we would have a long time to wait for his arrival?

I was on my mettle. I alone knew the truth, and to conceal my secret knowledge from this shrewd and active young man would, I saw, be difficult.

We seated ourselves beside the fire, and, having offered me a cigarette from his case, he began to endeavour to learn more about me. But at first I was very wary, and exercised caution in my replies.

He apologised for mistaking me for an accomplice of thieves, whereat I laughed, saying:

“When we meet the Professor he will perhaps tell you of our long friendship.”

“Curiously enough,” he said, looking straight across at me, “I never recollect Ethelwynn speaking of you.”

“I knew very little of the young lady,” I hastened to explain; “the Professor is my friend. He has, on several occasions, told me what a great help she was to him in his experiments.”

“She is his right hand,” declared the young man. “Her knowledge of certain branches of chemistry is, perhaps, unequalled in a woman.”

“And yet she is delightful and charming, and nothing of a blue-stocking, I understand,” I remarked.

He smiled, for was he not the happy lover! Ah! what an awakening must be his ere long!

But we gossiped on. His face, however, betrayed a great anxiety, and time after time he expressed wonder why Ethelwynn had not remained at home to keep the appointment, or left him some message.

Indeed, we searched both her boudoir and her bedroom to find his telegram, but all in vain. Then again we returned to the dining-room.

“I suppose you’ve known the Professor for some years,” I remarked, hoping that he would tell me the story of their acquaintance.

“Oh, yes,” answered the young man, twisting a fresh cigarette between his fingers. “I first met him and Ethelwynn at the Gandolfi Palace, in Rome, four years ago. I was staying with my aunt, the Marchesa Gandolfi, and they were at the Grand Hotel. I saw quite a lot of them all through the Roman season. The Professor gave some lectures before one of the Italian learned societies, and I had frequent opportunities to take Ethelwynn out to see the sights of the Eternal City. I happen to know Rome very well, for I spent all my youth there with my aunt, an Englishwoman, who married into the Roman nobility, and who, like every other Englishwoman who takes such a step, repented it afterwards.”

“You mean she was not very happy with her husband?” I said. “I’ve heard before that mixed marriages in Italy are never very successful.”

“No,” he sighed; “my poor aunt, though she became a Marchesa and possessed a dozen different titles and probably the finest palazzo in Rome, was very soon disillusioned. The Marchese was an over-dressed elegant, who lived mostly at his club, ogled women each afternoon in the Corso, or played baccarat till dawn. And Roman society was not at all kind to her because she was just a plain Englishwoman of a county family. Gandolfi was thrown from his horse while riding over one of his estates down in Calabria two years ago.”

“The Professor was a friend of your aunt’s, I suppose?”

“Yes, an old friend. At the time when we met, Ethelwynn had, I found, an ardent admirer in a young Italian lieutenant of infantry, who had met her once or twice at the Grand and in the English tea-rooms on the Corso, and had fallen desperately in love with her.

“The Professor told me of this, and in confidence asked whether I knew the grey-trousered popinjay. I did not. He had apparently told the Professor of his family and high connections in Bologna, had declared his love for Ethelwynn, and with her consent had asked the Professor for her hand in marriage.

“I consulted my aunt, who was much against the matrimonial union of English and Italians, and in secret I went to Bologna to investigate the lieutenant’s story. What I found was rather interesting. Instead of being the son of a noble but decayed family, he was the only child of an old man employed as a gardener at a big villa out on the Via Imola, and so erratic had been his career and so many his amours, that his father had disowned him.

“I returned to Rome with the father’s written statement in black and white.”

“And what happened then?” I asked, interested.

“The amorous fortune-hunter spent a rather bad quarter of an hour in the Professor’s sitting-room, and was then quickly sent to the right-about. He quietly got transferred to another regiment up in Cremona, while Ethelwynn, of course, shed a good many tears.”

“And, her disillusionment over, she repaid you for your exertions on her behalf by becoming engaged to you, eh?”

“Exactly,” was his answer as his mouth relaxed into a smile. “A very strong attachment exists between the Professor and myself. I am happy to believe, indeed, that I am one of his closest friends—at least, that is what he declared when I asked his permission to marry Ethelwynn. Perhaps as regards finance I am not all that he might desire,” he said frankly. “I’m not by any means rich, Mr Holford. In fact, I’m simply a hard-working business man, but I have a very generous and kind employer in Sir Albert Oppenheim, and my position as his confidential secretary is one of great trust.”

“Sir Albert Oppenheim!” I echoed. “Why, he’s supposed to be one of the wealthiest men in England!”

“He probably is,” laughed my friend. “Every rich man, however, has enemies, and he is no exception. I’ve read and heard spoken many very unkind libels about him; but take it, from one who knows, that no man in all England performs more charitable work in secret than he.”

The name recalled several rumours I had heard, ugly rumours of dishonourable dealings in the City, where he was one of the greatest, shrewdest, and most powerful of modern financiers.

I had grown to like Leonard Langton for his frankness. That he was devoted to the unfortunate girl was very plain, and naturally he was anxious and puzzled at her failure to be at home to receive him after an absence of a month in Portugal, where he had, he told me, been engaged upon the purchase of the tramways of Lisbon by an English syndicate formed by Sir Albert.

He lived in chambers in Wimpole Street, with a great chum of his who was a doctor, and he invited me to look him up, while I began to tell him a little about myself, my motor business, and my friends.

He was a motor enthusiast, I quickly found; therefore I, on my part, invited him to come down to Chiswick and go out for a day’s run on the “ninety.”

Thus it occurred that, seated in that house of mystery, nay, in that very room where I had seen his well-beloved lying cold and dead, we became friends.

Ah! if I had but known one tithe of what that hastily-formed friendship was to cost me! But if the future were not hidden, surely there would be neither interest nor enjoyment in the present.

Suddenly, and without warning, I launched upon him the one question which had been ever uppermost in my mind during all the time we had sat together.

“I have met on several occasions,” I said, “a great friend of the Professor’s, a man you probably know—Kirk—Kershaw Kirk.”

I watched his face as I uttered the words. But, quite contrary to my expectations, its expression was perfectly blank. The name brought no sign of recognition of the man to his eyes, which met mine unwaveringly.

“Kirk?” he repeated thoughtfully. “No, I’ve never met him—at least, not to my knowledge. Was he young—or old?”

“Elderly, and evidently he is a very intimate friend of Greer’s.”

The young man shook his head. If he was denying any knowledge he possessed, then he was a most wonderful actor.

Perhaps Kirk himself had lied to me! Yet I remembered that towards him Antonio had always been most humble and servile.

I tried to discern any motive Langton could have to disclaim knowledge of the mysterious Kirk. But I failed to see any.

As far as I could gather, my companion was not acquainted with the man whom I had so foolishly allowed to escape from the house.

Yet had not Kirk himself expressed a fear at meeting him? Had he not told me plainly that by mere mention of his name to that young man, all hope of solving the enigma would be at an end?

Perhaps, after all, I had acted very injudiciously in admitting my knowledge of Kirk. For aught I knew my remarks might now have aroused further suspicion in his mind concerning myself. Yet was not the temptation to put the question too great to be resisted?

At my suggestion we again ascended the stairs, and re-entered the forbidden chamber.

I gave as an excuse that I was curious to examine some of the delicate apparatus which the Professor used in his experiments. My real reason, however, was again to examine those ashes before the furnace.

Circumstances, fortunately, favoured me, for almost as soon as we were inside the laboratory we heard the telephone bell ringing out upon the landing.

“I wonder who’s ringing up?” Langton exclaimed quickly. “I’ll go and see,” and he hurried away to the study where I had noticed the instrument stood upon a small side-table near the window.

The moment he had gone I bent swiftly and poked over the dust and ashes with my hand.

Yes! Among them were several small pieces of cloth and linen only half-consumed, some scraps of clothing, together with a silver collar-stud, blackened by fire.

I feared lest my companion should observe the unusual interest I was taking in the furnace-refuse, therefore I cleaned my hand quickly with my handkerchief and followed him.

He had his ear to the telephone, still listening, when I entered the study.

Then he placed the receiver upon its hook, for the person with whom he had been conversing had evidently gone.

Turning, with his eyes fixed upon mine, he made in a few clear words an announcement which fell upon my ears like a thunderbolt.

I believe I fell back as though I had been struck a blow. By that plain, simple declaration of his, the dark vista of doubt and mystery became instantly enlarged a thousand-fold.

I stood staring blankly at the young man, absolutely refusing to believe my own ears.

What he told me was beyond all credence.

Chapter Eleven.

The Storm Gathers.

“I’ve just been speaking to Ethelwynn,” Langton said. “She’s down at Broadstairs.”

“At Broadstairs!” I echoed, staring straight at my companion.

“Yes,” he replied. “She tells me that her father went up to Edinburgh, but was suddenly called abroad upon business connected with one of his newly-patented chemical processes. She rang up Antonio, intending to leave a message for me.”

I stood listening to him, utterly dumbfounded. The young man was being misled. Had I not with my own eyes seen the poor girl lying cold and dead in the room downstairs? Besides, was it possible that she, who knew of her father’s fate and had seen him lifeless, would tell her lover that great untruth!

Could this be one of Kirk’s ingenious subterfuges in order to gain time?

“Then you are satisfied?” I managed at last to stammer.

“To a certain degree, yes,” he replied, looking at me with a good deal of surprise, I saw. “But it does not explain why Antonio is absent abroad, or—”

“Gone to meet his master most probably,” I interrupted.

“Perhaps. But why has the laboratory been broken open; and, again, why has the furnace been lit? Who were the three persons who dined here this evening? The Professor is away!”

“Miss Ethelwynn might have entertained two friends before leaving for Broadstairs,” I suggested.

“They were men. Ethelwynn does not smoke cigarettes.”

“Did she say whether she is returning to London?” I inquired.

“She will let me know on the ’phone to-morrow.”

“She didn’t tell you her father’s whereabouts?”

“She doesn’t know. He’s somewhere in Germany, she believes. He has been in communication with a strong German syndicate, which it seems has been formed in Hamburg to work one of his discoveries. And in his absence somebody has undoubtedly been prying into his experiments.”

“Somebody who you believe was disturbed by your ring at the door, eh?”

“Exactly!” replied the young man, glancing at his watch. “But now, Mr Holford, I think I shall go to my rooms. I’m tired after my journey. The Channel crossing was an exceptionally bad one this afternoon. You’ll call and see me very soon, won’t you?”

I promised, and together we descended the stairs and left the silent house.

By his side I walked out by Clarence Gate as far as Baker Street Station, where we shook hands and parted.

After he had left me I halted on the kerb, utterly bewildered.

It had dawned upon me that there was just a chance of discovering something further among the ashes of the furnace. The window, broken by the police, would afford an easy means of access. Now, and only now, was my chance of obtaining knowledge of the actual truth.

Therefore I turned back again, and, loitering before the house, seized my chance when no one was nigh, opened the basement window and was again inside.

In a few minutes I was again standing in the laboratory, over which the glowing furnace threw a red light. I dared not switch on the electricity, lest I should give warning to anybody watching outside, hence I was compelled to grope by the fitful firelight among the ashes.

My examination—a long and careful one—resulted in the discovery of a metal cuff-link much discoloured by fire, a charred pearl shirt-button, and a piece of half-burned coloured linen. As far as I could ascertain there were no human remains—only traces of burnt clothing. But charred bones very much resemble cinders.

Yet were not those remains, in conjunction with the words of Kershaw Kirk, sufficient evidence of a grim and ghastly occurrence?

I left the house by the window, just as I had entered it, and, walking as far as the Marylebone Road, entered a small private bar, where, being alone, I took out the scraps of half-burned paper and eagerly examined them. Alas! most of the faint-ruled pages were blank. The others, however, were covered with a neat feminine calligraphy, the words, as far as I could decipher, having reference to certain chemical experiments of the Professor’s!

Those precious notes by Ethelwynn at the Professor’s dictation had, it seemed clear, been wantonly destroyed.

What could have been the motive? If that were found, it would surely not be difficult to discover the perpetrator of that most amazing crime.

I returned home more than ever mystified, but carrying in my pocket a cabinet photograph of the dead man, which I had abstracted from a silver frame in his daughter’s boudoir. It was theft, I knew, but was not theft justifiable in such unusual circumstances?

Next morning I was early at the garage in order to carry out a plan upon which I had decided during the grey hours before the dawn. In the telephone book I searched for, and found, the Professor’s number at his seaside cottage at Broadstairs, and asked the exchange for it.

In a quarter of an hour I was informed that I was “through.”

“Is Miss Ethelwynn at home?” I inquired. “No; she’s gone out for a walk,” replied a feminine voice—that of a maid, evidently. “Who are you, please?”

“Mr Kershaw Kirk,” I replied, for want of something better to say.

“Oh, Mr Kirk!” exclaimed the woman. “Is that you, sir? Your voice sounds so different over the ’phone. Miss Ethelwynn left word that, if you rang up, I was to tell you that Mr Langton is back, so you had better keep out of the way.”

“What does Langton know?” I asked, quickly on the alert.

“Nothing yet; only be very careful. Are you coming down here?”

“I don’t know,” I replied. “I’ll ring your mistress up later on to-day. Is there any other message for me?”

“No, my mistress said nothing else, sir.”

“Very well,” I said. “Good morning!” and I rang off.

That conversation created further doubts in my mind. Here was a girl whom both Kirk and myself had seen dead, yet she was still alive, and actually acting in conjunction with him to keep her father’s death a secret! It was incomprehensible!

What could it mean?

Pelham came to me with some questions concerning the business, but I only answered mechanically. I could think of nothing—only of the mysterious, inscrutable affair in Sussex Place. The mystery had possessed my soul.

At eleven o’clock, suppressing all suspicion I held of Kershaw Kirk, I called at his house; but his sister showed me a telegram she had received soon after nine o’clock that morning. It had been handed in at Charing Cross Station, and was to the effect that he was just leaving for the Continent.

Another curious circumstance! He had gone to join that crafty-faced servant, Antonio Merli. Now that Leonard Langton had returned, he evidently thought it wise to make himself scarce. And yet Langton had calmly denied all knowledge of him!

A little before five o’clock that afternoon, while sitting in my glass office in the garage, the man Dick Drake brought me a telegram. It had been handed in at the Gare du Nord, in Paris, and was from Kirk. His enigmatical words were:

“Recall all I told you. I thank you sincerely for helping me over a difficulty last night. Shall rejoin you shortly. If questioned say nothing. All depends upon you. Silence!”

I read it through in wonder half a dozen times.

I longed to ring up Ethelwynn Greer again. It would be a weird experience to converse with one whom I had seen dead. Yet I could think of no excuse. Kirk had, no doubt, telegraphed to her, for it seemed that their association was, after all, a very close one.

The day’s work ended, I got into a car and drove to the address in Wimpole Street given me by Leonard Langton.

His chambers were particularly cosy and well-furnished; but his man, a young foreigner, told me that his master had left for Broadstairs by the “Granville” from Victoria that afternoon.

Therefore I remounted in the car, and turned away down into Oxford Street, entirely nonplussed.

I could not discern Kirk’s motive in exposing the tragic circumstances to me. I did not see in what way I could assist him, even though his version of the affair were the true one.

Who was this Kershaw Kirk? That was the main question. Either he was a man of extraordinary power and influence, or else a most cunning and ingenious assassin. Yet was there no suspicion upon Antonio Merli, the foreign servant, who seemed hand-in-glove with Kirk?

Recollection of this caused me to turn the car towards the Euston Road and search along that long, busy thoroughfare for the tobacconist’s shop kept by Antonio’s cadaverous-looking brother, Pietro—the only outsider, apparently, aware of the Professor’s death.

For fully half an hour I searched, until, near the Tottenham Court Road end, I came across a little shop where stationery, newspapers, and tobacco were displayed in the window.

Entering, I asked the dark-eyed girl behind the small counter if Mr Merli kept the establishment.

“Yes, sir, he does,” was her reply.

“Can I see him?”

“He’s been suddenly called abroad, sir,” answered the girl; “he left London this morning.”

“By what train?”

“Nine o’clock from Charing Cross.”

“Do you happen to know a Mr Kershaw Kirk?”

“Yes; he was here last night to see him,” replied the girl. “That’s the only time I’ve ever met him.”

“When do you expect Mr Merli back?”

“Oh, I don’t know, sir! He’s gone to Italy, I expect; and when he goes there he’s generally away for some weeks.”

“Then he often goes abroad?”

“Yes, sir; very often. He has some business, I think, which takes him away travelling, and he leaves this shop in charge of my married sister and myself. He’s not married, as I dare say you know.”

“He’s seldom here, then?” I remarked, gratified at all this information.

“He lives out at Acton, and only comes here occasionally.”

“You know his brother, of course?” I asked, after I had purchased some cigarettes.

“You mean Mr Antonio? Oh, yes; he’s been here once or twice—for letters he has addressed here.”

“In another name—eh?” I laughed lightly.

“Yes, they’re letters in a lady’s hand, so perhaps we’d better not be too inquisitive,” laughed the girl. And then, after some further conversation, I told her I would call again in a week’s time to ascertain if she knew her employer’s whereabouts, and, re-entering the car, drove back to Chiswick, my mind clouded by many anxious apprehensions.

The outlook was every moment growing darker and more perplexing.

Chapter Twelve.

A Strange Story Unfolded.

I confess to having been half-inclined, when I returned home that night, to take Mabel into my confidence. But I hesitated, because I knew that her frankness and sense of justice would lead her to suggest that I should go to New Scotland Yard and lay the whole facts before the Criminal Investigation Department.

I had no secrets from her—I loved her far too well. But in this crooked affair I had most foolishly given my word of honour to say nothing.

All Kirk’s strange declarations and allegations now recurred to me. Hence I was compelled to abandon all idea of making Mabel my confidante.

I knew, however, by the way she looked at me, that she was troubled and puzzled by my manner. Indeed, that evening when I returned and found her beside the fire in our cosy sitting-room, her slim fingers busy with some fancy needlework, I recognised by her pointed questions that she regarded me with considerable apprehension.

Again she asked me what was the matter, and again I replied evasively that I had just then a good many business worries. And we dropped the subject because Gwen, her younger sister, entered the room.

All next day I debated within myself what course I should now adopt, but, alas! I could not decide upon any. The whole affair was such an entire enigma. The more I had tried to probe the mystery, the more utterly inexplicable did it seem.

Reflect for a moment, and you will fully realise the peril of my position. To me, it seemed quite plain that I had by my readiness to accept Kirk’s friendship, given myself entirely into the hands of the conspirators.

If Kirk were truly an honest man and not afraid, he certainly would have called in the police. Yet had he not openly admitted his inability to prove an alibi?

That afternoon, a damp and dismal one, I had to run out on a car to Tunbridge Wells to see a customer who was purchasing the car which I drove. I took Dick with me, and, the car being a “forty-eight,” we sped along pretty swiftly until we halted before the entrance to that old-world promenade, the Pantiles, near which my customer lived.

Before we got home again it was near midnight, but on that night drive I resolved that on the morrow I would embark upon the work of amateur detective, and endeavour to discover something on my own account.

To solve such a complete enigma as that now presented one must, I realised, begin at the beginning. And that was what I intended to do. Therefore, on the following night, at half-past eleven, I left King’s Cross in a sleeping-car for Edinburgh, having first ascertained that the conductor was the same who had travelled by that train on the night of the Professor’s alleged journey.

He was a tall, lean, fair-whiskered Scot, whose uniform seemed too big for his shrunken frame, but who bustled up and down the corridor as soon as the train had started, inquiring of the passengers at what hour they would like to be called, and whether they would take tea.

I waited until he came to my compartment, and then I put to him certain questions regarding his passengers on the night of Sunday, the thirteenth, asking whether he remembered Professor Greer.

“Why, yes, sir,” was his answer with a strong northern accent. “Another gentleman asked me about the Professor when I got back to King’s Cross.”

“Did you take the Professor up to Edinburgh?”

“Certainly, sir. I remember the name. Indeed, here it is in my book,” and, turning back a few pages, he showed me the name among those who had secured sleeping-berths in advance. “As I told the other gentleman who inquired, he wouldn’t have any tea, and told me to call him at Dunbar.”

“And when you called him did you then see him in his berth?”

“Yes, sir, he pulled the door back and inquired what kind of a morning it was.”

“Where did he alight?”

“At Waverley, of course. I handed him out his bags, and one of the porters of the North British Hotel took them.”

“You’re quite certain of that?”

“As certain as we’re going north to-night, sir,” replied the man.

Then I drew forth the Professor’s photograph from my pocket and showed it to him.

“That’s the same gentleman, and a very nice gentleman he was, too, sir,” he declared, the instant his eyes fell upon it. “But for what reason do you ask this? You’re the second person who has made inquiries.”

“Only—well, only because the Professor is a little eccentric,” I replied diplomatically, “and we are rather anxious to know of his doings up in Scotland. Nearly all great men of genius,” I added, “are slightly eccentric, you know.”

“Well, he went to the North British,” replied the conductor. “They’ll be certain to recollect him there.”

“Do you know the porter who took his bag?”

“Yes, it was Walter Macdonald. I’ll call him when we get to Waverley in the morning, and you can ask what questions you like.”

And the man left me and bustled away, while soon afterwards, as the great express began to gather speed towards Hatfield, I turned into the narrow little bed, while we roared along through the dark night.

When I drew aside the blind next morning we were skirting the grey misty sea, within sight of the Bass Rock. Therefore I leisurely dressed, and, punctual to time, stepped out upon the long platform at Edinburgh at half-past seven.

At a whistle from the conductor, a smartly-uniformed hotel porter stepped up, and I explained, in a few brief words, the object of my visit to Edinburgh.

“I remember the gentleman quite well, sir,” replied Macdonald, after I had exhibited the photograph. “I took his suit-case and kit-bag and gave them over to the hall-porter. The gentleman did not engage a room, I think. But his first inquiry was for the telegraph-office, and I directed him to the General Post Office, which is almost next door here. That’s about all I know of his movements.”

I gave the man a tip, and, ascending in the hotel lift, passed through the lounge and entered the big coffee-room which overlooks Princes Street, where I breakfasted.

Afterwards I lounged about the main hall which opens upon Princes Street—the entrance from the station being from deep below at the back of the premises.

I saw that outside the reception office, upon a green baize-covered board and placed beneath tapes, telegrams for visitors were exhibited, and the addressees took them themselves. It would, therefore, be quite easy for anyone not staying in the hotel to have a telegram addressed there, and to receive it in secret. It would also be just as easy for a person to take anybody else’s telegram that happened to be there.

Two young lady clerks were behind the brass grille, and presently I addressed the elder of the pair, and showed her the photograph. Neither, however, recognised it.

I turned up the visitors’-book, and saw that on Monday the fourteenth no person of the name of Greer had registered.

“He was a chance customer, evidently,” remarked the elder of the girls in neat black. “He arrived, you say, by the morning East Coast express, therefore he may just have had breakfast and gone on. Many people do that, and catch their connections for the North. In such a case we never see them. Both myself and my friend here were on duty all day on Monday.”

“I certainly have never seen the gentleman to my knowledge!” declared the other.

“But he must, I think, have received two telegrams.”

“I remember one telegram, but I do not recollect the other. We have so many wires here in the course of the day, you know,” the girl replied. “But what I do recollect is being rung up on the telephone from London on the following day, with an inquiry whether the gentleman was staying here.”

“You don’t know who rang you up?” I asked.

“I haven’t any idea!” she laughed. “It may have been the police. They’ve done so before now.”

“Of course he might have stayed here in another name and taken telegrams addressed to him as Greer,” I suggested.

“I scarcely think so,” replied the elder of the pair, a tall, smart, business-like woman. “If he had, one of us would, no doubt, have remembered him. I’d have a chat to the hall-porter at the station-entrance if I were you,” she added.

I therefore sought out the tall, liveried man she had indicated, and again to him exhibited the portrait.

He remembered the Professor quite distinctly, he told me. The visitor deposited in his charge a kit-bag and suit-case, remarking that he was not quite certain if he would remain the night, and passed on into the hotel. “That was about 7:35 in the morning.”

“When did you see him again?”

“About noon, when he passed through to the lift, and descended into the station. I noticed that he was then wearing a different hat from the one he had on when he arrived from London,” the hall-porter replied.

“When did he take his luggage?”

“About half-past three. A porter took it below, and it was placed in the cloak-room.”

“You didn’t see him again?”

“No, sir. He probably left by a later train that day.”

That was all the information I could gather in that quarter. The remainder of the morning I spent idling about Princes Street, that splendid thoroughfare which has few equals in the world, trying to decide upon my next course of action. I had exhausted Edinburgh, it seemed, and clearly my way lay south again.

Suddenly, on re-entering the hotel to get lunch, a thought occurred to me, and I sought out the hair-dressing department, making inquiry of the man in charge, a fair-haired, well-spoken German.

As soon as I showed him the portrait, he exclaimed:

“Ja! I recollect him—quite well.”

“Tell me what you know of his movements,” I urged.

I saw that the man regarded me with considerable suspicion.

“I presume, sir,” he said, “that you are an agent of police?”

“No, I’m not,” I assured him, rather surprised at his remark. “I’m simply making inquiry because—well, because my friend is now missing.”

“Then I’ll tell you what occurred, sir,” answered the German, with a slight accent. “The gentleman came in about four o’clock and asked me to shave him. When I began to put on the soap I realised, however, that he had himself been cutting off his beard closely. But I shaved him, and made no comment. We hairdressers are used to such things, yet they sometimes cause us a little wonder.”

“Ah!” I cried. “Then he left here with his beard shaven clean! He intended to disguise himself!”

“No doubt, sir,” replied the man, who seemed a particularly intelligent fellow. “Because, earlier in the day, while crossing the corridor, I had noticed him standing near the lift. He then had a full beard. I recollected the clothes he was wearing.”

“Did he talk to you?”

“Very little, sir. He seemed a gloomy, rather silent man.”

That was all he could tell me, though he declared that the gentleman had seemed very agitated and upset while he was being shaved. His hair was also cut, and his moustache trimmed.

“Did it alter his appearance much?” I inquired. “Very greatly, sir. I should scarcely have known him when he left here.”

“And you told nobody?”

“It is not my business to pry into customers’ affairs,” responded the man, and very justly; “but I took good note of his countenance.”

What he told me was certainly remarkable. The whole of the facts were, indeed, astounding.

While the unfortunate Professor lay dead in his laboratory in London he was, at the same time, here, in Edinburgh, making an attempt at disguise, and sending a reassuring telegram to his daughter!

That Professor Greer had been killed there was not the slightest doubt—killed, too, behind locked doors, in circumstances which themselves formed a complete and inscrutable mystery. Then, if so, who was this man who had left London with the Professor’s luggage, had arrived in Edinburgh, and whom the hotel-servants and others had identified by his portrait?

If he were not the Professor, then who could he have been? One thing was certain, he could not have been the actual assassin. Yet if not, why had he taken such pains to disguise his appearance?

The theory of Greer having a double I put aside at once. Doubles only exist in the realms of fiction. Here, however, I was dealing with hard, solid facts.

Each phase of the intricate problem became more and more complicated as I endeavoured to analyse it. That grey, wintry afternoon I wandered about the damp streets of Edinburgh, gazing aimlessly in the shop windows, and afterwards sat for a full hour upon a seat in the deserted public gardens below the Castle, thinking and wondering until the gloomy twilight began to creep on, and the lights along Princes Street commenced to glimmer.

Then, rising, I set off again across the North Bridge, and through High Street and Johnstone Terrace to the Caledonian Station, and by George Street and St. Andrew’s Street back to the Waverley, a tour of the centre of the city. I was merely killing time, for I had decided to take the night express back to King’s Cross.

When I re-entered the hotel it was nearly seven o’clock, and, as I did so, the porter at the revolving door in Princes Street touched his cap and informed me that the hairdresser desired to see me again.

I ascended to the first floor, and entered the saloon, where I found the German with whom before luncheon I had spoken. He was seated alone, reading a newspaper.

“Ach, sir!” he exclaimed; “I thought perhaps you had left! I’m very glad you are still here! A most curious circumstance occurred this afternoon when I went off duty as usual from three till five. I live in Forth Street, at the back of the Theatre Royal, and while walking towards home along Broughton Street, I came face to face with the gentleman for whom you are searching.”

“You’ve seen him!” I gasped, half-inclined to disbelieve the man’s story, for he was evidently on the look-out for a substantial tip.

“Yes, he recognised me, and tried to avert his face. But I managed to get a good look at him, and am absolutely certain that I’m not mistaken. He was dressed differently, and looks many years younger than when I first saw him wearing his beard.”

“Then he is still in hiding here!” I gasped quickly. “Did you follow him?”

“I did. I had to exercise considerable caution, for he evidently fears that he is being traced. His attitude was essentially that of a man dreading recognition. He may be suspicious that you are here, sir.”

“But have you discovered where he is living?” I demanded breathlessly, my heart leaping.

“Yes, sir,” replied the German; “I have.”

Chapter Thirteen.

I Learn Something Interesting.

Ten minutes later I was with the German hairdresser on a tram-car, going up Regent Road, towards Abbey Hill. On turning into the London Road at the station, we descended, and, crossing the main thoroughfare, entered one of the narrow, ill-lit turnings on the left, the name of which I was unable to see.

“I don’t know whom to ask for,” I remarked to my companion, as we hurried along together.

“I can only point you out the house where your friend is in hiding,” replied the man. “You, of course, know more of his habits than I do.”

In a few moments we passed before a tall, drab, dingy-looking house, which the German pointed out was the false Professor’s secret abode.

I longed for the presence of Kershaw Kirk, for I knew not how to act. I reflected, however, that the reason of my journey to Edinburgh was to clear up the mystery, and this thought prompted me to action.

So while he waited in the semi-darkness at the next corner, I returned to the house and rang the bell. To the door came a rather dishevelled girl of about eighteen, evidently the daughter of the occupier.

“You have a gentleman living here,” I said. “Would you kindly tell him that Mr Kirk desires to see him?”

“The gentleman’s no longer here, sir,” replied the girl, in broad Scotch.

“Gone!” I ejaculated.

“Yes, sir. Mr Martin’s who you mean, I suppose, for he’s the only gentleman mother has had. He packed his things, and left for the station an hour ago.”

My heart fell. He had evidently realised that the German was following him, and had escaped us!

“Can I see your mother?” I asked. Whereupon I was invited into the small narrow hall of the musty-smelling house, and a thin-faced, angular woman in rusty black came forward.

“Pray pardon my troubling you,” I said apologetically, “but I have an urgent message to give to Mr Martin, who, I understand, has been staying with you.” It was an advantage that the girl had unwittingly betrayed the name which the false Professor had adopted.

“Mr Martin’s gone, sir. He left this evening.”

“So your daughter tells me. But haven’t you any idea where he intended going?”

The woman hesitated, and by that slight pause I felt convinced she knew something which she intended keeping to herself.

“No, sir, he left quite suddenly,” was her hurried reply. “He had been out all day, and, returning about five, packed up his things, paid me what he owed me, together with a week’s rent in lieu of notice, and, getting a cab, drove away.”

“To the station—eh?”

“Yes, I heard him tell the man to drive to Princes Street.”

“He hadn’t been very long with you, had he?”

“About a week. He came on the Monday, telling me that he had been recommended by a friend of his, an actor. I let rooms to professionals,” she added, in explanation.

“He is a very reticent man,” I remarked. “I suppose he seldom went out?”

“No; he used to read all day, and go for just half-an-hour’s stroll at night. He struck me as a rather eccentric man.”

“So he is,” I laughed. “I’m an old friend of his, so, of course, I know. I hope he is not in your debt. If so, please tell me and I’ll liquidate it.”

“Oh, not at all, sir. He’s paid for everything,” declared the woman, upon whom my ready offer to pay her lodger’s debts had evidently made an impression. “His sudden departure mystified us.”

“Did he receive many letters?”

“Only two—and a telegram you sent him—which I found dropped by the side of his dressing-table.”

“From me?” I echoed, yet next instant recollecting that I had given my name as Kirk.

“Yes, you telegraphed to him several days ago to meet you at the Caledonian Hotel in Glasgow. You are Mr Kirk, are you not?”

“Ah, of course, I recollect,” I laughed. “Do you think he’s gone to Glasgow?” I asked, as the sudden thought occurred to me.

“Well, sir,” replied the woman, “as you are such an intimate friend of Mr Martin’s, I think I ought to tell you that, before leaving to-night, he asked me in confidence to repeat any telegram that might come for him to the Caledonian in Glasgow, but asking me at the same time to give no information to anyone who might call and make inquiries as to his whereabouts.”

“Then he’s gone to Glasgow to-night!” I exclaimed, with sudden enthusiasm. “If I follow at once, I may find him!”

“I certainly think so, sir,” was the woman’s response, whereupon I made a hurried adieu, and, rejoining the German, into whose palm I slipped a sovereign, was quickly back at the hotel.

I left Princes Street Station at ten minutes to ten that night by the express due in Glasgow at eleven. That hour’s journey was full of excitement, for I was now upon the heels of the false Professor, whose whereabouts and assumed name Kirk knew, and with whom he had made an appointment.

Was this man, known as Martin, about to meet Kirk?

I laughed within myself when I reflected upon the awkward surprise which my presence there would give them. What the lodging-house keeper had told me proved conclusively that Kershaw Kirk had conspired to cause the death of poor Greer, and that the story he had told me was untrue.

Yet, again, there arose in my mind the problem why, if he were the assassin, or an accomplice of the assassin, should he introduce me into that house of death—myself a comparative stranger! Alone I sat in the corner of the railway carriage, thinking it all over, and trying, as I had so continuously tried, to discern light in the darkness.

I had been a fool—a confounded fool, not to inform the police of my suspicions at the outset. The girl Ethelwynn, whom I had seen lying apparently dead, whose chill flesh I had touched, was alive and well at Broadstairs! Was not that, in itself, a staggering mystery, exclusive of that secret visit of Kirk’s to Foley Street, and the woman’s cry in that foggy night?

Was it any wonder, then, that I was neglecting my business, leaving all to Pelham, with whom I had communicated by telegram several times? Was it any wonder that, the circumstances being of so uncanny and intricate a nature, I hesitated to tell Mabel, my wife, lest I should draw her into that web of doubt, uncertainty, and grim tragedy?

I had watched the columns of the Times each day to discover the advertised message promised by Kirk; but there had been none. I now saw how I had been as wax in the hands of that clever, smooth-spoken cosmopolitan. I believed in men’s honesty, a most foolish confidence in these degenerate days, when morality is sneered at, and honesty is declared openly to be “the worst policy.”

Alas! in this dear old England of ours truth and justice are to-day rapidly disappearing. Now that Mammon rules, that divorce is a means of notoriety, and that charity begins abroad with Mansion House funds for undeserving foreigners, while our starving unemployed clamour in their thousands for bread, the old order of things has, alas! changed.

The honest man—though, be it said, there are still honest, sterling men in business and out of it—goes to the wall and is dubbed a fool; while the master-thief, the smug swindler, the sweater, and the promoter of bogus companies may pay his money and obtain his baronetcy, or his seat in the House of Lords, and thus hall-mark himself with respectability.

While money talks, morality is an absent factor in life, and truth is but a travesty. Glance only at the list of subscribers to a Mansion House Fund, the very basis of which is the desire of the Lord Mayor who may happen to be in office to get his baronetcy, while its supporters are in the main part self-advertisers, or donations are given in order to establish an unstable confidence and extend a false credit. Thus, even in our charities, we have become humbugs, because the worship of the Golden Calf has bred cant, hypocrisy, and blatant self-confidence, which must ere long be the cause of our beloved country’s downfall beneath the iron-heel of far-seeing, business-like Germany.

Such reflections as these ran through my mind as that night I sat in the train watching the lights as we neared the great industrial centre on the Clyde. I was trying to peer into the future, but I only saw before me a misty horizon of unutterable despair.

I longed to meet Ethelwynn Greer, and put to her certain questions. Was it not a complete enigma, startling and inscrutable, that she, having seen her beloved father lying lifeless, should utter no word—even to young Langton, to whom she was evidently devoted? That fact was utterly incomprehensible.

At last the train slowed and drew into the great echoing station. On alighting I gave my bag to a porter and entered the big Caledonian Hotel adjoining. I had stayed there on previous occasions, and knew its huge dining-room, its long corridors, and its wide ramifications.

I registered in the name of Lamb, deeming it best to conceal my presence, and while writing in the book, scanned the page for Martin’s name. It was not, however, there. I turned back to earlier arrivals that day, but with no better result. So I ascended in the lift to my room on the second floor.

Of course, it was quite within the bounds of possibility that the false Professor might use yet another name if he wished to avoid being followed from Edinburgh. Besides, I had noticed that just as at the North British at Edinburgh, so here, telegrams were exhibited upon a board, and could be taken. Therefore, if a wire came in the name of Martin, he could quite easily claim it.

After a wash I wandered about the hotel, through the lounge, smoking-room, and the other of the public apartments. Yet how could I recognise a man who was disguised, and whom I had never seen?

I was placed at a disadvantage from the very first by never having met this man who had posed as the dead Professor. Yet with the knowledge that Kirk desired particularly to see him, I felt that there was a probability of their meeting, and that, if only I remained wary and watchful, I should come across, amid the hundreds of persons staying there, the mysterious dweller in Bedford Park.

From my arrival at eleven till half-past one I remained on the alert, but saw no one I knew. Therefore I retired to bed, thoroughly worn-out by that constant vigil. Yet I was in no way disheartened. The false Professor had started from Edinburgh for that destination, and was, I felt confident, staying there under another name. It only lay with me to unmask him, or to wait until the pair met clandestinely, and then to demand to know the truth.

Surely in all the annals of crime there had never been one so surrounded by complex circumstances as the tragedy of Sussex Place, and assuredly, too, no innocent man had been more ingeniously misled than my unfortunate self.

Next day, from eight o’clock in the morning till late at night, I idled about the big hotel, ever anxious and ever watchful. I kept an eye upon each arrival and each departure.

Then I became slowly and against my will, convinced that the false Professor had not come to that hotel, but had put up somewhere else, well knowing that he could obtain the telegraphic message from Kirk whenever he cared to step in and take it from the board.

Again, even though at the heels of the conspirators, was I yet being outwitted—a fact which became the more impressed upon me on the third day of my futile expectancy.

Hourly I watched that telegraph-board, intending to annex quietly any message addressed to Martin, and act upon any appointment it contained.

But, alas! my watchfulness remained unrewarded.

Twice there had arrived men slightly resembling the dead Professor, clean-shaven and active, but by careful observation I discovered that one was a commercial traveller whose samples had been left below in the station, and the other was a well-known iron merchant of Walsall.

The false Professor, the man who was plainly in association with the mysterious Kirk, was clearly in Glasgow, yet how was it possible for me to do more than I was doing towards his unmasking?

Put to yourself that problem, you, my friend, for whom I have chronicled this plain, unvarnished story of what actually occurred to me in the year of grace 1907, and inquire of yourself its solution.

“Who killed Professor Greer?”

Chapter Fourteen.

A Remarkable Truth.

The morning was cold, with fine driving rain, when at eight o’clock I alighted from a hansom before my own house in Bath Road, and entered with my latch-key. In the dining-room I found Annie, the housemaid, in the act of lighting the fire, but turning suddenly upon me with surprise, she exclaimed:

“Oh, sir! You gave me quite a turn! We didn’t expect to see you back again just yet.”

“Why not?” I inquired, with some surprise. “We thought you were with the mistress, sir.”

“With my wife. What do you mean?”

“Mrs Holford obeyed your telegram, sir, and has left for Italy.”

“For Italy!” I gasped. “Where’s Miss Gwen? Go and ask her if she can see me at once.” And I followed the maid upstairs.

In a few moments Gwen Raeburn, my wife’s sister, a young, pretty, dark girl of seventeen, who wore a big black bow in her hair, came out of her room wrapped in a blue kimono.

“Why, Harry!” she cried. “What’s the matter? I thought Mabel had gone to join you.”

“I’ve just come down from Glasgow, where I’ve been on business,” I explained. “Where is Mabel?”

“I don’t know, except that I saw her off from Victoria at eleven the day before yesterday.”

“But why has she gone?”

“To meet you,” replied the girl. “The morning before last, at a few minutes past eight, she received a telegram signed by you, urging her to meet you at the Hôtel Grande Bretagne in Florence at the earliest possible moment. Therefore she obeyed it at once, and left by the eleven o’clock train. It was a terrible rush to get her off, I can tell you. But haven’t you been in Florence?”

“No, I’ve been in Scotland,” I repeated. “Did you read the telegram she received?”

“Yes; it was very brief, but to the point. Mabel was annoyed that you had not told her the reason you had gone abroad without explanation. She feared that, in view of your preoccupied manner of late, something disastrous had happened to you. That’s why she left so hurriedly. I wanted to go with her, but she wouldn’t allow me.”

“I wish you had gone, Gwen,” I said. “There’s some plot here—some deep and treacherous conspiracy.”

“Why, what has happened?”

“A lot has happened,” I said. “You shall know it all later on. At present I haven’t time to explain. I suppose the telegram isn’t left about anywhere?”

“Mabel took it with her.”

“You didn’t notice whence it had been despatched?” I asked.

“From Turin. We concluded that you had halted there, on your way from Paris.”

I was silent. What plot had those blackguards formed against me and mine! Why had my dear wife Mabel been decoyed out to Italy by them? I grew apprehensive and furious.

My sister-in-law descended with me to the dining-room. She saw my agitation, and after the first surprise had worn off tried to calm me.

“There’s a perfectly feasible explanation, I’m sure, Harry,” she said. “Perhaps it is some practical joke being played upon you and Mabel by your friends. They want you out in the South for a week or two to escape from the cold and wet of the London spring. I wouldn’t worry, if I were you.”

“Ah, Gwen!” I sighed. “You are unaware of all the grim circumstances,” I said. “There’s a serious conspiracy here, I’m convinced. The hand of a secret enemy has been lifted against me.”

Had that crafty servant at Sussex Place dispatched the false message, I wondered? Or was it Kirk himself? And if so, with what motive? Was Mabel, my beloved and devoted wife, to fall helplessly into their unscrupulous hands? My blood rose within me when I reflected how innocently I had walked into the trap which my mysterious neighbour had prepared for me.

I took up a Bradshaw, and saw that if I left Charing Cross by the boat-train at 2:20 I might, by good chance, catch the night mail for Italy by the Mont Cenis from the Gare de Lyon. I could only do it if we ran into the Gare du Nord in time. But from experience I knew that the afternoon service to Paris was pretty punctual, and one usually arrived in the French capital about 9:20. Then, by the aid of a taxi-cab, I could get across to the Lyons station in time.

So I decided to make the attempt. I had been in Italy several times when a youth, and knew Italian fairly well. My father, before the smash in his fortunes, had rented a villa for several years up at Vallombrosa, in the chestnut-clad mountains above Florence.

“May I come with you, Harry?” pleaded my sister-in-law. “If Mabel is in any danger it is only right that you should take me to her.”

I knew how devoted the girl was to her sister. A year ago she had come to us from Caen, where she had been at school, and among the languages in which she was proficient was Italian. I hardly cared, in the circumstances, to leave her alone; therefore, although a big hole must be made in my slender bank account, I resolved to take a second ticket for her.

When I announced my decision her dark eyes sparkled with delight, and she clapped her hands.

“You are a real good brother, Harry!” she cried. “I don’t want any breakfast. I’ll go and begin to pack at once. I’ve never been in Italy, you know.”

I told her that in the circumstances of the rush we must make across Paris I could only allow her hand-luggage, and she sped away upstairs to put on her frock and to commence placing her necessaries together.

Afterwards, greatly agitated and full of dark apprehension, I got on, by telephone, to the Wagon-Lit office in Pall Mall, and reserved berths for us both on the Rome express from Paris as far as Pisa, where I knew we would be compelled to change. Then I addressed a long telegram to Mabel at the Hôtel Grande Bretagne, on the Lung’ Arno, at Florence, explaining that she was the victim of a bogus message, but that we were rejoining her at once, in order to bring her home.

I judged that she must already have arrived in Florence, but unfortunately there would be no time to receive a reply ere we left London.

Having despatched the message, I went round to the garage, and, telling Pelham of my sudden call abroad, gave him certain instructions, drew a cheque for wages, and otherwise left things in order.

Then I called upon Miss Kirk, but she denied all knowledge of her brother’s whereabouts. The Times, which I had just bought in the High Road, Chiswick, contained no advertised message from him. Nor did I expect any.

My intention now was one of bitter retaliation. I had been befooled by the man who I had proved held secret knowledge of the mode of the poor Professor’s tragic end. By this message to my wife someone had touched my honour, and I intended that he should dearly pay for it.

Gwen, girl-like, was all excitement at the prospect of this flying journey to the south. At one moment she endeavoured to reassure me that nothing was wrong, while at the next she expressed wonder at the motive of the mysterious message.

At last, however, we found ourselves seated in the corners of a first-class carriage, slowly crossing the Thames on the first stage of our dash to Italy. The outlook was grey and cheerless, precursory, indeed, of a dismal conclusion to our journey to the far-off land of sunshine. We got out at Folkestone Harbour, however, well to time, and that evening were fortunately only seven minutes late in arriving at the Gare du Nord. We had dined in the train, so, therefore, entering a taxi-cab, we were soon whirled across Paris to the Gare de Lyon, where we had only eight minutes to spare before the departure of the rapide for Rome.

All that night, as I lay alone in my sleeping-berth while the great express rocked and rolled on its way to the Alpine frontier, my mind was full of gravest apprehensions. Gwen had been given a berth with another lady at the further end of the car, and I had already seen that she was comfortable for the night. Then I had turned in to spend those long dreary hours in wakeful fear.

I could discern no motive for inveigling my wife—with whom Kirk had never spoken—to a destination abroad. Yet one curious point was quite plain. That mysterious dweller in Bath Road—the man with the pet parrot—was well aware of my absence in the north. Otherwise he would not have forged my name to a message sent from Turin.

For what reason could he desire Mabel’s presence in Florence? He must have some object in her absence. Perhaps he foresaw that her absence meant also my absence—and that my enforced journey meant a relaxation of the vigil I had established upon the man who had gone north on the night of the Professor’s assassination. That was the only feasible theory I could form, and I accepted it for want of any better. But in what a whirlwind of doubt and fear, of dark apprehensions and breathless anxiety I now existed you may well imagine.

Gwen, looking fresh and bright and smart in her blue serge gown, came to me next morning, and we had our coffee together at a wayside station. Though we sat together through the morning hours until we stopped at the frontier at Modane, she refrained from referring to the reason of Mabel’s call abroad. The young girl was devoted to her sister, yet she did not wish to pain or cause me any more anxiety than was necessary.

After passing through the great tunnel, emerging on the Italian side and coming to Turin, where we waited an hour, the journey became uneventful through the afternoon and evening until the great bare station of Pisa was reached, shortly before midnight.

Here we exchanged into a very cold and very slow train which, winding its way in the moonlight through the beautiful Arno valley all the night, halted at the Florence terminus early in the glorious Italian morning.

“Fi-renze! Fi-renze!” cried the sleepy porters; and we alighted with only about half a dozen other passengers who had travelled by that treno lumaca—or snail-train, as the Tuscans justly call it.

Then, taking one of those little open cabs so beloved by the Florentines, we drove at once to the well-known hotel which faces the Arno, close to the Ponte Vecchio.

Florence, in the silence of early morning, looked delightful, her old churches and ponderous palaces standing out sharply against the clear, blue sky, while, as we passed a side street we caught sight, at the end of the vista, of the wonderful black-and-white façade of the Duomo, of Giotto’s Campanile, and Brunelleschi’s wondrous red-tiled dome.

A few moments later we stepped from the cab and entered the wide, marble-floored hall of the hotel.

“You have a Mrs Holford staying here?” I asked in English of the manager, who was already in his bureau.

“Hol-ford,” he repeated, consulting the big frame of names and numbers before him. “Ah, yes, sir; I remember! But—” He hesitated, and then inquired, “Will you pardon me if I ask who you may be?”

“I’m Henry Holford, madame’s husband,” I replied promptly.

And then the man told us something which caused us to stare at each other in speechless amazement.

The man was a liar—and I told him so openly to his face.

His astounding words rendered the remarkable enigma more complex than ever!

Chapter Fifteen.

A Man Deceives a Woman.

The story told me by the bald-headed Italian hotel-keeper was that another man had usurped my place!

He said that Mrs Holford, accompanied by her husband, had arrived at about seven o’clock on the morning of the day before yesterday, remained there the day, and had left by the express for Rome at five o’clock that same evening.

“You don’t believe it, sir!” the man exclaimed with some warmth. “Well, here is the gentleman’s signature!” And he showed me upon a printed slip, whereon hotel visitors in Italy write their names according to the police regulations, boldly inscribed in a firm hand, “Mr and Mrs Henry Holford. Profession, automobile engineer. Domicile, London. British subject.”

I stared at the words utterly confounded. Somebody had assumed my identity! Yet how was that possible with Mabel present?

“What kind of man was madame’s husband?” I inquired, while my sister-in-law stood by astounded.

“He was slightly older than yourself, sir, with a moustache turning grey.”

Surely it could not be that arch-scoundrel Kershaw Kirk!

“Was he about fifty, and rather thin?”

“Yes,” replied the hôtelier. “He spoke Italian very well; indeed, with scarcely any accent.”

My suspicion at once fell upon Kirk. Yet how could he so impose upon Mabel as to be allowed to pass as her husband? She had never before spoken to the fellow, and had, I knew, held him in instinctive dislike.

“They were out all yesterday morning driving up to Fiesole,” he added.

“You don’t happen to know to which hotel they’ve gone in Rome?” I asked.

“No. There is a telegram here for madame. It arrived half an hour after their departure. They would leave no word with the hall-porter regarding the forwarding of letters.”

“I am her husband,” I said, “and that telegram is evidently mine, which has been delayed in transmission, as messages so often are in this country. As her husband, I have a right to open it, I suppose.”

“I regret, sir, that I cannot allow that,” said the man. “You have given me no proof that you are madame’s husband.”

“But I am!” I cried. “This lady here is my wife’s sister, and will tell you.”

“Yes,” declared the girl, “this is Harry, my brother-in-law. The other man, whoever he may be, is an impostor.”

The short, bald-headed Italian in his long frock-coat, grew puzzled. He was faced by a problem. Therefore, after some further declarations on my part, he handed me the message, and I found, as I had expected, it was my own, which, unfortunately, had never reached her to reassure her.

Of course, I was not certain that Mabel’s companion was actually Kirk. Indeed, as I reflected, I grew to doubt whether she would accept any word he told her as the truth. Yet whatever the story related about myself to her it must be a strange and dramatic one, that it should induce her to travel across Europe in company with a stranger.

I had never had the slightest reason to doubt Mabel’s fidelity. She had always been a good, honest and true wife to me, and our strong affection was mutual. Indeed, few men and women led more blissful, even lives than we had done. Thoroughly understanding each other’s temperaments, we were content in each other’s affection.

No, even though this man might tell me this astounding story, I refused to give it credence. The grey-moustached stranger, whoever he might be, was a scoundrel bent upon entrapping my wife, and had done so by relating some fictitious story about myself.

This theory I expounded to her young sister Gwen as we sat at our coffee half an hour later. We had resolved to rest until eleven, when an express left for Rome. I intended to follow her and rescue her from the hands of those who were most certainly conspirators.

More mystified than ever, we therefore travelled south to the Eternal City, arriving there in the early hours of the next morning, and going to the Grand Hotel, which was full to overflowing, the Roman season having already commenced.

To find my beloved wife was now my sole aim. I thought naught of the startling mystery of Sussex Place, or of the strange identity of the false Professor. I had abandoned the inquiry in order to recover from peril the woman I loved so dearly.

The young girl, my companion, was beside herself with fear, dreading what had occurred; while I myself became more and more puzzled as to the motive for inveigling Mabel abroad. She had not the slightest connection with the secret tragedy; she was, indeed, in ignorance of it all. For what reason, therefore, was she being misled, and why, oh, why, did she allow this perfect stranger to pose as myself?

I hardly slept at all that night, having searched all the published visitors’ lists in vain, and as early as seven o’clock next morning I started upon a tour of the hotels to make personal inquiry. At the Russia, the Modern, the Continental, the Milan, and other well-known houses of that class I conned the names of the visitors for my own, but though I was occupied the whole day upon the task, snatching a hasty luncheon at a little trattoria I knew just behind the Ministry of Posts and Telegraphs, all was, alas! in vain.