Chapter Eleven. The Great God Gold.

After dining at the club Frank Farquhar strolled round to Half Moon Street, and throwing himself into an armchair before the fire, gave himself up to reflection.

He was recalling what the Professor had said. It was true that all stories of lost treasure were nowadays received with incredulity, and surely this was the most amazing and most wonderful of them all.

Arminger Griffin, Regius Professor of Hebrew, treated the whole matter as a huge joke. Historical fact was wholly against the suggestion contained in these half-burned scraps which, before his departure from Pembridge Gardens, the Professor had handed back to him. Ah! if they could only reconstruct the context of those disjoined words.

He took a cigar and lit it. But a moment later he tossed it impatiently into the fire. It tasted bitter. The Professor had dashed all his hopes to the ground, for was not his opinion on such a matter final.

As he bade good-night to Gwen in the hall and held her soft hand in his she had whispered to him words of encouragement. “Father is really devoid of any romance,” she declared. “There may be something in the secret after all. Could you not endeavour to find the person who made that remarkable declaration?”

Her suggestion he was now carefully considering.

The stranger who had died in Paris was apparently not the person who made the declaration. The latter was in all probability alive. If so, could he not furnish many more facts than the scrappy information they at present possessed?

Yet what right had Doctor Diamond to the secret—and for the matter of that, what right had he himself?

That the hard-up stranger in Paris feared lest the documents should fall into other hands was shown by his last act of causing them to be burned. Such a course made it appear as though the stranger had no right to the possession of the papers. In all probability he had not!

Gwen’s suggestion, however, appealed to him. Yet to find that one man in the whole world who knew the truth would, he foresaw, be a work fraught with greatest difficulty. The only manner by which he could be approached, if found, would be upon pretence of restoring to him the charred remains of his valuable statement.

The telephone-bell rang, and he rose and answered it. The editor of one of the great daily journals controlled by his brother-in-law, Sir George, spoke from the office in Fleet Street, at that hour of the evening a hive of industry. A question of policy had arisen, and the editor, one of the shining lights of modern journalism, consulted Frank as representative of the proprietor, Sir George being still in Egypt.

Frank, after a brief conversation, left the matter entirely in the editor’s hands, and replacing the receiver walked back from the big roll-top writing-table to the fireplace, where he stood with both arms leaning on the mantelshelf gazing thoughtfully into the blazing coals.

A few moments later his man entered saying:

“A gentleman to see you, sir—Doctor Diamond.”

Frank started. His visitor was the very man of all men he wished most to consult, therefore he gave orders for him to be shown in at once.

“Why, my dear Doctor,” cried the young fellow, as the ugly little old man entered, “this is a real surprise! I thought of running down to Horsford to see you in the morning. Take off your coat and sit down. I want to have a serious chat with you.”

“I got no reply to my two letters, Mr Farquhar,” said the crook-backed little man in explanation of his visit. “So I thought I’d just run up and see how you are progressing with our business.”

Frank helped him off with his shabby frieze coat and, having installed him comfortably by the fire and given him a cigar, replied:

“Well, Doctor, the fact is I did not reply to your letters because I had nothing definite to report. I trust you will not attribute my silence to any want of courtesy. I have been busy over the matter ever since I returned to London.”

“And with what result?” asked the crafty-eyed little man.

“Nothing very satisfactory, I regret to say,” was the young man’s answer. “Yet I am not discouraged. Professor Griffin, before whom I have placed it, gives as his opinion that there is probably, something in the theory, but he will not quite commit himself to any absolute declaration.”

“Is he really competent to judge?” Diamond queried.

“Competent! Why, my dear sir, he’s one of the first Hebrew scholars in the world! He is daily engaged in making researches. History, as we are acquainted with it, may negative the theory advanced in those scraps of typewriting, yet Old Testament history is, as you know, very involved and often very contradictory.”

“Well,” exclaimed the Doctor, “to tell the truth, Mr Farquhar, I’m getting anxious. What I fear is that too many people will get knowledge of it. Then, with the secret out, we shall have others trying to investigate. And with such a gigantic business before us, is it any wonder that I’m becoming impatient?”

“Many a good business is spoilt by being in too great a hurry,” Frank declared. “Remain patient, and leave matters entirely to me,” he added reflectively. “I’ve been wondering whether, if we made diligent and secret inquiry, we might not discover the actual person, whoever he may be, who made the curious declaration. It certainly was not your dead friend.”

The Doctor hesitated. The idea at once commended itself to him.

“No,” he said. “Often when I have recalled all the romantic facts, I have been inclined to suspect that the man who died, although a scholar, had no right to possession of those papers. He intended to make money with them if death had not come so unexpectedly. His very words proved that.”

“Exactly my opinion,” declared Frank. “Now if we could but find out who the mysterious discoverer really is, we might approach him under pretence of handing back to him the remains of the papers.”

“Ah! You still have them safely, eh?” demanded the Doctor.

“Certainly. They are locked in from prying eyes in my desk yonder.”

“May I have them?”

“Of course,” was Frank’s unhesitating reply, though he had no desire to part with them at that juncture. Yet he had, unfortunately, no excuse for keeping them further. He could not say that the Professor held them, as he had given his visitor a solemn promise not to allow the documents out of his possession.

So he rose, unlocked a drawer with the key upon his chain, and handed to the deformed man the packet containing the half-burnt statement.

“Well,” remarked Diamond, as he took the precious documents in his hand, “if you think it a wise course, let us adopt it.”

“Yes, but where are we to commence our search?”

“The stranger said he was a Dane. He came from Copenhagen. Is it not probable,” suggested the Doctor, “that the discoverer was some friend of his residing in that city?”

“More than likely,” Farquhar agreed. “Yes. Let us try Copenhagen. We must first find out who are the professors of Hebrew resident there. I will write to our Copenhagen correspondent to-night and ask for a list. Then, if necessary, I will run over there myself. In this matter we must lay out a decisive line of inquiry and follow it up.”

“Quite so,” exclaimed the hunchback. “Copenhagen must be our starting-point. The initial difficulty, however, as far as I discern, is that we do not know our dead friend’s name. If we did and could trace him, we might discover whether he knew anybody who was a Hebrew scholar.”

“The Danish police would furnish us with names and descriptions of persons lately missing from the capital.”

“So they would, that’s a brilliant idea,” exclaimed the Doctor. “My opinion is that the reason why he refused his name to me, even at the final moment, was because he was wanted by the police, and intended that they should remain in ignorance of his end.”

“If so, it makes our inquiry far easier,” declared Frank. “And suppose we find him?” he asked.

“If we find him,” answered Diamond, looking straight into the eyes of the ambitious man opposite—“if we find him, we will compel him to furnish to us the context of the statement.”

“Compel—eh?” repeated the other, a hard smile playing about the young man’s lips. Diamond was a queer figure and strange persons had always attracted him. Through the ugly little doctor he had gained this remarkable knowledge of an uncanny secret withheld from the world for over two thousand years. He was reflecting what a “boom” the discovery would be for that great daily newspaper of which he was one of the Board of Directors.

“Then you agree that we shall at once turn our attention to Copenhagen—eh?” he asked.

“Certainly—the sooner the better.”

“We have no photograph of your friend—a most unfortunate fact.”

Diamond gave a detailed description of the dead man, and his friend, crossing to his writing-table, wrote it carefully at his dictation.

“I’ve been in Copenhagen several times,” Frank remarked, “so I know that city fairly well. I wonder whether the man we seek is a professor at the University?”

“Our first object is to establish the dead man’s identity.”

“He may have lied, and perhaps was not a Dane after all! He may have been a Norwegian, or even a Swede.”

Diamond raised his deformed shoulders and answered:

“True, as he was so bent upon concealing his identity he may well have lied to me regarding his nationality. Yet we must risk that, don’t you think?”

“But you told me that you were convinced that he was a Scandinavian.”

“Yes. But he might have come from Stockholm, or Gothenburg or Christiania.”

“Our first inquiries must be of the Danish police,” Frank said decisively. “I’ll write to-night to our correspondent in Copenhagen.”

“Would it not be best for you to go there and make inquiries yourself?”

“I may do that. Most probably I shall.”

“Stories of treasure are always attractive,” remarked the Doctor, casting a crafty glance at his young friend. “I hope, Mr Farquhar, you will make no mention in any of your papers regarding it.”

“My dear Doctor, don’t worry yourself about that,” Frank laughed. “Of treasure stories we’ve of late had a perfect glut. For a long time, for instance, I’ve taken a deep interest in the wrecks of vessels known to have contained treasure, the exact location of which are known. As an example, we have the ship Grosvenor now lying off the Pondoland Coast with over a million and a half pounds of treasure in her rotting hold. Then there’s the Ariston, in Marcus Bay, with 800,000 pounds worth; the Birkenhead, on Birkenhead Reef, with a similar amount; the Atlas, near Yarmouth, with 700,000 pounds, the Dorothea, on Tenedos Reef, with 460,000 pounds; the Abercrombie, lying under the Black Rock, with 180,000 pounds; and the Merenstein, on the coast of Yutton Island, with 120,000 pounds. In addition to these there are H.M.S. Chandos with 60,000 pounds in coin in her hold, the troopship Addison with 20,000 pounds in gold, and the Harlem II, lying half covered by sand with her hold full of silver bars. All these and many others are lying in positions perfectly well known, and only await salvage. Why, in one gale off the West African coast in 1802 seven ships were wrecked, all of them containing a vast treasure. Besides, the contents of the vessels I have mentioned have all been verified from their bills of lading still in existence. No, my dear Doctor,” the young man added with a laugh, “had the story been an ordinary one of treasure it would not have interested me in the least, I assure you; and as for publishing any details, why, my dear sir, is it not to my own personal interest to keep the matter as secret as possible? Please do not have any apprehension on that score.”

“I have not,” declared the hunchback; “my great fear, however, is that this professor friend of yours may chatter.”

“He will not. I have impressed upon Griffin the value of silence,” said Frank. “Besides, he is a ‘dry-as-dust,’ silent man, who says nothing, so absorbed is he in his studies in his own particular sphere.”

“Good. Then we will now transfer our attention to Copenhagen.”

“I shall write to-night. Remain patient and wait the reply of the Danish police. I’m open to bet anything that your friend was compelled to make himself scarce from Denmark, and carried with him confidential documents which were not his property and with which he had no right to deal.”

“Then if that really turns out so, it also proves another thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Why, if the documents were to be of any commercial value, they must have contained the actual key to the secret.”

“No doubt. The key was written clearly in those manuscript folios, all of which were burned save one,” was Frank’s reply. “It is the context of that document which we must obtain at all costs and at all hazards. And if the dead man has not lied I’m firmly of opinion that it will be found within the city of Copenhagen.”