A long, grey, hundred-horse-power racing motor-car with its two glaring head-lamps drew suddenly up in the falling darkness before the big house in Berkeley Square, and from it stepped Sir Felix Challas in his heavy fur coat, cap and goggles. He was a motor enthusiast, and declared that his runs on his high-power racer cleared the cobwebs from his brain, and braced up his nerves.

He had started forth soon after breakfast, lunched at the Mermaid at Wansford, eighty miles away up the Great North Road, and was now home again, just as darkness had set in.

He had sat beside his chauffeur in silence while being whirled along the great northern highway, for he always thought out the most ingenious of his schemes while travelling thus.

Ere he had ascended the steps of the house, the splendid car, which only a few weeks before had made a record on the Brooklands track, moved off to the well-appointed garage, where he kept his three other cars.

On entering his own luxurious little den on the left of the hall, he found Jim Jannaway comfortably ensconced before the fire, smoking one of his choicest cigars and with a whisky and soda at his elbow.

“Hulloa!” exclaimed Sir Felix surprised. “I thought you were on your way out to the East? You were to have left this morning, weren’t you?” And he threw off his heavy coat and stood with his back to the fire.

“Yes. But I’ve remained, because I’ve discovered something,” replied the other. “I’ve found out the reason why that girl Griffin got away.”

“Oh! Why?” asked Challas quickly. “It was a great misfortune for us. She’s evidently discovered who we are, and why we wanted the information.”

“Well – he played us false.”

“Who – Mullet?”

“Yes. The girl appealed to his honour, and all that, and he found out that she was a friend of that Doctor Diamond, the fellow who attended Holmboe before he died and got hold of a portion of his papers. This man, it appears, had befriended Mullet in some way – so he, like a fool, let her go.”

“Fool – idiot!” cried Challas. “Then the brute’s betrayed us!”

“Absolutely!”

“By letting the girl go, he’s exposed us. Griffin now knows that we are working against him. And he is, according to old Erich, the only man we have to fear.”

“Except that man Farquhar, partner with Sir George Gavin, the newspaper owner.”

“Ah! I forgot him. But surely he doesn’t count?”

“Yes, he does,” protested Jannaway. “He’s in love with the girl. Hence we must see that he turns his back upon her, or there may be further trouble. I foresee pretty awkward complications in that direction.”

“Very well, my dear boy, all that I leave to you,” answered Sir Felix, with a heavy, thoughtful look.

“But it does not lessen our danger. If we’re not careful we’ll lose the thing altogether,” Jannaway pointed out. “I’ve been a full fortnight making careful investigations. The Doctor called on Griffin the day before yesterday, and what’s more, the girl has written to Charlie, asking him to meet her.”

“How have you found that out?”

Jim Jannaway smiled.

“No matter,” he laughed. “Except that Laura, the parlour-maid at Pembridge, is a friend of mine. I took her to the Tivoli last Thursday. Told her I was a lawyer’s clerk.”

“By Jove, Jim,” exclaimed the Baronet, “you’re always ingenious when you’ve set your mind on worming out a secret.”

“A little love costs nothing,” laughed the nonchalant adventurer, “and very often does a lot.”

“Well, we must know what’s going on between them, that’s quite plain,” remarked Challas. “I never expected Charlie to give us away.”

“Bah! he always was chicken-hearted where women were concerned. He must have been in love once, I fancy, and hasn’t got over the attack yet.”

“We must be very watchful, Jim.”

“That’s why I didn’t leave for Constantinople, as you suggested,” was the other’s reply, as he tossed the end of his cigar into the fire and lazily rose from his comfortable chair. “My own idea, Felix, is that Charlie is growing far too scrupulous. One day we shall have him in a fit of remorse making some nasty confession or other, taking the consequences, and putting us both into a confounded hole. Think what it would mean for you!”

“By Jove, yes!” gasped the other, turning pale at the very suggestion of exposure. “We can’t afford to risk that.”

“I maintain that if Charlie lets the girl escape us and give us away, as he has done, then he’ll do something worse before long,” exclaimed the crafty man with a curious glance at the Baronet, whose back was at that moment turned to him.

Challas was silent. He clearly saw the drift of the man’s argument.

“Well?” he asked at last, lowering his voice. “What do you suggest?”

“Suggest? Why there’s only one course open, my dear fellow,” replied the other, glancing apprehensively at the door. “Get rid of him while there’s yet time.”

“He might retaliate.”

“Not if he’s arrested over in France,” Jannaway exclaimed. “The French police won’t bother over any information that he may give concerning us. Your reputation stands too high. They’ll only regard him as a type of gentlemanly blackmailer such as every wealthy man has to contend with. If we don’t do that, then good-bye to all our hopes concerning Holmboe’s secret,” he added.

“I fear I must agree with you, Jim,” said the other, very slowly. “He was a fool for not allowing you to force the truth from the girl. I had intended that she should assist us, and – ”

“And by Heaven! she shall do so, even now, if you will only leave matters to me,” interrupted the clever, good-looking adventurer, leaning his back easily against the table.

“I leave them entirely to you,” the Baronet answered quickly. “Act just as you think fit, only remember there must be no exposure. I can’t afford that!”

“The secret discovered by that fellow Holmboe shall be ours,” declared Jim Jannaway, slowly and determinedly.

“It might be, if only Erich could discover the key to that infernal cipher. He told me yesterday that he suspected Professor Griffin had already solved the problem.”

“If he has, then I’ll compel the girl to obtain it for us. You understand!” he exclaimed quickly.

“Even though Charlie has become a weak fool, moved to penitence by some tub-thumping revivalist perhaps, I intend to carry through the scheme I devised. The secret of the treasure of Israel shall be ours, my dear Felix. You shall be the great benefactor to the Jewish race, and discover the sacred relics so long concealed.”

“Benefactor!” echoed the red-faced man with a short dry laugh. “Oh yes, I’ll show the Jews how I can repay them in their own coin. Only be careful – do, I beg of you. Charlie is not the man to take a blow lying down, you know.”

“You ought to know me well enough to be fully aware that I never act without consideration,” the younger man protested. “Jim Jannaway is no fool at a game of checkmate, I think.”

“There was that affair in Bordeaux,” remarked the Baronet in a rather hard voice.

“You believe that Red Mullet knows something of that!” laughed Jim, admiring the fine diamond ring upon his finger. “Bah, he is in entire ignorance. It was an unfortunate incident, I admit. But under the circumstances couldn’t be helped. But there – why need we recall it? You’re so fond of dwelling upon unpleasant themes,” he laughed. “You gave an extra five thousand to the Hospital Saturday Fund as a conscience-soother, didn’t you?”

The Baronet turned upon his heel, and walked to his writing-table, whereon stood an electric lamp shaded with green silk. Then, after turning over some letters, he asked suddenly:

“When does that girl meet Charlie?”

“To-night.”

“At her request?”

“Yes.”

“Very well. I leave everything to you,” Sir Felix said with a mysterious smile. “It would not be against our interests – if – well, if we had her in our hands again.”

Jim Jannaway nodded. He understood the suggestion perfectly.

“Charlie ought, I think, to be sent back to the Continent, don’t you agree?” he asked. “A timely warning that the police had learned of his return here, and he’d skip across by the next Channel service. Once over there, matters would be quite easy. The Leleu affair has never been cleared up, you know!” he added in a lower voice.

“I leave it entirely in your hands,” declared the plutocrat whom the public believed to be a high-minded philanthropist. “Whatever you do must be on your own responsibility, recollect.”

“But with your money. I want a couple of hundred.”

“Ah! hard up again, Jim,” sighed the other. But unlocking the safe opposite, the safe that contained the typed copy of the dead man’s document, the Baronet took out some banknotes and handed them to his cat’s-paw.

They were French notes. They were safer than English to give to persons like Jannaway, for the numbers could not be traced in cases of inquiries, while they could always be at once exchanged at any of the tourist offices. Sir Felix Challas, though compelled to employ men of the racing-tout stamp like Jim Jannaway, and unscrupulous concession-hunters like “Red Mullet,” was ever upon his guard.

He trusted his men, but in “Red Mullet” he had confessed himself sadly disappointed.

“Revivalists and missionaries have a lot to answer for,” was one of his pet phrases.

Jim Jannaway, slipping the notes into his pocket-book without troubling to count them, put on his smart overcoat and well-brushed silk hat, and wishing his employer an airy “good-evening,” strolled out into the damp chilliness of Berkeley Square, where he hailed a hansom and drove away.

He had given the man an address in Knightsbridge, but as the cab was turning from the misty gloom of Berkeley Street into the brightness of Piccadilly several persons were waiting at the left-hand kerb in order to cross the road.

Among them he apparently recognised somebody, for in an instant he drew back and turned his head the other way.

Next second the cab had rounded the corner and was on its way along Piccadilly. Yet he knew that he had sat there for several moments in the full glare of the electric lights in front of the Ritz Hotel, and he felt convinced that he had been recognised by the very last person in the world that he desired to encounter.

Jannaway sat there breathless, staring straight before him into the yellow mist, his eyes glaring as though an apparition had arisen before him.

He tried to laugh away his fears. After all, it must be only fancy, he reflected. Somebody bearing a strange resemblance. It could not be she! Impossible. Utterly impossible.

But if it had been she in the flesh – if she had in that instant actually recognised him! What then!

He huddled himself in the corner of the cab, coward that he was, and shuddered at the recollections that crowded through his mind.

Would he ever have entered that hansom if he had known that it would carry him into such exposure – and worse?

But from Jim Jannaway’s lips there fell a short bitter laugh. Was not his life made up by narrow “shaves?” Had not he been in hundreds of tight corners before, and with his wonderful tact and almost devilish cunning wriggled out of what would have meant ruin and imprisonment to any other man.

He had been a born adventurer, ever since his day as a stable-lad down at Newmarket, and he had the habit of laughing lightly at his own adventures, just as he was laughing now.

Would he have laughed, however, if he had but known how that chance encounter was to result?

Chapter Twenty Five
The Girl and the Man

Gwen Griffin had appointed half-past eight as the hour to meet her mysterious friend “Red Mullet” outside the “Tube” station at the corner of Queen’s Road, Bayswater.

Immediately after dinner she had slipped up to her room, exchanging her silk blouse for a stuff one, and putting on her hat and fur jacket, went out, leaving her father alone in the study. He was – as now was his habit every evening – busy making those bewildering calculations, as he tested the various numerical ciphers upon the original Hebrew text of Ezekiel.

Through the damp misty night she hurried along the Bayswater Road, until she came within the zone of electricity around the station, where she saw the tall figure of her friend, wearing a heavy overcoat and dark green felt hat, awaiting her.

“This is really a most pleasant surprise, Miss Griffin,” he cried cheerily, as he raised his hat, and took her little gloved hand. “But – well, we can’t walk about the street in order to talk, can we? Why not drive to my rooms? You’re not afraid of me now – are you?” he laughed.

“No, Mr Mullet,” was her quick answer. “I trust you, because you have already proved yourself my good friend.”

Truth to tell, however, she was not eager to go to that place where she had spent those anxious never-to-be-forgotten days, yet, as he suggested it, she could not very well refuse. One thing was quite certain, she was as safe in his hands as in her own home.

Therefore, he hailed a “taxi” from the rank across the way, and they at once drove in the direction of the Marble Arch.

Hardly, however, had they left the kerb, when a second “taxi” upon the rank, turned suddenly into the roadway and followed them. Within, lolling back and well-concealed in the darkness, sat Jim Jannaway.

A quarter of an hour later, Mullet let himself in with his latch-key, and the girl ascended those carpeted stairs she recollected so well.

In his own warm room Mullet stirred the fire until it blazed merrily, and then helping the girl off with her jacket, drew up a chair for her, taking one himself.

Her sweet innocent face, frankness of manner, and neatness of dress charmed him again, as it had when he had been forced against his will to keep her prisoner there. As he gazed across at her, he, careless adventurer that he had been for years, a man, with a dozen aliases and as many different abodes, recollected their strange ménage.

“Well,” he said with a smile, “I was really delighted to get a note from you, Miss Griffin. You said in it that you wished to consult me. What about?”

“About several things, Mr Mullet,” answered the girl, leaning her elbow upon the chair arm and looking straight in his face. “First, I am very unhappy. My position is an extremely uncomfortable one.”

“How?”

“I have kept the promise of silence I gave you, and as a consequence Frank Farquhar, the man to whom I was engaged, has left me.”

“Left you!” he echoed. “He suspects something wrong – eh?”

She nodded in the affirmative.

“That’s bad, Miss Gwen – very bad!” he said with a changed countenance. “I know well what you must suffer, poor girl. You love him – eh?”

“Very dearly.”

“And I am the cause of your estrangement,” he remarked in a low sympathetic tone.

“Ah! it was not your fault, Mr Mullet,” she cried, “I know that. Do not think that I am blaming you. The real blackguard is that red-faced man and his accomplice – the man who enticed me here on such a plausible pretext.”

“I am also to blame. Miss Gwen,” replied the big fellow with the bristly red moustache. “A deep game is being played, and, alas! I am compelled to be one of the players. It is being played against your father.”

“I know that,” she said. “I overheard Doctor Diamond telling my father how you had furnished him with a copy of that document describing the remarkable discovery of Professor Holmboe.”

“Hush!” cried Mullet quickly, glancing at the door that stood slightly ajar. “There’s nobody here, for the man who usually does for me is ill. Yet we’d better not discuss that action of mine, Miss Gwen. I only did it in order to repay in part a great service the little Doctor has rendered me. So,” he added, “the Doctor took the copy to your father?”

“Yes. He had previously, through Mr Farquhar, consulted my father regarding the half-burnt fragments in his possession. But the other day he came, bearing the full document, which they discussed for a couple of hours or more. Now, Mr Mullet,” she said, “you have been a very good and kind friend to me; therefore, I’m wondering if you would render us a further service?”

“Anything in my power I will most willingly do,” replied the blasé man, seeking permission to light his cigarette.

“I first want to know,” she exclaimed, “who is that blackguard who came here and demanded to know my father’s business?”

“He’s a person of whom you need have no concern,” was his evasive reply.

“But he possesses a copy of the statement by Professor Holmboe?”

“He does. And he has instituted an active search in which three of the greatest scholars on the Continent are assisting, in order to ascertain the key to the cipher alleged by the Russian professor to exist in the prophecy of Ezekiel.”

“But does he possess any manuscript of the Professor’s relating to the cipher?” inquired the girl, eagerly.

“Ah! that I do not know,” was his answer, “as far as I’m aware, he does not.”

“Nothing definite has yet been ascertained, I suppose?”

“Nothing actually definite,” he said. “But you can tell your father that Erich Haupt believes that at last he has struck the right line of inquiry.”

“Haupt!” she repeated. “Who is he?”

“Your father will know him as the great professor of Leipzig. He is now staying at the Waldorf Hotel.”

“But – well, Mr Mullet,” she said with some hesitation. “Pardon me for saying so, but your friends seem a very unscrupulous and remarkable lot.”

“And they are just as influential as they are unscrupulous,” he laughed. Then growing serious next moment, he added with a sigh, “Ah! Miss Gwen, if you only knew all, you’d realise how very delighted I’d be to cut myself adrift from such a rascally association.”

“Why don’t you?” she asked, looking straight into his eyes. “This business of the treasure of Israel is surely a big and lucrative one. Why don’t you leave them, and join my father, Mr Farquhar, and Doctor Diamond?”

“Well – shall I tell you the truth, Miss Griffin?” he asked, blowing a cloud of smoke from his lips as he contemplated the red end of his cigarette, “Because – well, because I dare not!”

“Dare not?”

“No,” he said in a strained voice. “You see my part has not been an altogether blameless one. Need I explain more than to say that very often, for my very bread, I have to depend upon these persons who are working against your father.”

The girl sighed, a painful expression crossing her brow.

“I wish I could help you, Mr Mullet,” she said seriously. “Can’t you possibly disassociate yourself from those scoundrels?”

He shook his head sadly.

The next instant she turned towards the door exclaiming:

“Hark! What was that? I heard a noise!”

“Nothing,” he laughed. “The window of the next room is open a little, and the wind has blown the door to.”

By this, she was reassured, even though she feared that the horrid red-faced man whose name he refused to tell her, might again reappear there as her inquisitor.

“It seems to me,” she said, “that your friends, whoever they are, are dishonourable men whose bread you are compelled to eat. Surely you are in a position quite as wretched as I am?”

“Yes,” he admitted. “But do me one favour, Miss Gwen. Never breathe to a soul that I’ve handed the copy of that document to the Doctor. If they knew that, they would never forgive me.”

“I will remain silent, and I’ll tell my father also to regard your action as confidential.”

“Tell Mr Farquhar also,” he urged.

“Ah!” sighed the girl. “Unfortunately I never see him now. He always meets my father at the Royal Societies Club – in order to avoid me.”

“Then there is an actual breach between you?”

“Yes,” she replied hoarsely. “He asked me certain questions, to which I could not reply without betraying you.”

“And you risked your love for a worthless fellow like myself!”

“Well? And did you not risk your liberty for my sake?” she asked. “Did you not protect me from that blackguard who would have struck me because I refused to answer his questions?”

“Oh, that was nothing, Miss Gwen. I am thinking of you.”

“Can you – will you assist my father?” she urged. “For myself I care nothing. But for my father’s reputation – in order to enhance it, and also that through him Israel shall recover her sacred relics, I am ready to sacrifice anything. Disassociate yourself from these men, and assist us, Mr Mullet. Do.”

“That is, alas! impossible,” was his slow response. “It would mean my instant ruin. Would it not be better if I remained in the enemy’s camp? Reflect for a moment.”

“I wish you could meet my father,” she said.

“Well, if he’d really like to see me, perhaps I might call upon him.”

“He wants so much to know you. He was only saying so when we sat together last night after dinner.”

“But you know, Miss Gwen, I’m not the sort of man that he would care to associate with.”

“You have been my friend and protector, Mr Mullet, and surely that is sufficient I have always found you a gentleman – more so than many others who pose as honest men.”

“Well,” he said. “I don’t pose. I’ve told you the simple truth.”

“And I admire you for it. You once said you’d tell me all about your own little daughter.”

He was silent for a moment, and she saw she had touched a tender chord in his memory.

“I’ll tell you about little Aggie one day; not now, please, Miss Griffin.”

“Well, tell me, then, why your friends are so antagonistic towards my father?”

“For several reasons. One is that the man you don’t like – the one with the red-face – is a fierce hater of the Jewish race. His own avarice knows no bounds, and he has sworn to recover the treasure of Israel if it still exists and when recovered he will break up and melt the sacred vessels and destroy the sacred relies in order to exhibit to the Jews his malice and his power.”

“Why, it would be disgraceful to desecrate such objects – even though he is a Gentile.”

“Certainly. But your father’s known leaning towards the Jews – his friendship with certain Rabbis, and the assistance he has once or twice rendered the Jewish community in London, have aroused the ire of this man, who is now his bitterest and most unscrupulous opponent.”

“Then you can assist us, Mr Mullet – if you will.”

“I fear that is impossible – certainly not openly,” was his reply. “Personally, I would not lift a finger to help one whose fixed idea is despoliation and desecration of the sacred objects. My sympathies, my dear Miss Gwen, are entirely with you in your own unfortunate position, and with your father in his strenuous efforts to discover the key to this cipher, and afterwards place the expedition to Palestine upon a firm business basis, the most sacred treasures to be handed over to their rightful owners, the Jews.”

“Why does this man, whose name you refuse to tell me, so hate the Jews?”

“Because, in certain of his huge financial dealings, they have actually ousted him by their shrewdness combined with honesty,” he answered. “It has ever been, and still is, the accepted fashion to cast opprobrium upon the Jews. Yet, in my varied career, I have often found a Jew more honest than a Christian, and certainly he never hides dishonesty beneath a cloak of religion in which he does not believe, as do so many of your so-called Christians in the City.”

“Then you are, like my father, an admirer of the Hebrew race?” she said, rather surprised.

“I am. In them as a class I find no cant or hypocrisy, no humbug of their clerical life as we have it, alas! apparent so often in our own churches, while among the Jews themselves a helpful hand is outstretched everywhere. They settle their own quarrels in their own courts of law and they adhere strictly to their religious teaching. Of course, there are good and bad Jews, as there are good and bad Christians. But with the anti-Jewish feeling so apparent everywhere throughout Europe, I have nothing in common.”

“And because of that, Mr Mullet, you will assist us – won’t you?” she urged.

The red-haired adventurer hesitated.