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 Chapter Twenty Six.
I Scent the Impostor.

A whole fortnight went past. Mabel’s silence was

inexplicable.

The house in Sussex Place was still in the hands of the

caretaker, and, though I watched both Doctor Flynn and
Leonard Langton in secret, the results of my vigilance were
nil.

I was in despair. Refused assistance by Scotland Yard, and

treated as an enemy by Kershaw Kirk, I could only sit with
Gwen at home and form a thousand wild conjectures.

Advertisements for news of Mabel had brought no word of

response. Indeed, it seemed much as though the theory of
those two detectives was the correct one, namely, that she
had left me of her own will, and did not intend to return.
Gwen, indeed, suggested this one day, but I made pretence
of scouting it. Mabel’s mother, who now lived up in
Aberdeenshire, had written two letters, and I had been
compelled to reply, to tell a lie and say that she was away
at Cheltenham.

My business I neglected sadly, for nowadays I seldom went

to the garage. Kirk was, I understood, living in Whitehall
Court, but I did not call upon him. What was the use? I had
tried every means of learning where Mabel was, but, alas!
there seemed a conspiracy of silence against me. I had left
no effort unexerted. Yet all had been in vain.

Antonio had, according to Ethelwynn, joined “the Professor”

in Hungary. Was not that, in itself, sufficient evidence of
collusion? As for Pietro, inquiry I made in the Euston Road
showed that he had not yet returned to England.

Many times I felt impelled to go out to Buda-Pesth and

endeavour to trace the pair. But I hesitated, because,
finding Ethelwynn’s statements unreliable in some
particulars, I feared to accept what she said as the truth.
Would it not be to her interest to mislead me and send me
off upon a wild-goose chase?

No man in the whole of our great feverish London was so

full of constant anxiety, frantic fear, and breathless
bewilderment as myself. Ah, how I existed through those
grey, gloomy March days I cannot explain. The mystery of it
all was inscrutable.

I should, I knew, be able to satisfy myself as to poor

Mabel’s fate if only I could clear up the mystery of who
killed Professor Greer.

This tension of nerves and constant longing for the return of

the one for whom I held such a great and all-absorbing love
was now telling upon my health. I ate little, and the mirror
revealed how pale, careworn, and haggard I had become.
Since the dawn of the New Year I was, alas! a changed
man. In two months I had aged fully ten years.

From inquiries I made of men interested in science and in

chemistry I had discovered how great a man was the dead
Professor, and how beneficial to mankind had been certain
of his discoveries. Fate—or is it some world spirit of tragic-
comedy?—plays strange pranks with human lives now and
then, and surely nothing more singular ever happened in
our London life of to-day than what I have already narrated
in these pages.
And to that thin, grey-faced neighbour of mine—the man
who led a double life—was due the blame for it all. Though I
made every endeavour and every inquiry, I could not learn
what was his profession. That he was a man of means, a
constant traveller, and well known in clubland, was all the
information I could obtain.

You will wonder, perhaps, why I did not go again to

Whitehall Court and force the truth from the fellow’s lips.
Well, I hesitated, because in every argument I had had with
him he had always won and always turned the tables upon
myself. I had made a promise which, however justifiable my
action, I had, nevertheless, broken. I had denounced him to
the police, believing that I should see him arrested and
charged. Yet, on the contrary, the authorities refused to lift
a finger against him.

What could I think? What, indeed, would you have thought

in the circumstances? How would you have acted?

One morning I had gone out early with Drake, trying the
chassis of a new “twenty-four,” and finding ourselves in
front of the grey old cathedral at Chichester, we pulled up at
the ancient “Dolphin” to have luncheon. My mind had been
full of Mabel all the way, and though I had driven I had paid
little or no attention to the car’s defects. Dick Drake, motor
enthusiast as he was, probably regarded my preoccupied
manner as curious, but he made no comment, though he
had no doubt noted all the defects himself.

I had lunched in the big upstairs room—a noble apartment,

as well known to travellers in the old coaching days as to
the modern motorist—and had passed along into another
room, where I lit a cigarette and stretched myself lazily
before the fire.
A newspaper lay at hand, and I took it up. In my profession
I have but little leisure to read anything save the motor-
journals; therefore, except a glance at the evening paper, I,
like hundreds of other busy men, seldom troubled myself
with the news of the day.

I was smoking and scanning the columns of that morning’s

journal when my eyes fell upon a heading which caused me
to start in surprise. The words read, “Steel Discovery: New
High-Speed Metal with Seven Times Cutting Power of Old.”

The short article read as follows:

“Few prophecies have been more quickly justified than

that of Professor Greer at the Royal Institution on
December 16th last. He then said:

”‘As to Mr Carnegie’s prophecy on the decadence of

British steel metallurgy, this exists only in the
imagination of that gentleman. So far as quality is
concerned, Britain is still first in the race for supremacy.

”‘I am strongly of opinion that in a very short time the

best high-speed steel will be a back number. It is
probable that a year hence there will be on the market
British steel with a quadruple cutting power of any now
known to metallurgy.’

“The prophecy has come true. Professor Greer, lecturing

again at the Birmingham Town Hall last night, stated
that the firm of Edwards and Sutton, of the Meersbrook
Works, Sheffield, of which Sir Mark Edwards is the head,
have, after his lengthened experiments, placed on the
market a steel with from three to seven times the
cutting power of existing high-speed steel, and which,
in contradistinction to present material, can be
hardened in water, oil, or blast.
 “The new steel, whose cutting power is almost
incredible, said the Professor, will not call for any
alteration in present machinery.”

The impostor had actually had the audacity to lecture before

a Birmingham audience! His bold duplicity was incredible.

I re-read that remarkable statement, and judged that this

new process of his must have been purchased by the great
firm of Edwards and Sutton, whose steel was of world
repute. His was, I presumed, an improvement upon the
Bessemer process.

That a man could have the impudence to pass himself off as

Greer was beyond my comprehension. As Waynflete
Professor at Oxford he would, I saw, be well known, even if
he did not go much into society. And yet he had stood upon
the platform in the Town Hall of Birmingham and boldly
announced a discovery made by the man whose identity he
had so audaciously assumed.

This action of the impostor, who had no doubt sold the

Professor’s secret at a high figure to a well-known firm,
absolutely staggered belief.

I called Drake, mounted upon the ugly chassis again, and

together we sped post-haste back to London. At ten that
night I was in the Grand Hotel at Birmingham, and half an
hour later I called at the house of a certain Alderman
named Pooley, who was a member of the society before
which the bogus Professor had lectured on the previous
evening.

I had some little difficulty in inducing him to see me at that

late hour. He was a busy solicitor, and his servant referred
me to his office in Bull Street, where, she said, he would
see me in the morning. But, being pushful, Mr Pooley at last
consented to see me.

“Yes,” he said, as I sat with him in his dining-room, “it is

quite true that Professor Greer lectured before us last night,
and made a most interesting announcement—one which
seems to have caused a good deal of stir in the world of
metallurgy. The papers were full of it to-day.”

“I understood the Professor was abroad,” I remarked rather

lamely.

“So he was. He came home specially to fulfil a long-

standing engagement. He promised us to lecture, and gave
us the date as far back as November last.”

“Do you know where he arrived from?” I inquired.

“Yes. He dined with us here before the lecture, and stayed

with us the night. He told us at dinner that he had just
returned from Roumania.”

“Then he did not leave Birmingham until this morning!” I

cried. “Ah, how I wish I had known! Have you any idea
where he has gone?”

“I went with him to the station this morning, and he took a

ticket to Sheffield—to visit Sir Mark Edwards, I believe. He
met at the station a friend who had been to the lecture and
who had stayed at the Grand that night. He was introduced
to me as Mr Kirk. Do you know him?”

“Kirk?” I gasped. “Yes; a tall, thin, grey-haired man—Mr

Kershaw Kirk.”

“Yes. They travelled together,” said the Alderman. “It

seemed as though Kirk came from London to meet the
Professor, who had returned by the Hook of Holland to
Harwich, and came on by the through carriage to
Birmingham.”

“And you believe that Kirk has gone with the Professor to
visit Sir Mark Edwards?” I exclaimed eagerly.

“I think so. If you sent a letter to the Professor at Sir Mark’s

address, it’s quite probable that he would get it.”

“Had you ever met the Professor before?” I inquired.

“No, never. Of course I knew him well by repute.”

“Did he mention that Edwards and Sutton were old friends

of his?”

“I gathered that they were not. He had simply concluded an

arrangement with them for working his process as a matter
of business. Indeed, he mentioned that Sir Mark Edwards
had invited him for a few days.”

“Then they are not friends of long standing?” I asked.

“Probably not. But—well, why do you ask such curious

questions as these, Mr—Holford? What, indeed, is the
motive of all this inquiry? The Professor is a well-known
man, and you could easily approach him yourself,” the keen
solicitor remarked.

“Yes, probably so. But my inquiry is in the Professor’s own

interest,” I said, because I had to make my story good. “As
a matter of fact, I have learnt of an attempt to steal the
secret of his process, and I’m acting for his protection.
When my inquiries are complete, I shall go to him and place
the whole matter before him.”
“Your profession is not that of a detective?” he suggested,
with a laugh.

“No; I’m a motor engineer,” I explained bluntly. “I know

nothing, and care less, about detectives and their ways.”

Then I apologised for disturbing him at that hour and made

my way back in the cab that had brought me to the centre
of the city.

I left New Street Station at two o’clock in the morning—

cold, wet, and cheerless—and at half-past four was in the
Midland Hotel at Sheffield, sleepy and fagged.

The night-porter knew nothing of Sir Mark Edwards’

address; therefore I had to wait until eight o’clock, when
some more intelligent member of the hotel staff came on
duty.

Everyone of whom I inquired, however, seemed ignorant;

hence I took a cab and drove to the great works of the firm
—a huge, grimy place, with smoky chimneys and heaps of
slag, an establishment employing several thousand hands,
and one of the largest, if not the largest, in Hallamshire.
Here I was informed that Sir Mark resided thirty miles
distant, at Alverton Hall, close to the edge of Bulwell
Common, famed for its golf links.

Therefore at ten o’clock I took train there, and, finding a fly

at the station, drove direct to the Hall to face and denounce
the man who was an accomplice of assassins, if not the
assassin himself, and a bold, defiant impostor.

The fly, after traversing a country road for a mile or so,

suddenly entered the lodge-gates and proceeded up a
splendid avenue of high bare elms, until we drew up at the
entrance to a fine old Elizabethan mansion, the door of
which was thrown open by a liveried manservant.

I held my breath for a second. My chase had been a long

and stern one.

Then I inquired for the honoured and distinguished guest—

who I had already ascertained at the works in Sheffield was
supposed to be staying there—and was ushered with great
ceremony into the wide, old-fashioned hall.

At last the impostor was near his unmasking. At last I would

be able to prove to the world who killed Professor Greer!
 Chapter Twenty Seven.
Several Revelations.

Alverton Hall, a noble old mansion, had been purchased by

the Sheffield steel magnate Sir Mark Edwards some ten
years before. In addition, I heard that he owned a beautiful
place in Glamorganshire and rented a great deer-forest in
Scotland. He was one of England’s manufacturing princes,
whose generosity to charitable institutes and to the city of
Sheffield was well known, and whose daughter had, only a
year ago, married into the peerage.

A short, bluff, bald-headed old fellow, he spoke quickly,

almost snappishly, when I was ushered into his presence in
a small, cosily-furnished room that looked out upon a fine
old-world terrace, with a Jacobean garden beyond.

“It is true that I’m expecting Professor Greer on a visit

here,” he said, with a broad Hallamshire accent, in reply to
my question. “Who, may I ask, are you?”

I explained that I was an intimate friend who desired to see

him immediately upon very important business, and that I
had come down from London for that purpose.

“Well,” replied the short, active little man, “I expected him

yesterday, and cannot think why he has not arrived.”

“You have had some important business dealings with him,

Sir Mark, I see from yesterday’s paper?”

“Yes, very important. He made a statement in Birmingham

explaining his discovery.”
“I suppose it is a most important one?”

“Most important. It opens up a new era in the British steel

trade and places us in the foremost rank. At this moment
no other steel in the world can compete with that from our
Meersbrook Works, thanks to the Professor.”

“You’ve known him a long time, I presume?”

“I’ve not known him personally very long,” was Sir Mark’s
reply. “He is a man who has kept himself very much to
himself. But, of course, as you know, his reputation is
worldwide. He is bringing with him his agent, Mr Kirk.”

“His agent!” I echoed, astounded. “You know him?”

“Of course. I’ve had several dealings with him. He was with
us in Vienna a week or so ago.”

“And was Greer there also?”

“Of course,” replied the steel manufacturer. “The contract

was arranged there.”

“And who else was with him?”

“No one to my knowledge—except an English lady who lived

at the Continental in the Praterstrasse, while we were at the
Grand. She seemed to be a friend of the Professor, for one
evening he introduced me to her. By the way, her name was
very similar to yours, I think—Holworth or Holford.”

“That was in Vienna?” I gasped.

“Yes. He introduced me in Leidinger’s restaurant, in the

Karntnerstrasse.”
“And the lady—what was she like? Young or old?” I inquired
breathlessly.

“Young,” was his answer.

And, proceeding, he gave me a perfect description of Mabel!

“What was her attitude towards the Professor?”

“She appeared to be most eager to protect him from any

suspicion of fraud. She seemed to regard me with some
misgivings—I know not why. Indeed, the reason of her
being in Vienna and mixed up in the business struck me as
altogether remarkable, for, truth to tell, I prefer not to deal
with the fair sex in matters of pure business. I’m a plain
man,” he added, with a strong burr in his voice, “and I
believe always in straightforward dealing, whether it be in
paying a workman a day’s wage or carrying out a
Government contract.”

“This is all very interesting to me, Sir Mark,” I said, without,

however, telling him that the lady in question was my lost
wife. “You appear not to have approved of the lady’s
connection with the sale of the patent?”

“I didn’t, I frankly tell you,” he said. “I told Kirk my mind

quite plainly, but he assured me that the lady was a great
friend of the Professor.”

I bit my lip savagely. How was it that Mabel, my dear,

beloved wife, had allied herself with that pair of
adventurers? What could have been the story told to her to
induce her to become the catspaw of men of that stamp?

It was on the tip of my tongue to tell the great steel

magnate that he had purchased a secret which did not
belong to the seller, and that the “Professor Greer” he knew
was not the real discoverer. But I hesitated. Before I spoke I
would unmask this impostor and his “agent,” Kershaw Kirk.

A word from me to this shrewd, hard-headed man of

business, and the two would, I felt assured, find themselves
in the hands of the police.

Yes, I now held the trump card. At any moment the pair
might drive up to pay their promised visit to Sir Mark. And
when they did, what an awkward surprise would await
them!

I laughed within myself when I realised how innocently they

would fall into my vengeful hands.

So communicative and pleasant was the bald-headed man

that I went one step further, daring to ask:

“I presume the price your firm paid for the secret of the
new process was a substantial one?”

“A very large one,” he replied. “A big sum down, as well as a

handsome royalty. This must be the second fortune which
Greer has made. He has received a lot of money for his
process of hardening armour-plates. The Admiralty use only
plates hardened by the Greer process, for here, as in many
other things, England is still ahead of Germany.”

“Have you ever been to the Professor’s house in London?” I

asked.

“Never. He has, however, invited me to dine there next

week.”

“Next week!” I cried. “Then, of course, you’ll go? You’ll

probably find Kershaw Kirk there.”
“Yes,” he laughed; “most probably. He’s a strange man—
isn’t he?—and most influential.”

“He’s certainly strange, but as regards his influence, I know

nothing,” was my quick reply.

“Why, my dear sir, his influence is enormous! He can go

direct to quarters where we are entirely debarred!” declared
my companion, as I sat back in the chair listening to these
revelations.

“How? I don’t follow you.”

“Well,” he declared, “to me, the reason of Kirk’s influence is

a complete mystery, but it has been conclusively proved
more than once that he has the entrée to the highest
quarters, and the ear of the authorities.”

I laughed.

“I suppose he has misled you into the belief that he has, Sir
Mark. He’s a boaster—like many other men of his stamp.”

“He’s a boaster and a trifle eccentric, I admit. Yet I have

myself had experience of his undoubted influence. He’s in
some position of great trust.”

“There, I fear, I must differ, Sir Mark. I happen to know him

well, and I think one day ere long you’ll discover that his
powers are merely imaginary.”

The short, bald-headed man shrugged his shoulders

dubiously, whereat, in order not to go contrary to his
opinion, I turned our conversation into a different channel. I
had already learned much of interest, but much, too, that
had caused me a twinge of despair.
We spoke of other things, and apparently impressed by the
fact that I was eager to meet Greer, he invited me to wait
until he and Kirk arrived.

“But they may not be coming, after all,” I said. “They may
have changed their minds.”

“I think that hardly probable,” Sir Mark replied. “They have

been delayed, though I’ve ascertained that they left
Birmingham to come direct here.”

I told him nothing of my visit to Alderman Pooley, but my

only fear was that, with the report of the bogus Professor’s
speech appearing in the papers, the impostor had become
alarmed and again made himself scarce. To me it appeared
much as though he and his accomplices had never intended
the announcement to get into the papers. Indeed, even Sir
Mark had expressed himself surprised at reading the report,
understanding that the meeting was a purely private one of
the learned society which had invited him to lecture.

I smoked a cigar with the affable little man, and then he left
me, being called to the telephone. When he re-entered the
room, he said:

“I’ve been speaking to the Professor. It seems that he’s at

home, at his house in London. He was recalled suddenly by
telegram, and not having been home since his return from
the Continent he was compelled to obey the summons. He
promises to come here next Monday.”

My heart sank once more within me. The truth was just as I
had feared! The report of his speech in the papers had
alarmed him, and he was no doubt on his way abroad
again, having netted a goodly sum from Messrs Edwards
and Sutton for a secret filched from the unfortunate man
who had been assassinated.
“Then I’ll go back to London at once,” I announced; and,
without betraying my anxiety to my bald-headed friend,
who had been so cleverly victimised, I bade him adieu, and
an hour later left Bulwell for London.

In the grey March afternoon I alighted from a hansom

before that well-remembered door of the Professor’s house
in Sussex Place. I did not for one moment believe him to be
there. He had, of course, escaped long ago. In Edinburgh
and in Glasgow I had been close at his heels, as I had also
been in Birmingham, yet he had always cleverly evaded me.

To my amazement my ring was answered by Antonio—

sleek, smiling, yet as evil-faced as ever!

“Is your master at home?” I asked sharply, for I certainly

had not expected to meet the man who had escaped to
Italy, and who had afterwards threatened me.

“No, signore,” was his bland reply. “He is out at present.”

“Then he—he’s at home again?”

“Yes, signore. He returned unexpectedly yesterday.”

“And Miss Ethelwynn?”

“The signorina is still at Broadstairs; we expect her up to-

morrow.”

“And my wife, Antonio—where is she?” I inquired, looking

him straight in the face.

“Ah, how can I tell, Signor Holford? Have I not already told
you that I am entirely ignorant of her whereabouts?” And
he exhibited his bony palms.
“You have been with your master in Hungary or in
Roumania, I hear?”

“Certainly! Why not?” he said, as we stood within the wide

hall. “But the Signor Kirk is upstairs in the study. Perhaps
you will care to see him? I believe he has been trying to
telephone to you at Chiswick.”

I started in eager anticipation.

“Of course, I’ll see Mr Kirk,” I said.

And endeavouring to steady my nerves and control my

temper, I mounted the thickly-carpeted stairs to the room I
so well remembered.

The point which puzzled me was whether I should now

boldly accuse Kirk of duplicity and fraud. If I did, I feared
that, to the bogus Professor, he might give the alarm, and
that he would again slip through my fingers.

On my way to the study I resolved upon a purely diplomatic

course. I would not let Kirk know of my visits to
Birmingham and Sheffield, or even that I had noticed the
report of the Professor’s announcement.

For a second I held my breath. Then I turned the handle of

the door and boldly entered.

“Why, my dear Holford,” cried Kirk, jumping up from the

writing-chair and grasping my hand as though delighted at
my visit, “I’ve been trying to get on to you at your garage
three times this morning, but your people have been
engaged. You must be pretty busy down there—eh?”

The thin-faced man was, indeed, a perfect actor.

“I called to see Antonio,” I said. “I heard he had returned.”

“Then it is fortunate—most fortunate,” he said. “I am

awaiting the return of someone who is very desirous indeed
of making your acquaintance. It was for that reason that
I’ve been trying to ring you up.”

My lips parted in an incredulous smile. So the impostor was

anxious to meet me—doubly anxious, no doubt, because he
was aware that I knew the truth of poor Greer’s death.

Yes, I would meet and unmask him.

 Chapter Twenty Eight.
“No Trumps.”

In the failing London light, as Kirk rose and stood near the
window, his countenance was even more sinister and more
mysterious than ever. About his lips played that enigmatical,
sarcastic smile which so tantalised and irritated me. Here
was a man who had actually deceived the hard-headed
Sheffield magnate into a belief that he possessed power and
influence, while, in reality, he was only a clever adventurer.

“Sit down, Holford,” he said, in a cheery voice, inviting me

to a big leather arm-chair. “The time has come when it is
very necessary for you and me to arrive at some clear and
definite understanding.”

“Yes,” I cried, “I agree with you. Have I not asked you all
along for a clear statement of facts? Have I not urged you
to tell me where I can find my wife?”

“You have,” he said, leaning against the big, old-fashioned

mahogany table piled with books and scientific periodicals.
“But until the present I have been unable to satisfy you.
Even now I am still in a great measure in the dark as to the
—well, the unfortunate occurrence, shall we call it?—which
took place in this house.”

“But you have, I understand, been acting in concert with

the man who calls himself Greer?” I remarked. “You’ve been
with him abroad!”

“I don’t deny that. Why should I?”

I shrugged my shoulders impatiently. His evasion was
always cunning, always well-contrived.

“When you first brought me here,” I said, “it was to obtain

my assistance to discover who killed Professor Greer, and—”

“And you made a promise which you did not keep!” he

interrupted. “Hence I have been unable to keep faith with
you. Is not that quite feasible?”

“My wife’s disappearance is the point which most concerns

me,” I said. “The other matter is, to me, of secondary
importance. If you cared to divulge, you could tell me my
wife’s whereabouts. I happen to know that she has been in
Vienna, staying at the Hôtel Continental, and she has been
seen in your company, Mr Kirk.”

“Now that’s really quite smart of you!” he laughed, with a

patronising air, his grey face changing slightly, I thought. “I
wonder how you came to know that?”

“The source of my information does not matter,” I said

sharply. “Suffice it that it is a reliable one.”

“Well,” he laughed, “since that evening when you sat with

me in Bedford Park I’ve been compelled to be active, and
I’ve discovered quite a number of things which at that time
I never dreamed—facts that have amazed me, as they will,
before long, amaze you, Holford.”

“Nothing can amaze me in this crooked affair,” I declared.

“You sought my aid in an endeavour to discover who killed
Professor Greer, yet, having gained my confidence, you at
once abused it!” I cried, with bitter reproach.

“That is your present opinion,” he said, with a keen, crafty

look.
“An opinion based upon your actions towards me!” I
exclaimed hotly.

“My dear Holford,” he said, “now let us speak quite frankly,

as man to man.” And he bent towards me in an eager
attitude. “I put it to you whether, in the circumstances—not
overlooking the fact that Scotland Yard has refused you
assistance—to forget what you saw that night upstairs in
the laboratory, to place it aside as though you never
witnessed it, is not the best plan?”

“Ah, you wish still to hush up the tragedy!” I cried. “The

reason is, of course, quite obvious.”

“You misinterpret my words. I wish to avoid bringing

scandal upon innocent folk,” Kirk replied quickly. “You once
gave me a pledge of secrecy, and you broke it. Will you give
me another?”

“And if I gave it,” I asked, not without some hesitation,

“would these precious friends of yours give me back my
wife?”

“I cannot answer for others. Personally, I will do all I can to

assist you,” was his somewhat evasive reply.

“Why do you wish to extract this promise from me?” I

demanded dubiously.

“Because—well, because you must give it. You must remain

silent, Holford. It is imperative!”

“You really ask too much of me,” I laughed sarcastically. “I

know the ghastly truth. You showed it to me of your own
accord—you yourself drew me into this dark, mysterious
affair, and now you coolly demand my silence, because you
are, I suppose, interested in the money realised by the sale
of Professor Greer’s secret.”

“Ethelwynn Greer makes the same demand as myself,” he

said calmly. “Surely you don’t believe that the girl has
participated in any shamefully obtained profits?”

“The girl saw her father dead, and now refuses to admit it,”
I responded.

“How do you know that she did?” he asked. “What actual

evidence have you upon that point, beyond my word—
repeated from the story told to me by Antonio?”

“Ah! so Antonio is changing his tale in order to fit the new

order of events—is he?”

“Well,” Kirk said, after a brief pause, “that there is a new

order of events—as you put it—I admit. Yet, whatever they
may be, your silence, Holford, as well as mine, is
imperative. You hear that!” he added, looking straight into
my face.

“To hear and to heed are scarcely synonymous,” I remarked

in anger. I was incensed with this man who refused to give
me any satisfaction concerning Mabel, and yet commanded
my silence.

Was it not a very curious feature of the affair, I reflected,

that Ethelwynn had ingeniously approached me, offering me
news of Mabel in return for my undertaking to make no
further inquiry into her father’s secret death? How much did
Langton know, and what was the extent of the knowledge of
that friend of his, the specialist in diseases of the throat and
nose?
For a few moments I sat in silence, longing for the return of
the bogus Professor, the man whom I had followed through
Edinburgh and Glasgow, yet who had so very cleverly
escaped my vigilance.

I was anxious to meet him, and to see what kind of man he

could be. As an impostor he was, it seemed, shameless and
bold beyond human credence.

How many thousands had Edwards and Sutton paid to him

for that great secret that was not his own?

Antonio, suave and cringing, suddenly put his head in at the

door, asking:

“Did you ring, signore?”

“No!” I cried, rising angrily, “Mr Kirk did not ring. I suppose
you’ve been listening outside—eh? You are one of the
accomplices in the murder of your master—and by Heaven,
you shall pay for it! If Scotland Yard will not help me, then
I’ll take the law into my own hands and give the public an
illustration of the red-tape and the uselessness of the
police!”

“The signore is a little excited!” was the man’s quiet remark

to Kirk.

“Excited, by Heaven!” I cried. “I’ll be fooled no longer by

any of you—band of assassins that you are! You ask me to
believe that black is white, and tell me that my own eyes
deceive me. But I’ll be even with you yet—mark me!”

“Pray calm yourself, Holford,” said Kirk, shifting his position

slightly and still leaning easily against the table, “No good
can be served by recrimination.”
The man’s cunning was unequalled; his ingenuity almost
superhuman. Once I had held him in awe, but now, knowing
the truth, that I held information which it was his earnest
desire to suppress, I felt triumphant.

“I admit,” he said, still speaking calmly, as Antonio

disappeared and shut the door—“I admit that there are
certain ugly facts—very ugly facts which are difficult to
forget, but is it not better to be merciful to the innocent and
living than to revenge the dead?”

“You desire to seal my lips, my dear sir,” I said. “Why don’t

you speak quite plainly?”

“Yes,” he admitted, “I make that appeal to you because—

well, for several very strong reasons—Ethelwynn’s future
being one.”

“And what, pray, need I care for that girl’s future, now that
mine has been wrecked by the devilish machinations of you
and your gang?” I cried in bitter anger.

“Your denunciation is quite uncalled for, Holford!” he

exclaimed.

“It is not,” I protested. “You know where my wife is, and

you refuse to tell me!” was my quick answer.

“Please don’t let us discuss that further,” he urged. “The

point is whether you will, or you will not, regard all you saw
in this house a couple of months ago as entirely
confidential.”

“Why?”

“For reasons which you shall know later. I regret that I

cannot explain at this moment, because I should be
breaking a confidence,” he responded. “But,” he added,
looking at me very seriously, “a life—a woman’s life—
depends upon your silence!”

I hesitated a moment.

“Ah, I see!” I cried. “Then the girl conspired to encompass

her father’s end, and is now in fear of the impostor!”

“I must leave you to your own opinion,” he said, with a

shrug of his thin shoulders. Then, turning away to the
window, he thrust his hands into his pockets, and, with that
cosmopolitan air of his, he hummed a verse of that catchy
song of the boulevards he so often sang.
 Chapter Twenty Nine.
I am Faced with Another Difficulty.

The careless manner in which Kirk seemed to treat the

grave issue of my life enraged me. This man, who in
Chiswick posed as shabby and broken-down, was certainly
no ordinary person. He was a shrewd, clever adventurer,
possessed of resources that had even astonished Sir Mark
Edwards. He had entrapped me, for some hidden reason of
his own, and now he held me in a hateful bondage.

But with the vivid recollection of Mabel upon me, I resolved

to defy this enemy of mine at all costs. I was only awaiting
the return of the false Professor to unmask the pair, to call a
constable, and to give them both in charge.

What the result would be, I cared not. I should, however, at

least be afforded an opportunity to make revelations in the
police-court which they would find it somewhat awkward to
refute. Surely by doing this I should be performing a work
of public benefit? The pair were clever swindlers, reaping
the harvest from that secret discovered by the unfortunate
man who had been purposely killed.

“You appear, Mr Kirk, to consider me an absolute fool!” I

said, interrupting his song.

“I do, my dear Holford, I do. You have acted against your

own interests, and even now you are spitting against the
wind.”

“You desire my silence, yet you offer me nothing in return!”

I said.
“Oh, you want payment!” he cried. “My dear sir, you have
only to name your own price. We shall not quarrel over it, I
can assure you.”

“No,” I said angrily, “I desire no blood-money, even though

it is to save Ethelwynn Greer. I have all along suspected her
of some complicity in the affair, although on the night you
removed her to that house in Foley Street she accused you
of the crime!”

He started quickly and turned to me, his countenance

slightly paler.

“Repeat that,” he said quietly.

I did so. I told him how I had followed him to Foley Street,
of the screams and words I had heard while standing in the
fog outside the house.

“H’m. So you think I’m guilty of the crime, eh?” he said

simply.

“I repeat the girl’s allegation against you,” I said. “And yet

this same girl now declares that the Professor is not dead!”
Then I added: “He was dead when we were together in the
laboratory, was he not? Come, speak plainly!”

“Certainly he was!”

“And men do not come to life again when once dead, do

they?”

“But this is an unusual case, I tell you. He—”

“However unusual, you cannot alter the laws of life and

death,” I declared.
“Well, my dear Holford, how I wish I could reveal to you one
simple truth. It would astound you, no doubt, but it would
at the same time alter your opinion of me.”

“Oh, of course,” I laughed bitterly. “You’re not so black as

you’re painted—you who have conspired to hold my wife
aloof from me—you who for aught I know have told her
some infamous tale which has caused her to look upon me
with doubt and horror! I have recently learnt that she was
acquainted with this man who calls himself Ernest Greer,
and that, before she left my roof, she received word in
secret from him.”

“Your wife’s affairs are surely of no interest to me, Holford,”

said the grey-faced old scoundrel. “I am merely putting
forward to you a simple matter of business—in a word,
making a proposal for your consideration.”

“A proposal which I will never accept—never, you

understand!” I added with emphasis.

“Not if I appeal to you on behalf of Ethelwynn, on behalf of

a girl whose very life is dependent upon your silence?” he
asked earnestly.

“The punishment for murder is death,” was my hard

response.

He regarded me steadily, without speaking. I saw that he

realised my steadfastness of purpose, and that I meant to
reveal the truth to all the world.

“But,” he cried at last, “you surely will not act as a fool,

Holford! I told you on the night we first sat together of the
great issues that depended upon your silence, and I repeat
it now.”
“Why did you entice me into this complicated tangle of
crime and mystery?” I demanded quickly. “Tell me that.”

“Because—well—” And he hesitated. “Because I—I was a

fool—I admit it frankly. I ought never to have approached
you. Three days later I regretted it deeply.”

“Regretted it because you found, to your surprise, that you

had no fool to deal with!” I cried.

“No; because I had made a mistake in another direction.

But—but, hark?”

I listened and heard a footstep outside on the stairs.

“The Professor!” Kirk exclaimed. “He has returned. I’ll

introduce you.”

I rose from my chair, my teeth set together, my hand

gripping the edge of the table.

An instant later the door opened, and I stood boldly face to

face with the impostor.

Kirk, with that calm suavity of manner that so annoyed and

irritated me, introduced us.

But I bowed coldly to the well-dressed, elderly impostor, a

man with keen, deep-set eyes, and a short, scrubby grey
beard, asking of my companion:

“Is this farce really necessary, Mr Kirk, when I know the

truth?”

The new-comer looked askance at his accomplice, who gave

him a quick, meaning look.
“Ah! my dear Mr Holford!” exclaimed the bogus Professor,
“I’ve been most anxious to meet you for a considerable
time. This is a great pleasure.”

“And one which I most heartily reciprocate,” was my hard

reply. “I’ve been endeavouring to find you for a long time. I
followed you in Edinburgh, in Glasgow, and later on in
Birmingham.”

“Then surely it is a rather happy circumstance that we have

met to-day?” he said, rather fussily.

“Happy for me, but perhaps unhappy for you!” I replied,

with a dry laugh.

“Why?”

“Because I now intend to expose your very clever plot. The

secret you have sold to Sir Mark Edwards does not belong
to you at all, but to Professor Ernest Greer, the man who
was killed in the room yonder—in his own laboratory!”

His lips grew paler and set themselves hard. I saw in his
dark eyes an expression of fear. He held me in terror—that
was quite plain.

“Holford, you are mistaken,” declared Kirk.

“In what way?” I demanded.

“Professor Ernest Greer stands before you!”

“No!” I cried. “This man is the impostor—the impostor who

wrote to my wife, and enticed her from her home.”

“I wrote to Mrs Holford, certainly,” was the fellow’s cool

reply. “But without any evil intent; of that she will herself
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