The Red Room

by William Le Queux

part self-advertisers, or donations are given in orderto establish an unstable confidence and extend a false credit. Thus,even in our charities, we have become humbugs, because the worship ofthe Golden Calf has bred cant, hypocrisy, and blatant self-confidence,which must ere long be the cause of our beloved country's downfallbeneath the iron-heel of far-seeing, business-like Germany.

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

  I longed to meet Ethelwynn Greer, and put to her certain questions. Wasit not a complete enigma, startling and inscrutable, that she, havingseen her beloved father lying lifeless, should utter no word--even toyoung Langton, to whom she was evidently devoted? That fact was utterlyincomprehensible.

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

  I registered in the name of Lamb, deeming it best to conceal mypresence, and while writing in the book, scanned the page for Martin'sname. It was not, however, there. I turned back to earlier arrivalsthat day, but with no better result. So I ascended in the lift to myroom on the second floor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Again, even though at the heels of the conspirators, was I yet beingoutwitted--a fact which became the more impressed upon me on the thirdday of my futile expectancy.

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

  But, alas! my watchfulness remained unrewarded.

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

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

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

  "Who killed Professor Greer?"

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

  A REMARKABLE TRUTH.

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

  "Oh, sir! You gave me quite a turn! We didn't expect to see you backagain just yet."

  "Why not?" I inquired, with some surprise. "We thought you were withthe mistress, sir."

  "With my wife. What do you mean?"

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

  "For Italy!" I gasped. "Where's Miss Gwen? Go and ask her if she cansee me at once." And I followed the maid upstairs.

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

  "Why, Harry!" she cried. "What's the matter? I thought Mabel had goneto join you."

  "I've just come down from Glasgow, where I've been on business," Iexplained. "Where is Mabel?"

  "I don't know, except that I saw her off from Victoria at eleven the daybefore yesterday."

  "But why has she gone?"

  "To meet you," replied the girl. "The morning before last, at a fewminutes past eight, she received a telegram signed by you, urging her tomeet you at the Hotel Grande Bretagne in Florence at the earliestpossible moment. Therefore she obeyed it at once, and left by theeleven o'clock train. It was a terrible rush to get her off, I can tellyou. But haven't you been in Florence?"

  "No, I've been in Scotland," I repeated. "Did you read the telegram shereceived?"

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

  "I wish you had gone, Gwen," I said. "There's some plot here--some deepand treacherous conspiracy."

  "Why, what has happened?"

  "A lot has happened," I said. "You shall know it all later on. Atpresent I haven't time to explain. I suppose the telegram isn't leftabout anywhere?"

  "Mabel took it with her."

  "You didn't notice whence it had been despatched?" I asked.

  "From Turin. We concluded that you had halted there, on your way fromParis."

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

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

  "There's a perfectly feasible explanation, I'm sure, Harry," she said."Perhaps it is some practical joke being played upon you and Mabel byyour friends. They want you out in the South for a week or two toescape from the cold and wet of the London spring. I wouldn't worry, ifI were you."

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

  Had that crafty servant at Sussex Place dispatched the false message, Iwondered? Or was it Kirk himself? And if so, with what motive? WasMabel, my beloved and devoted wife, to fall helplessly into theirunscrupulous hands? My blood rose within me when I reflected howinnocently I had walked int
o the trap which my mysterious neighbour hadprepared for me.

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

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

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

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

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

  "You are a real good brother, Harry!" she cried. "I don't want anybreakfast. I'll go and begin to pack at once. I've never been inItaly, you know."

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

  Afterwards, greatly agitated and full of dark apprehension, I got on, bytelephone, to the Wagon-Lit office in Pall Mall, and reserved berths forus both on the Rome express from Paris as far as Pisa, where I knew wewould be compelled to change. Then I addressed a long telegram to Mabelat the Hotel Grande Bretagne, on the Lung' Arno, at Florence, explainingthat she was the victim of a bogus message, but that we were rejoiningher at once, in order to bring her home.

  I judged that she must already have arrived in Florence, butunfortunately there would be no time to receive a reply ere we leftLondon.

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

  Then I called upon Miss Kirk, but she denied all knowledge of herbrother's whereabouts. The _Times_, which I had just bought in the HighRoad, Chiswick, contained no advertised message from him. Nor did Iexpect any.

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

  Gwen, girl-like, was all excitement at the prospect of this flyingjourney to the south. At one moment she endeavoured to reassure me thatnothing was wrong, while at the next she expressed wonder at the motiveof the mysterious message.

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

  All that night, as I lay alone in my sleeping-berth while the greatexpress rocked and rolled on its way to the Alpine frontier, my mind wasfull of gravest apprehensions. Gwen had been given a berth with anotherlady at the further end of the car, and I had already seen that she wascomfortable for the night. Then I had turned in to spend those longdreary hours in wakeful fear.

  I could discern no motive for inveigling my wife--with whom Kirk hadnever spoken--to a destination abroad. Yet one curious point was quiteplain. That mysterious dweller in Bath Road--the man with the petparrot--was well aware of my absence in the north. Otherwise he wouldnot have forged my name to a message sent from Turin.

  For what reason could he desire Mabel's presence in Florence? He musthave some object in her absence. Perhaps he foresaw that her absencemeant also my absence--and that my enforced journey meant a relaxationof the vigil I had established upon the man who had gone north on thenight of the Professor's assassination. That was the only feasibletheory I could form, and I accepted it for want of any better. But inwhat a whirlwind of doubt and fear, of dark apprehensions and breathlessanxiety I now existed you may well imagine.

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

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

  Here we exchanged into a very cold and very slow train which, windingits way in the moonlight through the beautiful Arno valley all thenight, halted at the Florence terminus early in the glorious Italianmorning.

  "_Fi-renze! Fi-renze_!" cried the sleepy porters; and we alighted withonly about half a dozen other passengers who had travelled by that_treno lumaca_--or snail-train, as the Tuscans justly call it.

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

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

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

  "You have a Mrs. Holford staying here?" I asked in English of themanager, who was already in his bureau.

  "Hol-ford," he repeated, consulting the big frame of names and numbersbefore him. "Ah, yes, sir; I remember! But--" He hesitated, and theninquired, "Will you pardon me if I ask who you may be?"

  "I'm Henry Holford, madame's husband," I replied promptly.

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

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

  His astounding words rendered the remarkable enigma more complex thanever!

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

  A MAN DECEIVES A WOMAN.

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

  He said that Mrs. Holford, accompanied by her husband, had arrived atabout seven o'clock on the morning of the day before yesterday, remainedthere the day, and had left by the express for Rome at five o'clock thatsame evening.

  "You don't believe it, sir!" the man exclaimed with some warmth. "Well,here is the gentleman's signature!" And he showed me upon a printedslip, whereon hotel visitors in Italy write their names according to thepolice regulations, boldly inscribed in a firm hand, "Mr. and Mrs. HenryHolford. Profession, automobile engineer. Domicile, London. Britishsubject."

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

  "What kind of man was madame's husband?" I inquir
ed, while mysister-in-law stood by astounded.

  "He was slightly older than yourself, sir, with a moustache turninggrey."

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

  "Was he about fifty, and rather thin?"

  "Yes," replied the _hotelier_. "He spoke Italian very well; indeed,with scarcely any accent."

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

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

  "You don't happen to know to which hotel they've gone in Rome?" Iasked.

  "No. There is a telegram here for madame. It arrived half an hourafter their departure. They would leave no word with the hall-porterregarding the forwarding of letters."

  "I am her husband," I said, "and that telegram is evidently mine, whichhas been delayed in transmission, as messages so often are in thiscountry. As her husband, I have a right to open it, I suppose."

  "I regret, sir, that I cannot allow that," said the man. "You havegiven me no proof that you are madame's husband."

  "But I am!" I cried. "This lady here is my wife's sister, and willtell you."

  "Yes," declared the girl, "this is Harry, my brother-in-law. The otherman, whoever he may be, is an impostor."

  The short, bald-headed Italian in his long frock-coat, grew puzzled. Hewas faced by a problem. Therefore, after some