Chapter Twenty. The Inquisitor.

The police inquiries into the whereabouts of Gwen Griffin had been futile.

The Professor, beside himself with grief and apprehension, complained most bitterly that the authorities had not treated his daughter’s disappearance with sufficient seriousness. In all the interviews he had had, both at the local police-station and at New Scotland Yard, the officials had apparently taken the view that the girl had left home of her own account. He had been told on all hands that, in the end, her escapade would be found to be due to some unknown love-affair.

In frantic bewilderment he had telegraphed to Frank Farquhar at the Bristol at Copenhagen, but unfortunately he had not received the message because on arrival at the Danish capital he had found the Bristol full, and had gone on to the Angleterre. Hence he was still in ignorance of the disappearance of his well-beloved.

Those mystic figures which the Professor had found scrawled upon his blotting-pad—the same that were upon that discarded scrap of waste-paper—also puzzled him to the point of distraction. Could they have anything to do with the girl’s fate? By whose hand had they been traced?

As far as they could discover, no stranger had entered the study. Yet those figures—“255.19.7”—had been written boldly in blue upon the pad. Could Gwen have done it herself? Had she left him some cryptic message which he now failed to decipher? But if so, why did those same numbers appear upon the scrap of paper discarded by the unknown man who was endeavouring to learn his secret?

After three days, during which time he puzzled over the meaning of those figures, applying to them all sorts of ciphers, he took a taxi-cab to a friend of his named Stevens, who lived at Streatham and was a Professor of Hebrew at London University.

The pair sat together for some time, Griffin having apparently called to pay a formal visit to his less illustrious confrère, when suddenly producing the figures upon a piece of paper he sought Professor Stevens’ opinion as to their meaning.

The other stared at them through his spectacles, and after a long consideration inquired:

“Were they written by a Hebrew scholar?”

“I believe so.”

“Then I think their meaning must be quite plain,” replied the other coolly. “I should decipher it as the duration of the Kingdom of Israel. Did it not end after 255 years—namely from B.C. 975-721—under nineteen kings and seven dynasties, not reckoning among the latter, of course, the ephemeral usurpations of Zimri and Shallum?”

“I never thought of that!” gasped Griffin. “Those figures have greatly disturbed me, my dear Stevens. They have appeared twice in circumstances extremely strange—traced by an unknown hand.”

“But the hand of a scholar without a doubt,” was the other’s reply. “Perhaps some crank or other who has the habit of signing himself in that manner. I have known men addicted to such peculiarities. There used to be a don at Oxford who had the humorous habit of appending his signature in most excellent imitation of that of Napoleon.”

Griffin, recognising that Stevens was correct in his elucidation of the mysterious signification of those figures, became more puzzled. The man in search of the great secret was evidently a crank. That was most conclusively proved. Yet why should that mystic signature appear upon his blotting-pad?

Was it possible that Gwen and he were acquainted, and that he had actually entered the house.

The Professor was beside himself in his utter bewilderment. His daughter had slipped away, and left him without a word of farewell. Yet towards his friend Stevens he wore a mask, and only laughed heartily at the rapid solution of the problem which he had placed before him.

Was it possible, he thought many times, that Gwen, with a love-sick girl’s sudden yearning, had slipped across to the Continent to join her lover? There could be no reason whatever for that, because he had never for a moment opposed their engagement. Yet girls were a trifle wild sometimes, he reflected, especially motherless girls like the dainty Gwen.

After an hour, however, he bade farewell to Stevens, and re-entering his “taxi” in King’s Avenue, drove back into London, refusing his friend’s invitation to remain for luncheon.

He crossed Westminster Bridge, and alighted at the British Museum to inquire if the mysterious searcher had been seen there of late.

The assistant-keeper in the Oriental room replied in the affirmative. The old gentleman had been there three days before, and had afterwards gone to the great reading-room.

Proceeding there. Professor Griffin quickly made inquiries, discovering presently that the man had given the name of Rosenberg. He was shown a slip upon which was written the titles of the two rare works he had consulted. They were:

“Cryptomengsis Patefacta (1685),” and “Kryptographik, Kluber (1809).”

These were, he recognised, the two leading works on cryptography, explaining, as they did, all the early systems of secret writing from the scytalc in use by the early Greeks down to the biliteral cipher of Sir Francis Bacon. It was therefore quite plain that the stranger, whoever he might be, though at Oxford he had made those calculations in order to test the existence of a numerical cipher in the Book of Ezekiel, had not yet discovered any true key.

This knowledge gave Griffin great satisfaction. The loss of that crumpled paper from his pocket was, he recognised of no import.

Inquires of the librarian showed that the stranger was not known in the reading-room as a regular reader. Yet he agreed, as indeed had other librarians and keepers of manuscripts, that the old man was undoubtedly a scholar.

This person’s will-o’-the-wisp existence was most tantalising. In appearance he was described as an old white-headed man with deep-set eyes and a longish white beard, rather shabbily dressed and wearing a long black overcoat much the worse for wear. Great scholars are not remarkable for their neatness in dress. They are mostly neglectful, as indeed was Professor Griffin himself. To Gwen, her father was a constant source of anxiety, for only at her supreme command would he even order a new suit, and his evening clothes were so old and out of shape that she had, times without number, declared herself ashamed to go out to the smart houses at which they were so often asked to dine.

But genius is always forgiven its garments, and the fact that the bearded stranger was described as shabby and almost threadbare did not surprise the man who went about equally shabby himself.

If he were interested in the “Cryptomengsis Patefacta,” then one thing was proved. His researches at the Bodleian had been without result.

The continued absence of Gwen, however, prevented Griffin from continuing his inquiries. Though times without number he opened the Hebrew text of Ezekiel and tried to study it, yet he was unable to concentrate his mind upon it, and always closed the book again with a deep sigh.

The house was dull and empty without little Gwen’s bright smile and musical voice. This, he realised, was a foretaste of his loneliness when she was married.

Next day dragged by. The following day was cold and wet, and he spent it mostly alone in his study, after he had been round to the police-station and obtained a negative reply to his question as to whether his beloved daughter had been discovered.

That she was absent against her win he was convinced. She would never have left him in that manner to allow him to fear for her safety.

Seated alone, he brought out those large photographs of Diamond’s half-destroyed manuscript, and tried to centre his mind upon them. But, alas! he was unable. Therefore, as the short grey afternoon drew in, with a sigh he rose, put on his overcoat, and telling Laura he would not be back to dinner, he went forth to wander the London streets. He could bear the dead silence of that house no longer.

Just before seven o’clock the dining-room bell rang, and the dark-eyed parlour-maid, ascending the stairs, entered the room.

“Lor’, miss!” gasped the Cockney girl. “You did give me a fright! How long have you been ’ome?”

Gwen, who stood before her, pale and thin-faced and with hair slightly dishevelled, explained that she had just let herself in with the latch-key.

“The Professor’s out, miss. ’E said ’e wouldn’t be ’ome to dinner,” the girl remarked. “Oh, we’ve been very worried about you, miss! The perlice ’ave searched ’igh and low for yer. We all thought something dreadful ’ad ’appened. Wherever ’ave you been all these days?”

“That’s my own business,” answered the Professor’s daughter. “I’ve come back safe and sound, and I’m now going to my room. Tell my father when he comes in that I’m very tired. Perhaps he won’t return till late.”

“Shall I bring you up something, miss?” asked the girl.

“Yes, some tea. I want nothing else.”

And she ascended to her own neat bedroom on the second floor where, after closing the door, she flung herself upon the bed and burst into tears.

Her nerves had been unstrung by the severe ordeal she had gone through. When the maid brought her tea, she dried her eyes and allowed the girl to assist her to change her dusty skirt and torn blouse, and after a good wash and a cup of tea she felt decidedly better and refreshed.

Laura lit a fire, and when it had burnt up Gwen flung herself into her cretonne-covered armchair to rest and to think.

Since she had last sat in that cosy well-remembered room of hers there had been hideous happenings. The past seemed to her all like a bad dream. She shuddered as she recalled it. Even the events of that day hardly seemed clear and distinct. Her recollection of them was hazy, so agitated and anxious had she been. Why she had been so suddenly released from that hateful bondage was also to her a complete mystery.

She was recalling that first interview with the coarse, red-faced man whose name she had not been told: with what little consideration he had treated her, and how he had compelled her to come forth from her stronghold in order to speak with him.

He had asked her many curious questions, the purport of which she could not discern. Some of them concerned her father’s recent actions and movements; some of them concerned the man she loved.

But she was independent, and refused point-blank to answer anything. She defied that man who, in turn, jeered at her helplessness, and so insulted her that the flush of shame rose upon her white cheeks.

“You shall answer me these questions, young lady,” cried the pompous man in firm determination, “or it will be the worse for you!” he added with a look, the real meaning of which she was unable to disguise from herself.

Yet she stood defiant, even though she was helpless in his hands.

“My father’s business does not concern you,” she had cried, “and if you think his daughter will betray him into the hands of his enemies you are mistaken, sir!”

The bloated, red-faced brute blurted forth a quick imprecation, and would have struck her had not the tall man who was her janitor interfered, saying:

“No, don’t. She’ll reconsider her refusal, no doubt.”

“If she does not tell me everything—everything we want to know—and if she does not consent to do our bidding and bring to us whatever we desire, then she need not look for mercy. She is ours, and we shall treat her as such. The man who called himself ‘Wetherton’ shall come back to her. He’ll very soon overcome her scruples and cause her to reflect!” the man had laughed hoarsely.

“Give her time,” suggested the tall man.

“We want no more of these heroics about her betraying her father,” the other sneered. “If so, she’ll regret it. You know, Charlie, what I mean: how more than one girl has bitterly regretted her defiance.”

Gwen fell suddenly upon her knees, imploring to be allowed to go free. But her tormentor only repeated his threats in terms which left no doubt as to what he intended should be the poor girl’s fate, and laughing he took up his hat and strode forth.

From that moment the tall man addressed as Charlie, though he would give no explanation whatever as to the reason those strange questions had been put to her concerning her father and her lover, treated her with the greatest consideration, yet at the same time kept constantly expressing a fear that, if she still refused, the danger threatened would certainly befall her.

Again, on the following day, the fat red-faced inquisitor came and put those questions to her. But he still found her obdurate. She recognised that those people were her father’s enemies, therefore she had determined to say nothing.

Ah! would she ever forget all the horror of those dramatic interviews—the dastardly threats of that blackguard who laughed at her unhappiness and who uttered words which caused her face to burn with shame.

And then came the final scene, just as suddenly as the first.

The inquisitor came again, and after another violent scene left, declaring that the false “Wetherton” should return and become her janitor in place of the man she knew as Charlie.

The latter seemed pained and very anxious after the red-faced man had gone. She inquired the reason, but he only sighed, declaring that the man under whose power they both were would most certainly carry out his threat towards her.

Half mad with anxiety and grief, she had then confided in the tall man, telling him a brief disjointed story of the half-burned manuscript, in the course of which she had mentioned the name of a man whom she had never met—Doctor Diamond, of Horsford. Her lover, she explained, was the Doctor’s friend.

The man had put to her a few rapid questions to which she had replied; then, as though with sudden resolve, he had risen from the table where he had been sitting, and clenching his fists poured forth a flood of execrations upon some person he did not name.

She was surprised at the action, and her surprise increased when, a few minutes later, he had halted before her saying:

“Though I risk my own liberty in assisting you, Miss Griffin, I will not keep you here, the innocent victim of that heartless blackguard and his sycophants. I have a daughter of my own—a little daughter who is all in all to me. ‘Red Mullet’—that’s my name, Miss—may bear a pretty bad reputation, but he will never lift a finger against a defenceless girl, nor will he act in opposition to a man who has stood his friend. My only stipulation is that you will say nothing. We will meet again ere long.”

And then, five minutes later, having given her solemn promise of secrecy, she had left the house, wandering the dark streets until she had found herself in Oxford Street, where she had hailed a cab and driven home.

Over all this she sat thinking, gazing thoughtfully into the dancing flames and wondering.

But from her reverie she was awakened by the re-entry of the maid, who said:

“Both the Professor and Mr Farquhar are downstairs, miss. Will you please go down to them at once?”

She started quickly. A cold shudder ran through her.

With that vow of secrecy upon her, the vow given to the man who had been her protector, what explanation of her absence could she give to Frank.

She rose slowly from her chair, her great dark eyes fixed straight before her.