Shedid not return for luncheon, so I was alone. At three she came back,and I saw that she looked pale and distressed, while her eyes were red,as though she had been crying. But I attributed that to our ignoranceof where you were. You know, Harry, how upset she is if when you areaway you don't write or wire to her every day," added the girl.
The story held me utterly speechless. That Mabel was acquainted insecret with the Professor astounded me. But it had been the falseProfessor who had written to her. Possibly the fellow was already inLondon while I was searching for him in Glasgow, and, if so, what wasmore probable than that she should have met him by appointment?
Not one single instant did I doubt Mabel's truth and love. If she hadmet this impostor, then she had been the victim of some cleverly-plannedplot. I was incensed only against the perpetrators of that foul crimein Sussex Place, not against the sweet, soft-spoken woman who was sonear my heart. Mabel was my wife, my love, my all-in-all.
Poor Gwen, watching my face intently, believed that she had acted as asneak towards her sister, but I quickly reassured her that it was notso. Her revelations had sent my thoughts into a different channel.
"The telegram summoning her to Italy came after her return?" I asked.
"Yes, she was upset, and would eat no tea," the girl answered. "Herconversation was all the time of you. `Harry is in danger,' she saidseveral times. `Something tells me that he is in the greatest danger.'Then, when the message came, she became almost frantic in her anxietyfor your welfare, saying, `Did I not tell you so? My husband is inperil. He is the victim of a plot!'"
"You never heard her speak of the Professor before?" I inquired.
"Never, Harry; and, truth to tell, I was surprised that she shouldreceive a letter from a man who she admitted to me was unknown to you."
"She told you that?" I cried.
"She said that you were not acquainted with the Professor, and that youmight object to him writing to her, if you knew."
"Then she was in fear of discovery, eh?" I asked in a husky voice.
"Yes," faltered the girl. "It--it almost seemed as though she was. Butreally, Harry, I--I know I've done wrong to tell you all this. I--I'mquite ashamed of myself. But it is because I am in such great fear thatsomething has happened to my sister."
"You have done quite right, Gwen," I assured her. "The circumstanceshave warranted your outspokenness. Some men might perhaps misjudgetheir wives in such a case, but I love Mabel, and she loves me.Therefore I will believe no ill of her. She is the innocent victim of aplot, and by Heaven!" I cried fiercely, "while I live I'll devote mywhole life to its exposure, and to the just punishment of any who havedared to harm her!"
CHAPTER TWENTY.
ONE TRAVELLER RETURNS.
One fact was quite plain. It was the false Professor who had written tomy wife. For aught I knew, the man whom I had followed from Edinburghto Glasgow might have already been in London, and she might have met himby appointment.
During the morning I took the "forty-eight," and ran over to Regent'sPark, passing slowly before both front and back of the house in SussexPlace. The blinds were up, but from the condition of the doorsteps itwas plain that the place was tenantless.
From the "London Directory" I obtained the number of Lady Mellor's, inUpper Brook Street, and called. The fat butler told me that Morgan,Miss Greer's maid, had left with her mistress, and as far as he knew wasdown at Broadstairs with her. Her ladyship was at Bordighera.
I inquired if he knew anything of the other servants at ProfessorGreer's.
"No, nothing," was the man's answer. "At least, nothing except that theProfessor went abroad suddenly, and that they were all discharged andgiven wages in lieu of notice."
"That Italian fellow discharged them, didn't he?" I asked.
"Yes, sir. I never liked him. He's gone abroad with his master, theysay, and they've left a caretaker in charge."
"Oh, there is someone there, eh?"
"Yes, a policeman named Murphy and his wife. They used to take care ofthis house for her ladyship, and Miss Ethelwynn has now given herfather's house over to them. They're a very steady pair, and live onthe premises."
Surely it was a master-stroke of the girl's to give over to the policethat house of tragedy! Why was she concealing the fact of her father'sdeath?
I drove back to Chiswick with that one thought uppermost in my mind.
That afternoon I sat in my own office trying to attend to the details ofa business too long neglected, and listening mechanically to Pelham, toDick Drake, and to the others in my employment, who were complaining ofthe unsatisfactory trials of a new car I had recently purchased.
Professor Greer was dead, and every trace of the crime removed, save forthose grim, indisputable relics which I had recovered from the ashes andnow held most sacred. But further, my dear wife, whose knowledge of theimpostor was so amazing, was also missing.
The one point which, I confess, caused me some qualms, was the reasonwhy, not discovering me, she had not telegraphed to Gwen. That, surely,would be her first thought. If she had missed me, she would surely havelet either Gwen or Pelham know.
Hence I could only think that she had either fallen into some fataltrap--and there are many in the by-ways of certain Continental cities--or else she was forcibly held from communicating with the outer world.If so, by whom? Probably by the Professor's false friend, Kershaw Kirk.
I could not put away from my mind the curious altitude of HamiltonFlynn. Why had he endeavoured to frighten me from going to ScotlandYard? What motive had he in this? In what manner was he assisting hisfriend, Leonard Langton?
Again, was Langton in ignorance of the Professor's end, or had heknowledge of it, and was it by his persuasion that his beloved was socleverly feigning ignorance of all the past?
I began to suspect that these two men, bosom chums that they were, hadsome hidden motive for concealing the Professor's death. Yet, afterall, the point most amazing was the reason why, in the face of facts nowrevealed, my mysterious neighbour should have taken such pains to revealthe truth to me.
That evening, after a hasty meal at home with Gwen, I went back to thegarage, put on a greasy engineer's suit which I sometimes wore whendoing dirty work around the cars, and buttoned over it a frayed tweedcoat belonging to one of the men. Then, with a cap on and a pipe in mymouth, I went forth, and made my way on the top of a motor-'bus to thecorner of Wimpole Street.
If Flynn went out I intended to watch his proceedings, for though Ientertained only a vague suspicion of Langton, yet I felt confident thathis friend was not acting squarely.
Have you ever been seized with misgivings of a person whom you have nojust cause to doubt? Is not such a feeling the result of some unseenevil influence radiating from the person suspected--often quite rightly?
My first impression of this specialist in diseases of the throat andnose was a bad one.
Therefore, I strolled up the long, eminently respectable street,crossing Wigmore Street and Queen Anne Street, until a few doors on theleft before coming into Great Marylebone Street, I halted before thehouse wherein the pair shared chambers.
There were bright lights in their big sitting-room on the first floor,the room wherein Flynn had made those covert threats. It was thenhalf-past eight. They would have dined by that hour, and if they weregoing out they would certainly very soon make an appearance.
I strolled to the corner of Great Marylebone Street, and idled at thecorner, watching. The evening was bright and cold, and many cabs werepassing and repassing. I lit my pipe, and sauntered up and down, my eyeever upon the front door of the house wherein the two men lived.
The time hung heavily, as it ever does when one is watching. An hourdragged by, but no one came out. At last, however, a maid ran up thearea steps and came in my direction with a letter in her hand ready forposting in the pillar-box near which I was standing.
As she stopped I spoke to her, but at first she hesitated to answer.After slippin
g five shillings into her hand, however, I induced her totell me that the doctor had dined alone, and was sitting upstairs. Mr.Langton had, she said, left London early in the afternoon, but she wasunaware of where he had gone.
"Tell me," I asked the girl, "do they ever have a visitor named Kirk?"
"Kirk!" she echoed. "Oh, yes, I recollect, 'e used to often call, butof late 'e 'asn't been." And she described my mysterious neighbourexactly.
"When did he last call?" I asked.
"Oh, I should say it 'ud be quite a month ago. 'E always used to arskfor the doctor."
"Never for Mr. Langton?"
"Not to my knowledge. Indeed, one afternoon when 'e called I told 'imthat the doctor was out, but that Mr. Langton was
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