For a moment I lost the two men in the excited crowd of alighting
passengers, but when I gained another sight of them, my heart stood
still.
Talking with the pair was a well set-up, alert man whose back was turned
to me--a man in a soft grey felt hat and heavy travelling coat with
beaver collar. Both men were speaking quickly, eagerly, telling the
new-comer something of an urgent nature, being hustled at the same time
by the bustling passengers eager to claim their luggage from the Customs
barriers, and get away.
I moved a little distance along, recognising in the man just returned
from the Continent the grey, thin, sinister face of Kershaw Kirk.
My first impulse was to rush forward and demand of him the truth;
indeed, to charge him with a secret crime, and to insist on knowing the
whereabouts of my beloved Mabel. But it struck me at that instant that
the two men who had met him had agreed between themselves upon a course
of secrecy, and that they were therefore misleading him. Had not
Ethelwynn already told me of Langton's suspicion of this man, who was to
me and mine such a mystery?
Therefore I held back for the moment, awaiting my opportunity.
Standing beyond the barrier where the baggage was being sorted, ready
for the Customs examinations, I watched the trio from my unseen point of
vantage. I doubt that either would have recognised me in those greasy
mechanic's clothes of mine.
Within myself I felt a sense of complete satisfaction. Kirk had
returned to England, and was therefore now within the jurisdiction of
the law, however much he might pretend to be immune from its penalties.
What Flynn was saying evidently caused him to hesitate. He was
thoughtful for a single moment, but next second shrugged his shoulders,
with a gesture of disregard.
A taxi drew up close to where I stood, and I engaged him, telling him to
wait. To my satisfaction I saw it was the same driver who had brought
me along from Piccadilly.
Then, as I watched, I saw something which caused me to reflect. A
porter, quickly recognising Kirk, took from him his baggage ticket and
foraged out a big, battered kit-bag which had been placed upon the bench
ready for the argus eye of his Majesty's Customs. The porter uttered a
word to the revenue officer and pointed to the bag, whereupon the
officer chalked it without opening it.
Kirk's name, it seemed, was as a _laisser-passer_ at Charing Cross. Who
was this man that his belongings should be exempt from Customs'
examination?
He looked much travel-worn, yet presented the same active, alert figure
that I had seen passing and repassing before my house. No longer shabby
or down-at-heel, however, he had, on the contrary, looked beaming and
prosperous until those two men had imparted the information which had,
in an instant, caused his brow to cloud, and he became serious and
pensive.
The old brown kit-bag bearing many hotel labels was placed upon a taxi,
which the three men entered and drove away, I following close upon them.
Half-way up St. James's Street they pulled up at Boodle's, where all
three entered. Which of the three, I wondered, was a member of that
most exclusive and old-fashioned institution?
They remained there nearly half an hour, when Kirk emerged, and, bidding
good night to his friends at the kerb, re-entered the taxi and drove to
Whitehall Court, that large block of flats which overlooks the
embankment close to Northumberland Avenue. Here the liveried porter
saluted him respectfully and carried his bag to the lift, up which a few
minutes later he disappeared.
In my mechanic's attire I was now placed at a great disadvantage. Any
inquiry I might make of the gorgeous attendant would, I knew, only
arouse suspicion, but a thought instantly occurred to me. The friendly
driver of my taxi, believing that I, a motor man, had been swindled,
might perhaps help me. We had pulled up at the corner where, in a few
brief sentences, I now explained to him that I was anxious to know
whether Kirk resided there in his own name.
"I'll inquire for you, mate, if you like," declared the taxi-driver
cheerily. "You just wait here."
And while I mounted guard over his cab, the red-moustached driver went
along to the entrance to the flats. I saw him in conversation with the
lift man, and when presently he returned he said:
"The gentleman just gone in is Mr. Seymour, who lives on the third
floor. He's abroad very often, it seems, and is only just back. He's
lived there a couple of years."
Now I recollected that Kirk, when we had sat together that first night
in Bedford Park, had told me that he possessed another home, and I had
now run him to earth.
Whitehall Court is an expensive place of residence. Apartments there
seemed far beyond his income as he appeared when he passed my house,
shabby, broken-down, and often hungry-looking.
I gave my friend the taxi-man half a crown beyond his legal fare and
dismissed him, afterwards walking as far as the entrance to the National
Liberal Club, trying to decide how next to act.
To face the fellow boldly and unflinchingly was, I recognised, the only
way in which to gain the knowledge I sought. Yet in the garb of a
mechanic, was I not much handicapped? Nevertheless, I walked back, and,
finding the hall porter, gave my name as Flynn, and asked to see Mr.
Seymour upon important business.
After a wait of nearly ten minutes a man in uniform came and ushered me
up in the lift to the third floor, where, having traversed a long,
thickly-carpeted corridor, he opened a door and allowed me to pass
across the small well-furnished hall of the flat into a sitting-room,
where I found myself again face to face with my mysterious neighbour.
He started at sight of me, but so perfect an actor was he that in a
second he had recovered himself, and inquired with affected
friendliness:
"Why, my dear Holford, why in the name of Fate did you send up your name
as Flynn?"
"Because I wished to see you, Mr. Kirk," was my hard response, for we
were now alone together in that cosy, sumptuously-furnished
sitting-room, through the windows of which I could see the dark flowing
Thames and the row of gleaming lights on the Surrey shore beyond. "I
knew," I added, "that if I had sent up my own name I should not be
received."
"Why?" he asked, opening his eyes widely. "I don't follow you. Surely
you have acted as a good friend to me, therefore why shouldn't I receive
you? I've only this very moment returned from abroad. Who told you I
was back again?"
"No one. I obtained the knowledge for myself," I said, "and I have come
here, Mr. Kirk, for several reasons, the chief being to ask you a simple
and pointed question: who killed Professor Greer?"
"My dear sir," he exclaimed, looking straight at me with unwavering
gaze, a slight change, however, showing in his thin, grey countenance,
"that is the very problem that I myself am trying to solve--but in
vain."
"An impostor is passing himself off as Greer," I declared.
"Is he?" asked Kirk quietly. "I was not aware of that."
"Not aware of it!" I cried in angry dismay. "Do you actually deny,
then, that you are acquainted with this man who has taken the
personality and honours of Professor Greer upon himself in order to
preserve the secret of the unfortunate scientist's death?"
"I deny being aware of any person attempting to pass himself off as
Greer," was my mysterious neighbour's bold and unflinching reply.
Had I not sent that telegram from Broadstairs and signed it Kirk, and
had not its receipt caused the false Professor quickly to change his
quarters? Kirk's reply staggered me.
"Look here," I exclaimed again, raising my voice in anger at this open
denial of what I knew to be the truth, "on the night of your escape from
Sussex Place, the house was searched, and I found evidences of all
traces of the crime having been effaced in the furnace of the
laboratory."
"I know," was his simple response. "I was quite well aware of that. I
hope, however, Holford, that you have kept your promise and kept a still
tongue."
"To a certain extent, yes."
"You told Langton nothing, I trust?" he asked anxiously.
"Why are you in such mortal fear of Langton?" I demanded hotly, halting
before him as he stood on the hearthrug coolly surveying me, with his
back to the fire.
"My dear fellow," he answered, "pray calm yourself. Have a drink, and
let's discuss this matter amicably from a purely business-like
standpoint. Surely when I invoked your aid I did not commit a grave
error of judgment? You have been judicious throughout, I hope? You
have not forgotten the great issues which I explained depended upon your
silence?"
"My silence you shall command no longer, Mr. Kirk!" I cried, suddenly
interrupting him. "I've been silent far too long."
"Ah!" he remarked, still unruffled. "I see. Well, your attitude is
quite justifiable, my dear sir--quite. You have lost your wife, I
understand."
"Yes," I said, advancing towards him a couple of paces in a manner which
I now believe must have appeared threatening. "And you know more about
the trap into which my poor wife has been led than anybody else. That
is why I'm here to-night--to compel you to speak--you crafty old cur!"
"My dear Holford, why--what's the matter?" he asked, even then quite
unperturbed. "Now if I did not know you so well I might easily be
annoyed, but I'm not. No doubt the loss of Mrs. Holford has seriously
upset you." And the fellow actually smiled at this.
I grew furious. The mysterious man's eyes gleamed with a triumphant
light, and his pale lips parted, revealing his pointed teeth.
"You make pretence of ignorance!" I cried. "You think that I believe
you when you say you know nothing of where she is, but--"
"I assure you, Holford, that these suspicions of myself are entirely
groundless. I have no knowledge whatever of the lady. I have seen her
once or twice at her dining-room window, it is true."
"And yet I've been out to Florence, to the Grand Bretagne, where I was
informed that you had been in her company!" was my hasty reply.
"I can't help what cock-and-bull story you've been told by an Italian
hotel-keeper. They are notorious for their untruths, as you would
discover if you travelled as much up and down Italy as I do," he said
with an evil grin. "I can only tell you, once and for all, that I have
no knowledge whatever of your wife's present whereabouts."
"Then who has?"
"How can I tell, my dear sir? You ask me a riddle. On my arrival at
Charing Cross an hour ago one of my friends who met me told me of Mrs.
Holford's sudden journey abroad and her disappearance into space. The
story set me wondering as to the motive of the plot--for plot it
undoubtedly must be. Mrs. Holford and yourself, I am told, are devoted
to each other. There is no reason for her leaving you, is there?"
"Understand this, Kirk," I said. "I've been fooled quite long enough.
As my wife has been enticed away, and is held aloof in some unknown
place, I give you full and ample warning of my intention. It is to go
straight to the police, and while invoking their aid to try and find
her, at the same time to tell them the whole story of the affair at
Sussex Place, just as I know it."
The man half turned from me and bit his thin under-lip. His grey,
furrowed countenance had become even more grey and more determined,
while in his eyes I saw an evil glitter.
"Ah! You've been trying to seek solution of the mystery for yourself.
I know all about that!" He laughed hollowly. "But, as you are aware of
only half the tangled skein of mysterious facts, it is hardly likely
that you'll succeed, do you think? Did I not tell you to remain silent
and inactive? Instead of that, you've been chattering and trying to act
the part of amateur detective. It was fatal. Because of that--and for
that reason alone--the misfortune has been placed upon you."
"What misfortune?"
"The loss of your wife. It has occupied your mind in another way, just
as it was intended by your enemies it should do."
"And yours is the master mind, Mr. Kirk, which has planned this subtle
revenge," I exclaimed, my eager hands clenched in frantic desperation.
"Because I disobeyed your extraordinary injunctions Mabel has been taken
from me. You may as well admit the whole truth now at once."
"I admit nothing," he answered, drawing himself up defiantly.
"Then, by Heaven, I'll force you to speak--to tell me where she is!" I
shouted, as I raised my hands with a sudden movement. And then, before
he could ward me off, my fingers closed upon his hard, bony throat.
I was desperate. Nay, in the presence of that sphinx-like, taciturn
adventurer whom I now knew to be my enemy, I was mad.
Yes, mad, or surely I would never have dared to lay hands upon him.