Chapter Seventeen.

Chapter Seventeen.Contains an Expert Theory.Frank Farquhar had been at the Hotel Angleterre in Copenhagen, the hotel with the prettiest winter-garden in Europe, for four days.They had been four days of constant activity. As guide, he had the resident correspondent of the morning newspapers of which he was one of the directors, and he had already satisfied himself that, in the Danish capital, there was but one first-class Hebrew scholar, namely Professor Axel Anderson, of the Royal University.Copenhagen he found a bright pleasant little city full of life and movement, the shops gay and the streets thronged by well-dressed people. In ignorance of what had befallen Gwen, he was thoroughly enjoying himself, even though he saw that his visit could have no satisfactory result as far as the quest for the authorship of the mysterious document was concerned.One morning he had called by appointment upon Professor Anderson at his pleasant house in the Norrevoldgade and sat down to chat. The Professor, a well-preserved, rather stout man of about forty-five, with a fair beard, spoke English quite well.“As far as I am aware,” he said, “there are only two professors of Hebrew in Denmark beside myself. They are close personal friends of mine, and I feel sure that neither of them entertains any unusual theory concerning the Book of Ezekiel, or they would have consulted me. Of course, we have a good many scholars come to Copenhagen to study the Northern and Oriental codices in the Royal Library here. Hence I have become acquainted with many of the chief professors of Hebrew. Have you consulted Professor Griffin in London? He is one of the first authorities upon the matter in which you are interested.”“Yes, I happen to know him,” responded the young man.“And what is his opinion?”“A negative one.”“Ah! Then most probably this typewritten manuscript you tell me about was some baseless theory of an irresponsible crank. I would accept Griffin’s opinion before that of anybody else. There is only one other man of perhaps equal knowledge—old Erich Haupt, of Leipzig. He is a great Hebrew authority, as well as a recognised expert in cryptography.”“What is your opinion broadly upon the matter?” Farquhar asked.“Well, candidly, I believe the theory to be without foundation,” answered the Danish scholar. “I do not believe in the existence of a cipher in the Hebrew scriptures. There is nothing cryptic about the sacred record. As regards the vessels of gold and silver from Solomon’s temple, they were restored by Cyrus. It is true that an ancient Talmudic tradition exists to the effect that the Ark of the Covenant, together with the pot of manna, the flask of anointing oil and Aaron’s staff that budded are still hidden beneath the temple mount at Jerusalem. And my opinion is that your half-destroyed document is simply based upon this ancient tradition with which every Jew in Christendom is acquainted.”“But, Professor,” exclaimed the other, “I know that you yourself are an authority upon cryptography. Have any ciphers been discovered in the original of the Book of Ezekiel?”“Well, yes,” was the Dane’s answer as he stirred himself in his armchair, and reaching his hand to a bookcase took down a Hebrew-Danish Bible. Then turning to Ezekiel, he said: “There is certainly something in the Hebrew of the thirty-sixth chapter which has puzzled scholars through many centuries. It begins at verse 16: ‘Moreover the word of the Lord came unto me saying, Son of man—’ Now in the constant repetition of ‘Son of man’ certain scholars declare they have discovered a numerical cipher. In the first verse of this chapter we have, ‘Son of man, prophesy unto the mountains.’ In the third verse of the following one he asks: ‘Son of man, can these bones live?’ Again in verse 9 of the same chapter, he says: ‘Prophesy, son of man, and say to the wind.’ And in verse 11, still addressing him by the same title, he tells the prophet: ‘Son of man, these bones are the whole house of Israel.’ By the title ‘Son of man’ Ezekiel is so often addressed, ‘Son of man’ is so constantly sounded in his ears and ours, that it forces on our attention that God deals with man through the instrumentality of men, and by men communicates his will to men. Hence certain cryptographers have set to work and formed the theory of a hidden meaning in all this.”“But is the actual cipher known?” asked Frank, at once excited.“Certainly. It was deciphered by Bamberg, of Paris, forty years ago. But the secret message had no bearing whatsoever upon the lost vessels of Solomon’s temple,” was the Professor’s reply.“What was the message?” inquired the young Englishman.“Well—the alleged message which Bamberg deciphered commenced in the thirty-sixth chapter beginning at verse xvi. The passage has peculiar claims upon the attention of any one searching for cryptic writings. Addressed in the first instance to the Jews, and applicable, in the first instance, to their condition, it presents a remarkable summary of gospel doctrines, and that in a form approaching at least to systematic order. In the seventeenth verse we have man sinning: ‘Son of man, when the house of Israel dwelt in their own land, they defiled it by their own way and by their doings.’ In the eighteenth verse we have man suffering: ‘Wherefore, I poured my fury upon them.’ In the twenty-first verse man appears an object of mercy: ‘but I had pity.’ In the twenty-second verse man is an object of free mercy—mercy without merit: ‘I do not this for your sakes, O house of Israel.’ In the twenty-fourth verse man’s salvation is resolved on: ‘I will bring you into your own land.’ In the twenty-fifth verse man is justified: ‘Then will I sprinkle clean water upon you, and ye shall be clean.’ In the twenty-sixth and twenty-seventh verses man is renewed and sanctified: ‘A new heart also will I give you, and a new spirit will I put within you; and I will take away the stony heart out of your flesh and I will give you an heart of flesh. And I will put my spirit within you, and cause you to walk in my statutes, and ye shall keep my judgments and do them.’ In the twenty-eighth verse man is restored to the place and privileges which he forfeited by his sins: ‘Ye shall be my people, and I will be your God.’ ‘This land that was desolate is become like the garden of the Lord.’ We have our security for these blessings in the assurance of the thirty-sixth verse: ‘I, the Lord have spoken it, and I will do it;’ and we are directed to the means of obtaining them in the declaration of the thirty-seventh verse: ‘I will yet for this be inquired of by the house of Israel, to do it for them.’”“And in these verses the French professor discovered a hidden message?”“Yes. It read curiously, and was most difficult to decipher. But according to Bamberg it was an additional declaration of God’s kindness to man. God was named as ‘the God of Salvation,’ and ‘the author and finisher of man’s faith.’ It consisted briefly in an exhortation to those who discovered the cipher to read, and to believe. But as for the hiding-place of the treasure of Israel being therein designated—well, even Bamberg, whom half the scholars of Europe denounced as a crank, had never dreamed of such a thing. No, Mr Farquhar,” he added, “you may rest assured that the remarkable screed never emanated from a Hebrew scholar in Denmark. Perhaps it might have come from Gothenburg,” he laughed; “more than one hare-brained theory has come from over there!” Anderson was a Dane, and the Danes have no love for the Swedes.“You mentioned some one in Leipzig. Who is he?” asked Farquhar.“Oh! Haupt—Erich Haupt,” replied the other. “He’s Professor of Hebrew at the University, and author of several well-known books. His ‘Christology of the Old Testament’ is a standard work. Besides Griffin in London, he is, I consider, the only other man in Europe competent to give an opinion upon the problem you have put before me.”“How can I find him?”“You’ll no doubt find him in Leipzig.”Frank felt that this German was a man to be consulted, yet he was anxious to pursue the inquiry he had started in Denmark. The man who had died in Paris, and had been so careful to destroy his secret, had been a Dane, and he felt that the originator of the remarkable theory must have been a Dane himself. Briefly this was what Farquhar explained, but Professor Anderson assured him that no such theory could have come out of Denmark without his knowledge.“Search in Gothenburg, or in Stockholm, if you like,” he answered with a smile. “My own idea is that the unfortunate man was deceived by some ‘cock-and-bull’ story, probably an attempt to raise money in order to carry out a scheme to recover the treasure of Solomon. He believed the story of the existence of the temple treasure, and in order that no other person should obtain knowledge of the secret destroyed it before his death.”“But who was the discoverer of the secret?” asked the Englishman.“Who can tell,” remarked the Danish professor, shrugging his shoulders. “Perhaps it was only some ingenious financial swindle. You have surely had many such in London in recent years. You call them in English, I believe, ‘wild-cat’ schemes.”“There are many ‘wild-cat’ schemes in the City of London at the present moment,” Frank remarked with a laugh, “but I guarantee that none is so extraordinary as this.”“Probably not,” laughed the Dane. “I confess that, to me, the whole thing seems like a fairy tale.”“Then you don’t discern any foundation in fact?”“Only of tradition—the Old Testament tradition that the treasures are still hidden in the temple mount. Yet, in opposition to this, we have another tradition to the effect that the vessels of Solomon’s temple were used in Persia four hundred years after the captivity. Mention is made of this in a Persian manuscript preserved in your British Museum in London. I forget the number, but it can easily be looked up in the catalogue of Oriental manuscripts.”“You believe that statement authentic?”“As authentic as any statement in the ancient records,” was his reply. “But I would suggest that you consult Haupt. He knows more of Hebrew cryptograms and ciphers than any one else on the Continent of Europe. What does Professor Griffin think?”“He’s inclined to treat the whole theory with levity.”Professor Anderson smiled.“Of course,” he said. “Supposed ciphers in certain books of the Old Testament are many. And as you know quite well, a cipher may be invented to fit any message or record desired. Your Baconian theory in regard to Shakespeare was sufficient proof of that.”“Then in your opinion no real cipher exists in the Book of Ezekiel?” asked the Englishman.“The Bible was inspired,” was his reply. “If so, there is no cipher in it except what cryptographers invent.”Frank Farquhar was silent. His inquiries in the Danish capital had nearly carried him into acul-de-sac.The dead man was, according to his own story, a Dane. But what more natural than that he had received the extraordinary manuscript from Germany, or from Sweden?“To me,” remarked the Professor, “the situation of the man who died in Paris was this. Either he himself was the inventor of the whole story or else he had paid something for it and was trying to dispose of it to some financier or other.”“Doctor Diamond, my friend who attended him before his death, says that the man was evidently a scholar.”“Then possibly he was the inventor,” remarked Anderson decisively. “But if he was a scholar he was certainly unknown to us. Therefore we may be permitted to doubt hisbonâ-fides. My advice to you is to find Haupt.”“Yes, Professor,” answered the young man, “I will.”And an hour later he sent a long telegram to the Doctor at Horsford, while that same afternoon he received a brief telegraphic message from Professor Griffin, asking him to return to London at once.His belief was that the great expert had found some clue, and he left that same evening direct for London, by way of Kiel, Hamburg and Flushing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And what is his opinion?”

“A negative one.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How can I find him?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You believe that statement authentic?”

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

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

Professor Anderson smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Eighteen.Shows the Enemy’s Tactics.The tall, thin man into whose chambers Gwen Griffin had been enticed treated the trembling girl with a certain amount of politeness. Her head reeled. She hardly knew where she was, or what had occurred.The stipulation he had made, at the instructions left by Jim Jannaway, was that she must remain there in order to meet some person who was desirous of making her acquaintance. He did not say who this person was, but she, on her part, had a dozen times begged him to release her, or at least to telegraph to her father assuring him of her safety.“My dear girl,” the tall man had answered, “don’t distress yourself. Come, do calm yourself.” And he assisted to raise her to her feet again. “No harm will befall you, I assure you.”“I—I don’t know you, sir,” she faltered through her tears, “therefore how can I possibly trust you?”“I can only assure you that I am acting upon instructions. As far as I’m concerned, you might walk out free—only I dare not disobey my orders.”“You dare not—and you a man!” she cried.“There are some things that a man such as myself dare not do, miss—pardon me, but I haven’t the pleasure of knowing your name.”“Griffin—Gwen Griffin is my name,” and she also told him where she lived. Then she asked: “Why have I been brought here?”“I haven’t the slightest idea,” was the stranger’s reply. “These are my chambers, and a friend of mine has had the key during my three years’ absence abroad. I returned only this morning to find you locked up in here and a note left for me, giving me instructions to keep you here until a gentleman calls to see you.”“Ah! that horrid blackguard!” she screamed. “That man who met me, and called himself ‘Captain Wetherton.’ He told me I should find Frank in hiding here.”“And who’s Frank?” asked the stranger.“The man to whom I’m engaged.”“H’m,” grunted the other; “and he wouldn’t be very pleased to find you here, with me, would he?”“No. That is why I’ve been entrapped herein order to compromise me in the eyes of the man who loves me.”“Why?” asked the owner of those bachelor chambers, leaning upon the bed-rail and looking at her.“How can I tell?” said the frightened girl. “As far as I know, I’ve done nothing whatever to warrant this.”“Ah! in this world it is the innocent who mostly suffer,” he remarked.“But will you not allow me to go?” she implored eagerly. “Remember that all my future happiness depends upon your generosity in this matter.”“My dear child,” he replied, placing his hand upon her shoulder, “if I dare, I would. But to tell you the truth, I, like yourself, am in the hands of certain persons who are utterly unscrupulous. I tell you, quite frankly, that I couldn’t afford to excite their animosity by disobeying these orders I have received.”“But who is this gentleman who desires to see me?” she demanded quickly.“I don’t know. No name is given.”“Why—for what reason does he wish to see me? Could he not have called at Pembridge Gardens, or even written making a secret appointment in Kensington Gardens or in the Park?”“To that I am quite unable to give any reply, for I’m in ignorance like yourself.”“But is it that brutal fellow who threw me down and tore my clothes last night?” she asked. “Look!” and she showed her torn blouse.“I think not,” was his response. “But those rents look a bit ugly, don’t they,” he added. “Come through into the sitting-room, and see if we can’t find a needle and cotton. I used to keep a travelling housewife, full of all sorts of buttons and needles and things.”So the pair passed along the short, narrow passage of the flat into the sitting-room which she so vividly recollected the night before. Before her was the couch upon which the man who had called himself “Wetherton” had flung her fainting and insensible.After a brief search in the drawers of an old oak bureau, over in the corner, the stranger produced a small roll of khaki, in the pockets of which were all sorts of cottons, buttons, needles and odds and ends, the requisites of a travelling bachelor.She laughed as she selected a needle and a reel of cotton, and then retired into the bedroom where, for a full quarter of an hour, she sat alone mending her torn garments.The man remained in the sitting-room, staring out of the window into the street below, damp and gloomy on that winter’s morning.“A fine home-coming indeed!” he muttered to himself. “They’ve put a nice thing upon me—abduct a girl, and then leave her in my charge! Jim’s afraid of being connected with the affair, that’s evident. I wonder who she is, and why they want her? Devilish pretty, and no mistake. It really seems a blackguardly shame to treat her badly, and wreck her young life, as they no doubt intend. By Gad! Jim and his friends are cruel as the grave. Poor little thing!” And he sighed and, crossing the room, applied a match to the fire that had already been laid.“Yes,” he remarked under his breath. “A fine home-coming. The devils hold me in the hollow of their hands, alas! But if they dare to give me away, by Jove! I wouldn’t spare one of them. These last two years I’ve tried to live honestly, and nearly starved in doing so. And now they bring me back by force—back to the old life, because they want my assistance. And if I refuse? Then—well, I suppose they’ll compel me to act according to their instructions. Here is a specimen of the dirty work in progress. I’m holding a poor innocent girl a prisoner on their behalf! I’d let her go now—this very moment, but if I did—if I did—what then? I’d be given away to the police in half an hour. No. I can’t afford that—by God, I can’t. She must stay here.”Presently Gwen emerged from the bedroom with her blouse repaired, and he induced her to seat herself reluctantly in the armchair before the fire.He lit a cigarette and, taking another chair, endeavoured to reassure her that she need have no fear of him.Then they commenced to chat, he endeavouring to learn something from her which might give him an idea of the reason why she had been enticed there. But with a woman’s clever evasion, she would tell him nothing.He inquired about her lover, but she was silent regarding him. She only said:“He is abroad just now. And they are evidently aware of his absence. The telegram I received was worded most cleverly. I unfortunately fell a victim to their vile conspiracy.”“Is it a plot to prevent you marrying him, do you think?”“It must be. It can be nothing else,” declared the girl quickly. “Oh, when will he return—when will I be able to see him again?”The tall man shrugged his shoulders. He saw that she was desperate and might make a rush to escape, therefore, though he begged her pardon he kept the doors locked and the keys in his pocket.Before his arrival, it seemed, Jim Jannaway had placed provisions in the small larder in the kitchen, for there they found bread, tinned tongues, bottled beer, tea, condensed milk and other things. Hence he had no necessity to go forth to obtain food.This struck him that an imprisonment of several days must be intended. He felt sorry for the unfortunate girl, yet he dare not connive at her escape. He knew, alas! that he was now upon very dangerous ground.The whole day they sat together gossiping. For luncheon they had cold tongue and bread, and for dinner the same.The situation was indeed a curious one, yet as the hours went by and he attempted to amuse her by relating humorous incidents in his own adventurous life, she gradually grew to believe that he was devoid of any sinister intention.Times without number she tried to persuade him to release her, but he explained his inability. Then, at evening, they sat at the fireside and while he smoked she chattered, though she told him practically nothing concerning herself.He could not help admiring her neat daintiness and her self-possession. She was a frank, sweet-faced girl, scarce more than a child, whose wonderful eyes held even him, an adventurer, in strange fascination. And that night, when she retired to her room, he handed her the key of her door that she might lock herself in, and said:“Sleep in peace, Miss Griffin. I give you my promise that you shall not be disturbed.”And he bowed to her with all the courtesy of a true-born gentleman.He sat smoking, thinking deeply and wondering why the girl had been confined there. He was annoyed, for by her presence there he also was held a prisoner.Just before midnight the bell of the front door rang, and a commissionaire handed him a telegram. The message was in an unintelligible code, which however, he read without hesitation. Then he tossed the message into the fire with an imprecation, switched off the light, and went to bed.Next day passed just as the first, but he saw, by the girl’s pale face and darkening eyes, that the constant anxiety was telling upon her. Yes, he pitied her. And she, on her part, began to regard him more as her protector than as her janitor.He treated her with the greatest consideration and courtesy. And as they sat together at their meals, she presiding, they often burst out laughing at the incongruity of the situation. More than once she inquired his name, but he always laughingly evaded her.“My name really doesn’t matter,” he said. “You will only remember me with hatred, Miss Griffin.”“Though you are holding me here against my will,” she replied, “yet of your conduct towards me I have nothing to complain.”He only bowed in graceful acknowledgment. No word passed his lips.On the third morning, about noon, a ring came, and Gwen, startled, flew into her bedroom and locked the door.The visitor was none other than Sir Felix Challas, who, grasping the tall man’s hand, said:“Welcome back, my dear Charlie. I’m sorry I couldn’t come before, but I was called over to Paris on very important business.” Then lowering his voice he said: “Got the girl here still—eh?”The other nodded.“I want to put a few questions to her,” Sir Felix said in an undertone, when they were together in the sitting-room, “and if she don’t answer me truly, then by Heaven it will be the worse for her. You remember the girl of that German inventor, three years ago—eh?” he asked with a meaning smile.The tall man nodded. He recollected that poor girl’s fate because she had refused to betray her father’s secret to the great financier.And this man whom the world so firmly believed to be a God-fearing philanthropist intended that pretty Gwen Griffin, sweet, innocent and inoffensive, little more than a child, should meet with the same awful fate. He held his breath. He could have struck the man before him—if he dared.He must blindly do the bidding of this cruel, heartless man who held him so entirely in his power, this gigantic schemer whose “cat’s-paw” he had been for years.And he must stand helplessly by, unable to raise a hand to save that poor defenceless victim of a powerful man’s passion and avarice.Alas! that the great god gold must ever be all-powerful in man’s world, and women must ever pay the price.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The man to whom I’m engaged.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t know. No name is given.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The other nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Nineteen.Is about the Doctor.Doctor Diamond, in his long Wellington boots and overcoat, was descending the steep hill into Horsford village one gloomy afternoon with Aggie at his side.It had been raining, and the pair had been across the meadows to Overton, a small hamlet where, from a farmhouse, they obtained their weekly supply of butter. This, the fair-haired child, her clean white pinafore appearing below her navy-blue coat, carried in a small basket upon her arm. She had been dancing along merrily at the little man’s side, delighted to be out with him for a walk, when, as they came over the brow of the hill, they saw a man in a long drab mackintosh ascending in their direction.The man raised his hand to them, but at first Diamond did not recognise him. Then, as they drew nearer, he said:“Why—who’d ever have thought it! Here’s your father, Aggie!”“Father!” echoed the girl, staring at the man approaching. “No, dad, surely that isn’t my father! You’re my own father.” And the child, with her fair hair falling upon her shoulders, clung affectionately to his arm.In a few moments the two men met.“Hulloa, Doc!” cheerily cried the man known to his intimates as “Red Mullet”. “Thought I’d give you a bit of a surprise. And little Aggie, too! My hat! what a big girl she grows! Why, my darling,” he exclaimed, bending and kissing her, “I’d never have recognised you—never in all my life!”Her father’s bristly red moustache brushed the child’s face, and she withdrew bashfully.“Ah! my pet,” cried the tall, gaunt man, “I suppose you hardly knew me—eh? You were quite a little dot when I was here last. But though your dad travels a lot, and is always on the move, yet he’s ever thinking of you.” He sighed. “See here!” And diving his hand into his breast-pocket, he took out a well-worn leather wallet which contained a photograph. “That is what your other dad sent to me last year! Your picture, little one.”The child exchanged glances with the Doctor, still clinging to his arm. To her, Doctor Diamond was her father. She loved him, for he was always kind to her and always interested in her childish pleasure. True the payments made by “Red Mullet” were irregular and far between, but the ugly little man had formed a great attachment for the child, and when not at the village school she was usually in his company.“Your wife told me the direction from which you would come, so I thought I’d just take a stroll and meet you,” the tall fellow said. “Horsford does not seem to change a little bit.”“It hasn’t changed, they say, for the past two centuries,” laughed the Doctor. “We are quiet, steady-going folk here.” And as he spoke the sweet-toned chimes rang forth from the square grey Norman tower on their left, the tower to see which archaeologists so often came from far and near.“Well, well,” exclaimed Mullet. “I had no idea my little Aggie had grown to be such a fine big girl. Very soon she’ll be leaving school; she knows more about geography and grammar now than her dad does, that I’ll be bound.”“Mr Holmes, the schoolmaster, is loud in her praises,” remarked the Doctor, whereat the girl blushed and smiled.“And how would you like to go back with me, and live in Paris—eh?” inquired the father.In a moment, however, the child clung closer to Diamond, and, burying her face upon his arm, burst into tears.“No, no, dear,” declared the red-haired man. “I didn’t mean it. Why, I was only joking! Of course you shall stay here, and finish your education with the Doctor, who is so good and kind to you. See—I’ve brought you something.”And taking from his pocket a child’s plain hoop bangle in gold, he placed it upon her slim wrist. Aggie, with a child’s pardonable vanity, stretched forth her arm and showed the Doctor the effect. Then at the letter’s suggestion, she raised her face and kissed her father for the present of the first piece of jewellery she had ever possessed in her life.They walked back together to the cottage, and after a homely cup of tea, “Red Mullet” sat with the Doctor in the cosy panelled dining-room, the fire burning brightly, and the red-shaded lamp upon the table.“I’m glad you’re pleased at the appearance of little Aggie,” remarked the Doctor between deep puffs of his pipe. “She’s quite a sweet child. Every one in the village loves her.”“I wonder, Doctor, what they’d think if they knew she was my daughter—the daughter of ‘Red Mullet’—eh?” asked the red-haired man grimly.The Doctor pulled a wry face but did not reply. Alas, he was well aware that Mr Mullet did not bear the best of reputations, and as a matter of fact he was wondering the reason why he now risked a sojourn on British soil.“But—I—er—is that door closed?” he asked of the ugly little man as he glanced suspiciously behind him.The Doctor rose and latched it. Then he resumed his seat.“The fact is, I came down here to-day for two reasons—to see little Aggie and also to make some inquiries.”“Inquiries!” echoed Diamond. “What about?”“About something that concerns you,” was “Red Mullet’s” reply. “About certain papers which belonged to a man named Blanc, who died in a little hotel opposite the Gare du Nord.”“I—I don’t understand you. What do you mean?” asked Diamond, with a perceptible start.“Come, my dear Doc, you may just as well be frank and open with me. You know the kind of man I am. You’ve got hold of papers which don’t belong to you—and well, all praise to you, I say, if they’re worth anything. I don’t see why you shouldn’t deal with a dead man’s property if he deliberately wished to destroy it.”“How do you know all this, Mr Mullet?” asked the Doctor, his face pale and much surprised.“Well, my source of information don’t matter very much, does it?” remarked the other, stretching out his long legs to the warmth of the fire. “But I can tell you it’s lucky for you and your friends that I’ve found out about it—or—well, I can only tell you something would have happened—something very unfortunate.”“I don’t follow you.”“I don’t expect you do,” was “Red Mullet’s” reply, as he laughed lightly. “Just be open with me, Doc, and I’ll tell you something—something that’ll interest you, no doubt. What is the purport of this precious document about which there’s all this fuss?”“It’s a secret—a great and remarkable problem which, up to the present, I’m unable to solve.”“My dear old chap, there are a good many problems in this world which want solving. The first of them is Woman,” laughed the other.“Admitted. But woman doesn’t concern this particular matter.”“That’s just where you are mistaken, Doc,” Mullet interrupted. “You live down in this rural solitude, and you don’t know what goes on up in London. There is a woman in the case—a woman who is very deeply involved in it.”“Who?”“We can leave her out of it for the present,” replied Mullet. “I want to know something about the document.”Doctor Diamond hesitated. Had this man, whose reputation was so bad, and against whom he had so often been warned, come there for the purpose of levying blackmail? It seemed as though he had! “Well,” he answered, “I really see no reason why we should discuss what is, after all, my own private business, Mr Mullet.”“I should not ask you if I had not a distinct object,” said the other. “I may as well tell you that I’ve already acted in your interests, and at considerable risk to myself, too,” he added.“For which I thank you most sincerely,” responded the ugly little man, now very much on the alert.He was extremely puzzled to know by what means Mullet had learnt his secret. Surely he could not have been a friend of that man who, on his deathbed, had refused his name?“I merely came down here to give you warning,” Mullet said. “You are not the only person interested in the discovery.”“I know. I have been compelled to take certain persons into my confidence, and they will share in the profits which, we hope, will eventually accrue.”“I’m not speaking of your friends, Doc. I’m speaking of enemies—people who are working actively against you.”“Against me!” cried Diamond, starting. “Who else knows about it besides ourselves?”“Ah!” exclaimed Mullet, smiling. “That’s just the point. While you possess only a few scraps of the dead man’s manuscript, those working in opposition to you have in their possession a complete copy!”“What!” cried the ugly little Doctor, starting up. “Then the context is known! The whole document has been read!”“Without a doubt. And I should have been in ignorance of your connection with it had it not been for a pure accident,” answered Mullet.“Who are my enemies?” demanded the Doctor. “They are powerful—but I’m not at liberty to mention their names. I can only say, Doctor, that if I can help you in secret in this affair I will. There’s money in it—lots of money—that’s my firm opinion.”“Then you know all about it?”“Well—I know that the discovery is one of the most remarkable of the age, and that it seems more than likely you’ll be able to locate the hidden treasure of Solomon’s temple. I’m not much of a classical or Biblical scholar, but I understand that the theory has utterly staggered certain great authorities. And as a mining engineer by profession, I’m interested. I’ve been on more than one treasure-hunt, once in Guatemala, and again I went out with a party prospecting three years ago for those sunken Spanish galleons in Vigo Bay. We located nine of the vessels by means of that new Italian invention, the hydroscope, and got up an old cannon, several gold doubloons and silver ‘pieces of eight.’ According to authentic records in the Archives at Madrid, there are seventeen vessels full of gold and silver lying at the bottom of the bay, and the treasure is believed to be worth at least twenty-eight millions sterling.”Diamond smiled. Even that huge sum did not cause him dismay. The treasure of Solomon’s temple would surely be worth a dozen times as much. Besides, would not he, Raymond Diamond, become one of the most noted men in the world if, by his instrumentality, the historic treasure of Israel was recovered.“A company has been formed to work the Vigo treasure. They asked me to join them,” “Red Mullet” went on. “It’s a tempting business, but I have other matters to attend to just now. I wonder you don’t form a syndicate to work this scheme of yours, Doctor.”“No syndicate is necessary,” replied the Doctor confidently. “We can do it ourselves.”“You might—if it were not for the strong opposition against you,” Mullet remarked. “No, Doc. Don’t be too sure of your position. You’ve got others who intend to cut in before you, when the time is ripe. But,” he added, “what proof have you that this treasure actually exists. I’m ignorant in these matters, you know.”“In a dozen places in the Old Testament it is referred to. Nebuchadnezzar, when he took Jerusalem, carried away over five thousand vessels of gold and silver from the temple. Yet this was only the portion which the Jews allowed to remain there. The greater part of the treasure, including the Ark of the Covenant and the tablets of the law, were hidden and have never been recovered. We learn from the Book of Ezra that when Cyrus, Nebuchadnezzar’s successor, gave the Jews their liberty, that he restored to Jerusalem five thousand four hundred basons and vessels of gold and silver which the King of Babylon had taken away. Those were, no doubt, placed in the new temple which Zerubbabel erected, but of which we unfortunately possess so very few particulars. What we are in search of is not this treasure, but the vessels of Solomon’s temple that were hidden by the priests before the capture of Jerusalem by the King of Babylon.”“So I understand, Doctor. But what actual statement have you that they are still concealed?”“The plain, straightforward statement in Holy Writ,” was the other’s reply, as he sat huddled in the big armchair, a queer, ugly little figure. Then, reaching across to a small table whereon lay the Bible, which he now daily studied, and opening it, he said: “Now, listen to this. Jeremiah, xxvi, 19-21, reads as follows:“‘For thus saith the Lord of hosts concerning the pillars, and concerning the sea, and concerning the bases, andconcerning the residue of the vessels that remain in this city, Which Nebuchadnezzar, king of Babylon, took not, when he carried away captive Jeconiah, the son of Jehoiakim king of Judah from Jerusalem to Babylon, and all the nobles of Judah and Jerusalem:“‘Yea, thus saith the Lord of hosts, the God of Israel, concerningthe vessels that remain in the house of the Lord, and in the house of the King of Judah and of Jerusalem.’”“By Jove!” exclaimed Mullet, starting up. “I didn’t know of those words of the prophet. But I’m ashamed to say, Doctor, that I never was very much of a Biblical scholar. But it really looks as though there is something in the theory after all, doesn’t it?”For a long time the two men sat together, but though the Doctor was eager to learn how Aggie’s father had obtained his knowledge, the latter was equally determined to tell him nothing.“If you carry on this inquiry, Doctor,” he said, “it will be a very risky proceeding—I can tell you that much.”“What! Your object then is to frighten me into inactivity, Mr Mullet—eh?” asked the little man, jumping up.“Not at all—not at all, my dear fellow. You don’t understand. You and I are friends, and—well, we’ll continue to be, if you will allow me.”Raymond Diamond confessed that he did not understand the object of his visitor’s presence there.But “Red Mullet” only laughed, and taking another cigar from his case, said drily:“Then let us drop the subject, Doctor, and talk of something else.”

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

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

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

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

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

In a few moments the two men met.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t follow you.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Who?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then you know all about it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Twenty.The Inquisitor.The police inquiries into the whereabouts of Gwen Griffin had been futile.The Professor, beside himself with grief and apprehension, complained most bitterly that the authorities had not treated his daughter’s disappearance with sufficient seriousness. In all the interviews he had had, both at the local police-station and at New Scotland Yard, the officials had apparently taken the view that the girl had left home of her own account. He had been told on all hands that, in the end, her escapade would be found to be due to some unknown love-affair.In frantic bewilderment he had telegraphed to Frank Farquhar at the Bristol at Copenhagen, but unfortunately he had not received the message because on arrival at the Danish capital he had found the Bristol full, and had gone on to the Angleterre. Hence he was still in ignorance of the disappearance of his well-beloved.Those mystic figures which the Professor had found scrawled upon his blotting-pad—the same that were upon that discarded scrap of waste-paper—also puzzled him to the point of distraction. Could they have anything to do with the girl’s fate? By whose hand had they been traced?As far as they could discover, no stranger had entered the study. Yet those figures—“255.19.7”—had been written boldly in blue upon the pad. Could Gwen have done it herself? Had she left him some cryptic message which he now failed to decipher? But if so, why did those same numbers appear upon the scrap of paper discarded by the unknown man who was endeavouring to learn his secret?After three days, during which time he puzzled over the meaning of those figures, applying to them all sorts of ciphers, he took a taxi-cab to a friend of his named Stevens, who lived at Streatham and was a Professor of Hebrew at London University.The pair sat together for some time, Griffin having apparently called to pay a formal visit to his less illustriousconfrère, when suddenly producing the figures upon a piece of paper he sought Professor Stevens’ opinion as to their meaning.The other stared at them through his spectacles, and after a long consideration inquired:“Were they written by a Hebrew scholar?”“I believe so.”“Then I think their meaning must be quite plain,” replied the other coolly. “I should decipher it as the duration of the Kingdom of Israel. Did it not end after 255 years—namely from B.C. 975-721—under nineteen kings and seven dynasties, not reckoning among the latter, of course, the ephemeral usurpations of Zimri and Shallum?”“I never thought of that!” gasped Griffin. “Those figures have greatly disturbed me, my dear Stevens. They have appeared twice in circumstances extremely strange—traced by an unknown hand.”“But the hand of a scholar without a doubt,” was the other’s reply. “Perhaps some crank or other who has the habit of signing himself in that manner. I have known men addicted to such peculiarities. There used to be a don at Oxford who had the humorous habit of appending his signature in most excellent imitation of that of Napoleon.”Griffin, recognising that Stevens was correct in his elucidation of the mysterious signification of those figures, became more puzzled. The man in search of the great secret was evidently a crank. That was most conclusively proved. Yet why should that mystic signature appear upon his blotting-pad?Was it possible that Gwen and he were acquainted, and that he had actually entered the house.The Professor was beside himself in his utter bewilderment. His daughter had slipped away, and left him without a word of farewell. Yet towards his friend Stevens he wore a mask, and only laughed heartily at the rapid solution of the problem which he had placed before him.Was it possible, he thought many times, that Gwen, with a love-sick girl’s sudden yearning, had slipped across to the Continent to join her lover? There could be no reason whatever for that, because he had never for a moment opposed their engagement. Yet girls were a trifle wild sometimes, he reflected, especially motherless girls like the dainty Gwen.After an hour, however, he bade farewell to Stevens, and re-entering his “taxi” in King’s Avenue, drove back into London, refusing his friend’s invitation to remain for luncheon.He crossed Westminster Bridge, and alighted at the British Museum to inquire if the mysterious searcher had been seen there of late.The assistant-keeper in the Oriental room replied in the affirmative. The old gentleman had been there three days before, and had afterwards gone to the great reading-room.Proceeding there. Professor Griffin quickly made inquiries, discovering presently that the man had given the name of Rosenberg. He was shown a slip upon which was written the titles of the two rare works he had consulted. They were:“Cryptomengsis Patefacta (1685),” and “Kryptographik, Kluber (1809).”These were, he recognised, the two leading works on cryptography, explaining, as they did, all the early systems of secret writing from thescytalcin use by the early Greeks down to the biliteral cipher of Sir Francis Bacon. It was therefore quite plain that the stranger, whoever he might be, though at Oxford he had made those calculations in order to test the existence of a numerical cipher in the Book of Ezekiel, had not yet discovered any true key.This knowledge gave Griffin great satisfaction. The loss of that crumpled paper from his pocket was, he recognised of no import.Inquires of the librarian showed that the stranger was not known in the reading-room as a regular reader. Yet he agreed, as indeed had other librarians and keepers of manuscripts, that the old man was undoubtedly a scholar.This person’s will-o’-the-wisp existence was most tantalising. In appearance he was described as an old white-headed man with deep-set eyes and a longish white beard, rather shabbily dressed and wearing a long black overcoat much the worse for wear. Great scholars are not remarkable for their neatness in dress. They are mostly neglectful, as indeed was Professor Griffin himself. To Gwen, her father was a constant source of anxiety, for only at her supreme command would he even order a new suit, and his evening clothes were so old and out of shape that she had, times without number, declared herself ashamed to go out to the smart houses at which they were so often asked to dine.But genius is always forgiven its garments, and the fact that the bearded stranger was described as shabby and almost threadbare did not surprise the man who went about equally shabby himself.If he were interested in the “Cryptomengsis Patefacta,” then one thing was proved. His researches at the Bodleian had been without result.The continued absence of Gwen, however, prevented Griffin from continuing his inquiries. Though times without number he opened the Hebrew text of Ezekiel and tried to study it, yet he was unable to concentrate his mind upon it, and always closed the book again with a deep sigh.The house was dull and empty without little Gwen’s bright smile and musical voice. This, he realised, was a foretaste of his loneliness when she was married.Next day dragged by. The following day was cold and wet, and he spent it mostly alone in his study, after he had been round to the police-station and obtained a negative reply to his question as to whether his beloved daughter had been discovered.That she was absent against her will he was convinced. She would never have left him in that manner to allow him to fear for her safety.Seated alone, he brought out those large photographs of Diamond’s half-destroyed manuscript, and tried to centre his mind upon them. But, alas! he was unable. Therefore, as the short grey afternoon drew in, with a sigh he rose, put on his overcoat, and telling Laura he would not be back to dinner, he went forth to wander the London streets. He could bear the dead silence of that house no longer.Just before seven o’clock the dining-room bell rang, and the dark-eyed parlour-maid, ascending the stairs, entered the room.“Lor’, miss!” gasped the Cockney girl. “You did give me a fright! How long have you been ’ome?”Gwen, who stood before her, pale and thin-faced and with hair slightly dishevelled, explained that she had just let herself in with the latch-key.“The Professor’s out, miss. ’E said ’e wouldn’t be ’ome to dinner,” the girl remarked. “Oh, we’ve been very worried about you, miss! The perlice ’ave searched ’igh and low for yer. We all thought something dreadful ’ad ’appened. Wherever ’ave you been all these days?”“That’s my own business,” answered the Professor’s daughter. “I’ve come back safe and sound, and I’m now going to my room. Tell my father when he comes in that I’m very tired. Perhaps he won’t return till late.”“Shall I bring you up something, miss?” asked the girl.“Yes, some tea. I want nothing else.”And she ascended to her own neat bedroom on the second floor where, after closing the door, she flung herself upon the bed and burst into tears.Her nerves had been unstrung by the severe ordeal she had gone through. When the maid brought her tea, she dried her eyes and allowed the girl to assist her to change her dusty skirt and torn blouse, and after a good wash and a cup of tea she felt decidedly better and refreshed.Laura lit a fire, and when it had burnt up Gwen flung herself into her cretonne-covered armchair to rest and to think.Since she had last sat in that cosy well-remembered room of hers there had been hideous happenings. The past seemed to her all like a bad dream. She shuddered as she recalled it. Even the events of that day hardly seemed clear and distinct. Her recollection of them was hazy, so agitated and anxious had she been. Why she had been so suddenly released from that hateful bondage was also to her a complete mystery.She was recalling that first interview with the coarse, red-faced man whose name she had not been told: with what little consideration he had treated her, and how he had compelled her to come forth from her stronghold in order to speak with him.He had asked her many curious questions, the purport of which she could not discern. Some of them concerned her father’s recent actions and movements; some of them concerned the man she loved.But she was independent, and refused point-blank to answer anything. She defied that man who, in turn, jeered at her helplessness, and so insulted her that the flush of shame rose upon her white cheeks.“You shall answer me these questions, young lady,” cried the pompous man in firm determination, “or it will be the worse for you!” he added with a look, the real meaning of which she was unable to disguise from herself.Yet she stood defiant, even though she was helpless in his hands.“My father’s business does not concern you,” she had cried, “and if you think his daughter will betray him into the hands of his enemies you are mistaken, sir!”The bloated, red-faced brute blurted forth a quick imprecation, and would have struck her had not the tall man who was her janitor interfered, saying:“No, don’t. She’ll reconsider her refusal, no doubt.”“If she does not tell me everything—everything we want to know—and if she does not consent to do our bidding and bring to us whatever we desire, then she need not look for mercy. She is ours, and we shall treat her as such. The man who called himself ‘Wetherton’ shall come back to her. He’ll very soon overcome her scruples and cause her to reflect!” the man had laughed hoarsely.“Give her time,” suggested the tall man.“We want no more of these heroics about her betraying her father,” the other sneered. “If so, she’ll regret it. You know, Charlie, what I mean: how more than one girl has bitterly regretted her defiance.”Gwen fell suddenly upon her knees, imploring to be allowed to go free. But her tormentor only repeated his threats in terms which left no doubt as to what he intended should be the poor girl’s fate, and laughing he took up his hat and strode forth.From that moment the tall man addressed as Charlie, though he would give no explanation whatever as to the reason those strange questions had been put to her concerning her father and her lover, treated her with the greatest consideration, yet at the same time kept constantly expressing a fear that, if she still refused, the danger threatened would certainly befall her.Again, on the following day, the fat red-faced inquisitor came and put those questions to her. But he still found her obdurate. She recognised that those people were her father’s enemies, therefore she had determined to say nothing.Ah! would she ever forget all the horror of those dramatic interviews—the dastardly threats of that blackguard who laughed at her unhappiness and who uttered words which caused her face to burn with shame.And then came the final scene, just as suddenly as the first.The inquisitor came again, and after another violent scene left, declaring that the false “Wetherton” should return and become her janitor in place of the man she knew as Charlie.The latter seemed pained and very anxious after the red-faced man had gone. She inquired the reason, but he only sighed, declaring that the man under whose power they both were would most certainly carry out his threat towards her.Half mad with anxiety and grief, she had then confided in the tall man, telling him a brief disjointed story of the half-burned manuscript, in the course of which she had mentioned the name of a man whom she had never met—Doctor Diamond, of Horsford. Her lover, she explained, was the Doctor’s friend.The man had put to her a few rapid questions to which she had replied; then, as though with sudden resolve, he had risen from the table where he had been sitting, and clenching his fists poured forth a flood of execrations upon some person he did not name.She was surprised at the action, and her surprise increased when, a few minutes later, he had halted before her saying:“Though I risk my own liberty in assisting you, Miss Griffin, I will not keep you here, the innocent victim of that heartless blackguard and his sycophants. I have a daughter of my own—a little daughter who is all in all to me. ‘Red Mullet’—that’s my name, Miss—may bear a pretty bad reputation, but he will never lift a finger against a defenceless girl, nor will he act in opposition to a man who has stood his friend. My only stipulation is that you will say nothing. We will meet again ere long.”And then, five minutes later, having given her solemn promise of secrecy, she had left the house, wandering the dark streets until she had found herself in Oxford Street, where she had hailed a cab and driven home.Over all this she sat thinking, gazing thoughtfully into the dancing flames and wondering.But from her reverie she was awakened by the re-entry of the maid, who said:“Both the Professor and Mr Farquhar are downstairs, miss. Will you please go down to them at once?”She started quickly. A cold shudder ran through her.With that vow of secrecy upon her, the vow given to the man who had been her protector, what explanation of her absence could she give to Frank.She rose slowly from her chair, her great dark eyes fixed straight before her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Were they written by a Hebrew scholar?”

“I believe so.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, some tea. I want nothing else.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Give her time,” suggested the tall man.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She started quickly. A cold shudder ran through her.

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

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

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