The Red Room

by William Le Queux

crafty-faced, round-shoulderedspecialist in diseases of the throat intended to profit by informationderived from me regarding the mysterious Kirk. Why, I did not know. Weall of us have at times a strange intuition of impending evil, one thatwe cannot account for and cannot describe.

  Recollect, I was only just an ordinary man, a hard-working industriousdealer in motor-cars, a man who made a fair income, who was no romancer,and was entirely devoted to his wife, who had, ever since his marriage,been his best friend and adviser.

  The Professor was a scientist, I remembered, and this man Hamilton Flynnwas apparently a doctor of some note. Could there be any connectionbetween the pair, I wondered. Flynn, Langton's most intimate friend,was no doubt aware of much, if not all, that transpired in theProfessor's household. That he knew Kershaw Kirk was apparent by hissurprise when I mentioned his name.

  "Kirk is a mere acquaintance of mine," I responded, after a brief pause;"whether he is my friend, or my enemy, remains to be seen."

  "He's your enemy, depend upon that, Mr. Holford," declared Flynnemphatically. "He is a marvellously clever schemer, and the friend offew."

  I bit my lip. Well did I know, alas! that the fellow whose asides tohis pet "Joseph" were so entertaining was not my friend.

  It was upon my tongue to explain how the description of that man who wastravelling with my wife in search of me tallied with that of my strangeneighbour who had, with such subtle cunning, drawn me into thatmysterious tragedy. But next second I hesitated. This man Flynn Imistrusted. My impression was that he was not playing a straight game,either with myself or with his friend Leonard Langton.

  A thousand questions I had to ask those men--and Langton especially--butI saw by their attitude that their intention was rather to mislead methan to reveal anything. When I presently bade them farewell neither ofthem offered to assist me in my search for Mabel.

  Therefore I went forth into the darkness and silence of Wimpole Street--for it was now near midnight--and walked down into Oxford Street ere Icould find a taxi-cab to convey me back to my now cheerless home.

  Lying awake that night, I decided to postpone my journey to Germany. Itwas evident that the impostor passing himself off as the Professor hadtaken my telegram purporting to come from Kirk as a warning, and hadescaped. I had been a fool to telegraph. I should have gone thereinstead. His reason for keeping up the fiction that the Professor wasalive was, of course, obvious, for while he did so there would be noinquiry into the whereabouts of the missing man.

  I had made a promise to Kershaw Kirk, yet now that he had so grosslydeceived me, why should I keep it? Why should I not tell the truth?

  I reflected; there were, I saw, three reasons why I should stillpreserve silence. The first was because, after that lapse of time, Ishould be suspected, perhaps arrested, as an accomplice and draggedthrough a criminal court. The second was that Ethelwynn herself was,for some amazing reason, pretending that her father still lived; and thethird was by reason of the strange threat of Mabel's death uttered bythe evil-faced Italian, and repeated by that Harley Street specialistwho was Leonard Langton's closest friend.

  The assassins were actually holding my dear wife as hostage against anyrevelation I dared to make! That, in a word, was the true position.

  I paced my room that night in the agony of despair. Of nothing did Ithink but the dear, sweet-faced woman so suddenly enticed away from myside by reason of her eagerness to meet me. She was a woman of highideals and of lofty sentiments; a womanly woman who, though fond of alittle gaiety and of the theatre, realised that her place was in her ownhome, where she reigned supreme.

  Before my marriage my father, as fathers will, had looked upon her withconsiderable misgiving. She was a little too flighty, too fond ofdress, of dinners, and dances, he had said. But after our wedding andour honeymoon spent in a car touring up in Scotland, she had settleddown, and never for a single instant had I regretted my choice. Few mencould say that.

  Indeed, up to that day when Kershaw Kirk called to inspect the Eckhardttyre, I was one of the happiest men in all London; prosperous in mybusiness, and contented in my love.

  Now, alas! all had changed. I was obsessed by the knowledge of a greatand startling secret, and at the same time I had lost all that to me wasmost dear and cherished.

  Next morning Gwen, fresh in her clean cotton blouse, and the big blackbow in her hair, sat in her accustomed place at the breakfast table, butafter greeting me lapsed into a thoughtful silence.

  At last she asked: "Have you packed your things, Harry?"

  "Oh, I forgot to tell you!" I exclaimed. "I'm not going to-day. I'vechanged my mind."

  "Not going? Why, I thought you intended to see the Professor inStrassburg?" she cried.

  "He has left," I sighed; "I learned last night that he is on his way toHungary."

  "And will you not follow?" asked the girl in reproach. "Will you nottry to discover where Mabel is?"

  "I've tried, Gwen--and failed," I answered despairingly.

  "You have not told me all, Harry," she said, looking across at me. Atthe head of the table was Mabel's empty place. "You have concealedsomething from me," she declared.

  "It is nothing that you should know," was my quick reply. "My ownprivate business does not concern you, Gwen--or Mabel either."

  "But surely I ought to know the truth? Mabel has been decoyed awayabroad, and there must be some motive for it," she replied in bittercomplaint.

  "Of course, my dear girl, but even I, in the knowledge of what haspassed, cannot discern what the motive can be. If I could, all would beplain sailing, and we would soon recover her," I said.

  "Who is this Professor of whom you have spoken?" she asked, leaning herelbows upon the table, and gazing straight into my eyes.

  "Professor Greer, the well-known chemist."

  "Greer?" echoed the girl, staring at me strangely.

  "Yes, why?"

  But she hesitated, as though disinclined to tell me something which wasupon her mind.

  "You know the Professor, eh, Harry?"

  "I've met him once," I replied, which was perfectly true.

  "And only once?" she asked.

  "Only once," was my quick response.

  "That's curious."

  "Why?"

  "Well--well, I suppose I ought not to tell you, for, of course, Harry--it's no business of mine," remarked the girl, "but as Mabel is nowmissing, no fact should be concealed, and I think you really ought toknow that--"

  "That what?" I cried. "Tell me quickly, Gwen! Conceal nothing fromme!"

  "Well, that Mabel one morning received a note delivered by expressmessenger, and I asked her whom it was from. She seemed unusuallyflurried, and told me that it was from Professor Greer."

  "But she never knew him!" I gasped. "What day was that?"

  "The day before you returned from Glasgow."

  "The same day on which she received that telegram from Italy purportingto be signed by me!"

  I exclaimed. "Why didn't you tell me this before, Gwen?"

  "Mabel's affairs have nothing to do with me. I am not interested in hercorrespondents, Harry," she replied. "Surely it is not my place tocarry tales to you, is it?"

  "No; pardon me," I said, hastening to excuse myself, "but in this affairthe truth must be told."

  "Then why haven't you told it to me?" asked the girl. "Why are you socarefully hiding other facts?"

  "Because they are of concern only to myself--a secret which is mine, andmine alone."

  "And it does not concern Mabel?" she demanded.

  "No," I replied hoarsely, "except that her acquaintance with theProfessor has placed a new phase upon the mystery. Tell me all thathappened concerning that note."

  "It came about eleven o'clock in the morning," she said. "I saw atelegraph-boy come up the steps, and believed he had a message from you.Annie took the note and brought it here into the dining-room, whereMabel signed for it. She read it through, and I saw that it caused hera gr
eat shock of surprise. Her hands were trembling. I inquired whatwas the matter, but she made some evasive reply. I demanded to knowwhom it was from, and she replied that her correspondent's name wasGreer. `He ought never to have written to me,' she added. `Men aresometimes most injudicious.' Then she rose and placed the letter in theflames, watching it until it had been burned."

  "And is that all?" I demanded, astounded at the girl's story.

  "Yes, except that for some hours afterwards she seemed very upset. Tome it appeared as though she had received word of some unusualoccurrence. At noon she called a taxi by telephone, and went out.