Chapter Twenty Seven. Explains Frank’s Attitude.

Christmas had passed, the New Year had been welcomed, its advent quickly forgotten, and London now lay dark and fog-bound in the yellow gloomy days of mid-January.

As far as Professor Griffin was concerned, little had occurred. His surprise when Gwen had told him of Erich Haupt being interested in the investigation of the secret was unbounded, and he had taken a cab at once to the Waldorf Hotel. He was anxious to meet the great German scholar, but was disappointed to learn that he had suddenly left the hotel on the previous night for the Continent.

Once again was he prevented from meeting the man who was working in opposition to him, even though he was now aware of his identity.

It puzzled him, as it also puzzled Diamond and Gwen, to know who was behind the German scholar. That there was some one was evident from what the girl had admitted. But his identity was still kept a profound secret.

Gwen had expected to be rung up on the telephone by Mullet, but having waited for three anxious days, found his number in the telephone directory and rang him up. She did so on four different occasions, but on each the response from the exchange was the same. “No reply.”

What could have happened?

Was it possible that he could have left hurriedly for the Continent? She recollected how he had told her that perhaps he would be compelled, by force of circumstances, to leave London, and leave her alone. She wrote him a brief note, and posted it, hoping that it might be forwarded to him.

Then she had waited—for nearly four long weeks.

Doctor Diamond came up from Horsford on several occasions, but the interviews he had with the Professor carried them no further. The key to the cipher was still an enigma which none could solve.

Griffin’s one thought was of Erich Haupt. He had returned to the Continent. Perhaps he was hot upon a solution of the tantalising problem.

In those four weeks, with the interval of a dreary Christmas spent alone with her father, nothing startling had occurred. The estrangement had driven Frank Farquhar to distraction. Jealousy had caused him to think ill of the girl he so dearly loved, and in order to try and forget, he had gone South for a week or so at Monte Carlo. But as soon as he stepped inside the Hotel de Paris, he had longed to be back again at Gwen’s side in Pembridge Gardens. The smart women he saw in their white serge gowns, golden chatelaines, and picture hats, all nauseated him. Of the lilies of France, none were half so fair as his own sweet English rose. Christmas he had spent with a big and merry house-party up in the Highlands, but the gaiety of it all bored him to death, and at last, when he returned in the New Year, he had, after a severe struggle with himself, driven down to Notting Hill Gate, and again bowed over the soft little hand of the girl whose wonderful eyes held him in such complete fascination.

For Gwen, that evening was a never-to-be-forgotten one.

She was seated by the fire at the further end of the study buried in the big saddle-bag chair with a book, while her father was busily writing, when the maid announced the young man’s arrival.

She held her breath. Her heart gave a great bound, and then stopped and she sat rigid, her face blanched, her hands grasping the arms of the chair.

She heard his well-known voice, and rising slowly, faced him without a word.

And he, without a word also, took her hand, bowing gallantly over it.

Then, with a half-timid look into her pretty face, he stammered:

“I—I’ve been wondering, Gwen, how you’ve been all this time. I’ve been away, first at Monte Carlo and afterwards up in Scotland. How did you spend your Christmas?”

“Well—it was not very exciting,” she laughed, “was it, dad?”

“No, my dear,” replied the old man, “I fear it was a very very dull time for you.”

Her lover glanced at her, and she saw by the expression of his eyes that he was full of genuine regret. That absence had, indeed, caused both their hearts to yearn for each other. He had, alas! been too hasty, he declared within himself. Would she ever forgive him? Would she ever allow him to kiss her again upon the lips?

Before her father his greeting was, of necessity, a somewhat formal one; besides, he was compelled to sit and discuss with him the present situation, and ask his opinion as to the next move in the game.

“The possession of a complete copy of Holmboe’s statement has carried us a good deal further. Professor,” he said, “but how are we now to act?”

“I really don’t know, my dear Farquhar,” was the elder man’s response, as he rubbed his big round glasses.

“I only wish this man Mullet would tell Diamond a little more,” he sighed. “We ought to discover who is directing the opposition against us.”

“That’s just where we are so completely handicapped. We’re handicapped in two directions,” said the Professor. “First, we remain in ignorance of the identity of our enemy, and secondly we are at a loss to discover the key to the cipher. We now know the truth concerning the Russian’s discovery, and naturally we are beckoned on to see what more may be added to the mental outfit of our religion and our civilisation, by recovering the sacred treasures that yet remain. The occasional excavations scattered through the last two centuries in Palestine, Egypt, Rome and Assyria, have shown but a fraction of all that has to be done. Such a prospect is most attractive, and if we could but find the key to the cipher the interest of the whole Jewish race would instantly be stimulated, and we should certainly not lack funds for the expedition, the purchase of the land in question, and the necessary excavations. It would be a great undertaking of international co-operation, but no loophole must be allowed for vandalism and wrecking, of which we have so much evidence in the past few centuries. Such wrecking is, alas! by no means unknown, even down to our day. The Department of Antiquities in Egypt, for instance, at the present moment, sells the right to dig up and destroy all the Roman buildings in Egypt at so much per thousand bricks removed by the speculators! We must allow no such sort of speculation with the treasures of Israel.”

“I take it, Professor, that our opponents are anti-Semitics of the most pronounced type,” said Farquhar. “At least, so the Doctor informs me. Once it is in their hand their chief object will be to destroy the sacred relics, and melt down the golden vessels. Diamond says, that according to his information, those working against us are rich, and have no need of gain. The whole of their energies are directed towards an anti-Semitic demonstration—one that would convulse the whole civilised world.”

“We will not allow it, Farquhar!” cried the old Hebrew scholar, bringing his hand down heavily upon his writing-table. “I am not a Jew, but while it remains within my power I will never allow the sacred relics of Israel to be desecrated.”

“If they exist,” added Gwen from the depths of her armchair.

“They do exist!” exclaimed her father, “of that I now feel quite convinced. At first I was very sceptical, but I have spent many weeks in close and ardent study, and my first opinion is now greatly modified.”

“And you anticipate that we shall one day gain a knowledge of the mode of reaching that cipher record?” asked Frank, eagerly.

“I fervently hope so,” was the elder man’s response. “I hope so in the interests of the Hebrew race. As soon as I write my article in the Contemporary or in the Jewish Chronicle, the world will instantly be agog.”

“But until you have read the hidden message for yourself you will write nothing?” remarked Farquhar.

“Of course not. We must closely preserve the secret for the present. Not a soul must know, or Holmboe’s discovery will most certainly get to the ears of some enterprising journalist. Why, we’d be having one of your papers, Frank, sending out an expedition in search of the Ark of the Covenant!” he laughed. “And that would surely be fatal.”

Farquhar held his breath for a few seconds.

“Why fatal, Professor?” he asked, for it was at the bade of his head to suggest to Sir George the advisability of despatching an expedition when the time was ripe.

“Fatal to the scheme as well as to the newspaper,” was the elder man’s response. “Even you modern journalists cannot make money by exploiting sacred relics of such importance.”

“No, but we could investigate for the benefit of the Hebrew race. We sorely would not lose prestige by that?”

“Yes, you would. No Jew, or even Christian for that matter, would ever believe that a newspaper defrayed the cost of an expedition out of pure regard for the interests of the Hebrew faith.” He laughed. “The public know too well that a ‘boom’ means to a newspaper increased circulation, and, therefore, increased income. Before these days of the yellow journalism, the press was supposed to be above such ruses; but now the public receives the journalistic ‘boom’ with its tongue in its cheek.”

“You’re quite right, Professor, quite right!” remarked Frank, for the first time realising that to “work” the treasure of Israel as a “boom” for his group of newspapers and periodicals was impossible. “I’ve only regarded it from the business side, and not from the sentimental. I see now that any newspaper touching it would be treading dangerous ground, and might at once wound religious susceptibilities.”

“I’m glad you’ve seen it in that light!” replied the old scholar, stroking his grey hair. “As far as I can discern, the best mode of procedure—providing of course, that we can discover the key number to the numerical cipher—is for me to write an article in the Contemporary with a view to obtaining the financial assistance of the Jewish community. I know the Jew well enough to be confident, that all, from the Jew pedlar in the East End to the family of Rothschild itself, would unite in assisting to discover the sacred treasures of the Temple.” And for half an hour or so they chatted, until Frank was able to slip away with Gwen into the drawing-room where, without a single word, he clasped her in his arms passionately and kissed her upon the lips.

He held her closely pressed to his breast, as he stroked her soft hair tenderly, and looked into those wide-open, trustful eyes. Surely that frank expression of true and abiding love could not be feigned! There is, in a true woman’s eyes, a love-look that cannot lie! He saw it, and was at once satisfied.

In a low voice he begged forgiveness for misjudging her, repeating his great and unbounded affection. She heard his quick strained voice, and listened to his heartfelt words, and then, unable to restrain her joy at his return, her head fell upon his shoulders, and she burst into tears.

She was his, she whispered, still his—and his alone.

And he held her sobbing in his strong arms, as his hand still stroked her hair and his lips again bent until they touched her fair white brow in fierce and passionate caress.