The Red Room

corner, by the bridge overthe canal."

  "I have never been in Strassburg," was my reply. "But I have importantbusiness with the Professor, so, with your permission, I will telegraphto him from here."

  "Most certainly," she said. "He tells me that his affairs are likely tokeep him abroad for a considerable time. But--" and she paused. Atlast she added: "I have never heard him speak of you as a friend, Mr.--Mr. Holford."

  "Perhaps not," I said quickly. "The fact is, I'm a confidential friendof his, as well as of Mr. Kershaw Kirk."

  "A friend of Mr. Kirk!" she cried, staring at me with a startledexpression, half of fear and half of surprise.

  "Yes," I said. "I believe Mr. Kirk is an intimate friend both of yourfather and yourself. Is not that so?"

  "Certainly. He's our very best friend. Both Dad and I trust himimplicitly," replied the girl. "Indeed, during my father's absence heis left in charge of my affairs."

  For a moment I remained silent.

  "He is your friend--eh?"

  "Certainly. Why do you ask?"

  "Well, because I feared that he was not your friend," I answered. "Doyou happen to know his whereabouts?"

  "He's abroad somewhere, but where I don't know."

  "Ah!" I laughed lightly, in pretence of careless irresponsibility. "Hehas always struck me as a strange figure, ever mysterious and everevasive. Who and what is he?"

  "You probably know as much of him, Mr. Holford, as I do," was the girl'sanswer. "I only know him to be an intimate friend of my father, and theideal of an English gentleman. Of his profession, or of his past, Iknow nothing. My father, who knows him intimately, is always silentupon that point."

  I noted that she spoke in the present tense, as though to preserve thefiction that her father was still alive. Ah! this girl with theinnocent eyes and the wonderful hair, the beloved of young LeonardLangton, was an admirable actress, without a doubt. Without the trembleof an eyelid, or the movement of a muscle of the mouth, she had actuallydeclared to me that Professor Greer was still alive!

  "To me, Kirk is a mystery," I declared, my gaze fixed straight into hereyes as I stood near the window where the wintry sunlight from acrossthe sea fell full upon her; "at times I doubt him."

  "And so does Mr. Langton," she responded. "But I think that the fearsof both of you are quite groundless. Mr. Kirk is a little eccentric,that's all."

  "When did you first know him?" I inquired.

  "Oh, when I came back from Lausanne, where I had been at school, I foundhim to be my father's most trusted friend. They used to spend manyevenings together in the study, smoking and discussing abstruse pointsof foreign politics in which I, a woman, have no interest."

  "And has he always showed friendship towards you, Miss Greer?" I asked.

  "Oh, yes, and to Leonard also, though of late I fear there has been somelittle unpleasantness between them."

  At this I pricked my ears. I recollected that young Langton had, to me,pretended ignorance of the very existence of Kershaw Kirk! What was themeaning of his attitude towards the man whom I had so foolishly allowedto escape, and who had repaid my friendship by inducing my wife totravel upon a fool's errand, and, as I feared, fall into a fatal traplaid open for her?

  Antonio had covertly threatened me, and I knew instinctively that mywell-beloved Mabel was now in direst peril. Ah! that wild fevered lifeI was now leading was one continuous whirl of dread, of suspicion, andof dark despair.

  "You have actual knowledge that Mr. Langton has quarrelled with Kirk?"I asked at last.

  "Yes, and I much regret it, for Mr. Kirk has been our very good friendthroughout. It was he who urged my father to allow Mr. Langton to paycourt to me," she added. "It was he who made the suggestion that wemight be allowed to marry. Such being the case, how can I think ill ofthe eccentric old fellow?"

  "Of course not," I said, "but is your trust really well founded, do youthink? Are you quite certain that he is your friend, or only yourpretended ally?"

  "I am quite certain," she declared, "I have had proof abundant of it."

  "Your father did not, I believe, tell you of his projected visit toGermany before leaving?"

  "No," was her reply. "He went up to Edinburgh, but after having left mewas suddenly compelled to alter his plans. He crossed to the Hook ofHolland, travelling from York to Harwich without returning to London."

  "This he has told you?"

  "Yes, in a letter he wrote from Cologne. I wanted to join him, but hewould not allow me, and ordered me to come down here. He is very busyconcerning one of his recent discoveries."

  "Ah!" I sighed. "He would not allow you to go to him, eh?"

  "No; he made excuse that the weather was better just now in Broadstairsthan in Southern Germany, and said that his future movements were veryuncertain, and that he could not be hampered by a woman."

  In that reply I recognised an evasiveness which was natural. TheProfessor himself was dead, and this mysterious person posing as himwas, of course, disinclined to meet Ethelwynn face to face.

  Yet that even surely did not affect the girl's amazing attitude? Sheherself had seen her father dead, yet was now actually assisting theimpostor to keep up the fiction that he was still alive!

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

  I DRAW THE IMPOSTOR.

  Having invented a story of a secret business friendship with theProfessor, I remained with his pretty daughter for perhaps a quarter ofan hour longer.

  From her I further learned that Leonard Langton was now back in London,and that Kirk had written her implicit instructions to remain atBroadstairs for the present.

  Then I bade her farewell, and walked back along the cliffs, past theGrand Hotel, to the quaint parade of the old-fashioned littlewatering-place, turning up to the chemist's shop, which is, at the sametime, the post-office.

  Thence I dispatched a telegram addressed to Professor Greer at theaddress in Strassburg which his daughter had given me, appending Kirk'sname, and asking for a reply to be sent to the Albion Hotel atBroadstairs, where I intended staying.

  Afterwards I strolled to the hotel, ate my luncheon, and idled along thedeserted jetty and promenade throughout the bleak, bright afternoon ineager expectation of a response from the impostor. My thought was everon my dear lost Mabel. Fettered by ignorance and mystery, I knew not inwhich direction to search, nor could I discern any motive by which weshould be thus parted.

  My tea I took in the hotel, and afterwards smoked a cigar, until justbefore six the waiter handed me a message, a brief reply to mine, whichread:

  "Why are you running risks in Broadstairs, when you should be elsewhere?Be judicious and leave.--Greer."

  I read the message over a dozen times. What risks could Kirk be runningby coming to Broadstairs? Was not that telegram essentially a word ofwarning given by one accomplice to another?

  And yet Ethelwynn trusted Kirk just as blindly and foolishly as herfather had done.

  But was not the truth a strange one? She had concealed from me, as shewas concealing from the world, that the Professor had died at the handof an unknown assassin.

  Or was it that she herself was an accomplice?

  No, I could never believe that. I refused to give credence to any suchsuggestion.

  I ascended the long hill to Broadstairs Station, and half an hour laterleft for Victoria. My intention was to go direct to Strassburg andthere to discover and unmask the impostor. But ere I reached London thenight mail for the Continent had already left Charing Cross, so I took ataxicab to my lonely home, where Gwen was awaiting me, still anxious andexpectant.

  I told her of the fruitlessness of my errand, whereupon she sank backinto her chair, staring straight into the fire.

  In brief I explained that I had discovered the existence of a person inStrassburg who could probably give me a clue to the whereabouts of Kirkand Mabel. Hence my intention of departing by the first service nextmorning.

  "Cannot you telegraph and ask?" suggested the girl. "We seem
, Harry, tobe losing so much time," she added frantically. "You haven't been tothe police."

  "I know, Gwen," I said in sorrow, "but I can't do more. To telegraphfurther might close the channel of our inquiry. No, we must stillremain patient."

  Then, after snatching some food which had been left in the dining-roomfor me, I swallowed a glass of burgundy and entered the small room whichI used as my particular den.

  From there I rang up Pelham on the telephone, and heard the latestdetails concerning the business which I was now sadly neglecting.Afterwards I sat down and wrote an advertisement for the _Times_, anappeal addressed to "Silence" for news of my lost wife, an appeal whichat