Chapter Eleven. The Storm Gathers.

“I’ve just been speaking to Ethelwynn,” Langton said. “She’s down at Broadstairs.”

“At Broadstairs!” I echoed, staring straight at my companion.

“Yes,” he replied. “She tells me that her father went up to Edinburgh, but was suddenly called abroad upon business connected with one of his newly-patented chemical processes. She rang up Antonio, intending to leave a message for me.”

I stood listening to him, utterly dumbfounded. The young man was being misled. Had I not with my own eyes seen the poor girl lying cold and dead in the room downstairs? Besides, was it possible that she, who knew of her father’s fate and had seen him lifeless, would tell her lover that great untruth!

Could this be one of Kirk’s ingenious subterfuges in order to gain time?

“Then you are satisfied?” I managed at last to stammer.

“To a certain degree, yes,” he replied, looking at me with a good deal of surprise, I saw. “But it does not explain why Antonio is absent abroad, or—”

“Gone to meet his master most probably,” I interrupted.

“Perhaps. But why has the laboratory been broken open; and, again, why has the furnace been lit? Who were the three persons who dined here this evening? The Professor is away!”

“Miss Ethelwynn might have entertained two friends before leaving for Broadstairs,” I suggested.

“They were men. Ethelwynn does not smoke cigarettes.”

“Did she say whether she is returning to London?” I inquired.

“She will let me know on the ’phone to-morrow.”

“She didn’t tell you her father’s whereabouts?”

“She doesn’t know. He’s somewhere in Germany, she believes. He has been in communication with a strong German syndicate, which it seems has been formed in Hamburg to work one of his discoveries. And in his absence somebody has undoubtedly been prying into his experiments.”

“Somebody who you believe was disturbed by your ring at the door, eh?”

“Exactly!” replied the young man, glancing at his watch. “But now, Mr Holford, I think I shall go to my rooms. I’m tired after my journey. The Channel crossing was an exceptionally bad one this afternoon. You’ll call and see me very soon, won’t you?”

I promised, and together we descended the stairs and left the silent house.

By his side I walked out by Clarence Gate as far as Baker Street Station, where we shook hands and parted.

After he had left me I halted on the kerb, utterly bewildered.

It had dawned upon me that there was just a chance of discovering something further among the ashes of the furnace. The window, broken by the police, would afford an easy means of access. Now, and only now, was my chance of obtaining knowledge of the actual truth.

Therefore I turned back again, and, loitering before the house, seized my chance when no one was nigh, opened the basement window and was again inside.

In a few minutes I was again standing in the laboratory, over which the glowing furnace threw a red light. I dared not switch on the electricity, lest I should give warning to anybody watching outside, hence I was compelled to grope by the fitful firelight among the ashes.

My examination—a long and careful one—resulted in the discovery of a metal cuff-link much discoloured by fire, a charred pearl shirt-button, and a piece of half-burned coloured linen. As far as I could ascertain there were no human remains—only traces of burnt clothing. But charred bones very much resemble cinders.

Yet were not those remains, in conjunction with the words of Kershaw Kirk, sufficient evidence of a grim and ghastly occurrence?

I left the house by the window, just as I had entered it, and, walking as far as the Marylebone Road, entered a small private bar, where, being alone, I took out the scraps of half-burned paper and eagerly examined them. Alas! most of the faint-ruled pages were blank. The others, however, were covered with a neat feminine calligraphy, the words, as far as I could decipher, having reference to certain chemical experiments of the Professor’s!

Those precious notes by Ethelwynn at the Professor’s dictation had, it seemed clear, been wantonly destroyed.

What could have been the motive? If that were found, it would surely not be difficult to discover the perpetrator of that most amazing crime.

I returned home more than ever mystified, but carrying in my pocket a cabinet photograph of the dead man, which I had abstracted from a silver frame in his daughter’s boudoir. It was theft, I knew, but was not theft justifiable in such unusual circumstances?

Next morning I was early at the garage in order to carry out a plan upon which I had decided during the grey hours before the dawn. In the telephone book I searched for, and found, the Professor’s number at his seaside cottage at Broadstairs, and asked the exchange for it.

In a quarter of an hour I was informed that I was “through.”

“Is Miss Ethelwynn at home?” I inquired. “No; she’s gone out for a walk,” replied a feminine voice—that of a maid, evidently. “Who are you, please?”

“Mr Kershaw Kirk,” I replied, for want of something better to say.

“Oh, Mr Kirk!” exclaimed the woman. “Is that you, sir? Your voice sounds so different over the ’phone. Miss Ethelwynn left word that, if you rang up, I was to tell you that Mr Langton is back, so you had better keep out of the way.”

“What does Langton know?” I asked, quickly on the alert.

“Nothing yet; only be very careful. Are you coming down here?”

“I don’t know,” I replied. “I’ll ring your mistress up later on to-day. Is there any other message for me?”

“No, my mistress said nothing else, sir.”

“Very well,” I said. “Good morning!” and I rang off.

That conversation created further doubts in my mind. Here was a girl whom both Kirk and myself had seen dead, yet she was still alive, and actually acting in conjunction with him to keep her father’s death a secret! It was incomprehensible!

What could it mean?

Pelham came to me with some questions concerning the business, but I only answered mechanically. I could think of nothing—only of the mysterious, inscrutable affair in Sussex Place. The mystery had possessed my soul.

At eleven o’clock, suppressing all suspicion I held of Kershaw Kirk, I called at his house; but his sister showed me a telegram she had received soon after nine o’clock that morning. It had been handed in at Charing Cross Station, and was to the effect that he was just leaving for the Continent.

Another curious circumstance! He had gone to join that crafty-faced servant, Antonio Merli. Now that Leonard Langton had returned, he evidently thought it wise to make himself scarce. And yet Langton had calmly denied all knowledge of him!

A little before five o’clock that afternoon, while sitting in my glass office in the garage, the man Dick Drake brought me a telegram. It had been handed in at the Gare du Nord, in Paris, and was from Kirk. His enigmatical words were:

“Recall all I told you. I thank you sincerely for helping me over a difficulty last night. Shall rejoin you shortly. If questioned say nothing. All depends upon you. Silence!”

I read it through in wonder half a dozen times.

I longed to ring up Ethelwynn Greer again. It would be a weird experience to converse with one whom I had seen dead. Yet I could think of no excuse. Kirk had, no doubt, telegraphed to her, for it seemed that their association was, after all, a very close one.

The day’s work ended, I got into a car and drove to the address in Wimpole Street given me by Leonard Langton.

His chambers were particularly cosy and well-furnished; but his man, a young foreigner, told me that his master had left for Broadstairs by the “Granville” from Victoria that afternoon.

Therefore I remounted in the car, and turned away down into Oxford Street, entirely nonplussed.

I could not discern Kirk’s motive in exposing the tragic circumstances to me. I did not see in what way I could assist him, even though his version of the affair were the true one.

Who was this Kershaw Kirk? That was the main question. Either he was a man of extraordinary power and influence, or else a most cunning and ingenious assassin. Yet was there no suspicion upon Antonio Merli, the foreign servant, who seemed hand-in-glove with Kirk?

Recollection of this caused me to turn the car towards the Euston Road and search along that long, busy thoroughfare for the tobacconist’s shop kept by Antonio’s cadaverous-looking brother, Pietro—the only outsider, apparently, aware of the Professor’s death.

For fully half an hour I searched, until, near the Tottenham Court Road end, I came across a little shop where stationery, newspapers, and tobacco were displayed in the window.

Entering, I asked the dark-eyed girl behind the small counter if Mr Merli kept the establishment.

“Yes, sir, he does,” was her reply.

“Can I see him?”

“He’s been suddenly called abroad, sir,” answered the girl; “he left London this morning.”

“By what train?”

“Nine o’clock from Charing Cross.”

“Do you happen to know a Mr Kershaw Kirk?”

“Yes; he was here last night to see him,” replied the girl. “That’s the only time I’ve ever met him.”

“When do you expect Mr Merli back?”

“Oh, I don’t know, sir! He’s gone to Italy, I expect; and when he goes there he’s generally away for some weeks.”

“Then he often goes abroad?”

“Yes, sir; very often. He has some business, I think, which takes him away travelling, and he leaves this shop in charge of my married sister and myself. He’s not married, as I dare say you know.”

“He’s seldom here, then?” I remarked, gratified at all this information.

“He lives out at Acton, and only comes here occasionally.”

“You know his brother, of course?” I asked, after I had purchased some cigarettes.

“You mean Mr Antonio? Oh, yes; he’s been here once or twice—for letters he has addressed here.”

“In another name—eh?” I laughed lightly.

“Yes, they’re letters in a lady’s hand, so perhaps we’d better not be too inquisitive,” laughed the girl. And then, after some further conversation, I told her I would call again in a week’s time to ascertain if she knew her employer’s whereabouts, and, re-entering the car, drove back to Chiswick, my mind clouded by many anxious apprehensions.

The outlook was every moment growing darker and more perplexing.