The deformed man existed in a whirl of excitement. He already felt
himself rich beyond his wildest dreams. He built castles in the air
like a child, and smiled contentedly when rich people--some of the
hunting crowd--passed him by unrecognised.
During the three days that followed, Frank Farquhar held several
consultations with him--long earnest talks sometimes at the Manor or
else while walking across that heath-land around the district known to
the followers to hounds as the Horsford Hanglands.
The villagers who saw them together made no comment. As was well known,
the little Doctor and Lady Gavin’s clever young brother were friends.
Diamond had enjoined the strictest secrecy, but Farquhar, as a keen man
of business and determined to put his knowledge to the best advantage,
had already exchanged several telegrams with some person in London, and
was now delaying matters with Diamond until he obtained a decided reply.
On the fourth day, just after breakfast, Burton, the grave old butler,
handed the young man a telegram which caused him to smile with
satisfaction. He crushed it into his pocket and, seizing his hat,
walked along to the Doctor’s cottage. Then the pair took a slow stroll
up the short, steep hill on to the Peterborough road, through the damp
mists of the winter’s morning. Away across the meadows on the left,
hounds were in full cry, a pretty sight, but neither noticed the
incident.
“Do you know, Doctor,” exclaimed the young man as soon as they got
beyond the village, “I’ve been thinking very seriously over the affair,
and I’ve come to the conclusion that unless we put it before some great
Hebrew scholar we shall never get down to the truth. The whole basis of
the secret is the Hebrew language, without a doubt. What can we do
alone--you and I?”
The little Doctor shook his head dubiously.
“I admit that neither of us is sufficiently well versed in Jewish
history properly to understand the references which are given in the
fragments which remain to us,” he said. “Yet if we go to a scholar,
explain our views, and show him the documents, should we not be giving
away what is evidently a most valuable secret?”
“No. I hardly think that,” answered the shrewd young man. “Before
putting it to any scholar we should first make terms with him, so that
he may not go behind our backs and profit upon the information.”
“You can’t do that!” declared Diamond.
“Among scholars there are a good many honourable men,” replied Frank
Farquhar, with a glance of cunning. “If we proposed to deal with City
sharks, it would be quite a different matter.”
“Then to whom do you propose we should submit the documents for expert
opinion?” inquired the deformed man, as he trudged along at his side.
“I know a man up in London whom I implicitly trust, and who will treat
the whole matter in strictest confidence,” was the other’s reply. “We
can do nothing further down here. I’m going up to town this afternoon,
and if you like I’ll call and see him.”
The Doctor hesitated. He recognised in the young man’s suggestion a
desire to obtain his precious fragments and submit them to an expert.
Most deformed men are gifted with unusually shrewd intelligence, and
Raymond Diamond was certainly no exception. He smiled within himself at
Frank Farquhar’s artless proposal.
“Who is the man?” he asked, as though half-inclined to adopt the
suggestion.
“I know two men. One is named Segal--a professor who writes for our
papers; an exceedingly clever chap, who’d be certain to make out
something more from the puzzle than we ever can hope to do. I also know
Professor Griffin.”
“I shall not allow the papers out of my possession.”
“Or all that remains of them, you mean,” laughed the young man uneasily.
“Why, of course not. That would be foolish.”
“Foolish in our mutual interests,” Diamond went on. “You are interested
with myself, Mr Farquhar, in whatever profits may accrue from the
affair.”
“Then if our interests are to be mutual, Doctor, why not entrust the
further investigation to me?” suggested the wily young man. “I hope you
know me sufficiently well to have confidence in my honesty.”
The Doctor cast a sharp look at the little young fellow at his side.
“Why, of course, Mr Farquhar,” he laughed. “As I’ve already said, you
possess facilities for investigating the affair which I do not. If what
I suspect be true, we have, in our hands, the solution of a problem
which will startle the world. I have sought your assistance, and I’m
prepared to give you--well, shall we say fifteen per cent, interest on
whatever the secret may realise?”
“It may, after all, be only historical knowledge,” laughed young
Farquhar. “How can you reduce that into ‘the best and brightest?’
Still, I accept. Fifteen per cent is to be my share of whatever profit
may accrue. Good! I only wish Sir George were home from Egypt. He
would, no doubt, give us assistance.”
The Doctor purposely disregarded this last remark. He held more than a
suspicion that young Farquhar intended to “freeze him out.”
“When are you going up to town?” he asked.
“This afternoon. I shall see my man in the morning, and I feel sure
that if I put the problem before him he’ll be able, before long, to give
us some tangible solution,” was Frank’s reply. “When I act, I act
promptly, you know.”
The Doctor was undecided. He knew quite well that young Farquhar was
acquainted with all sorts of writers and scholars, and that possibly
among them were men who were experts in Hebrew, and in the history of
the House of Israel.
He reflected. If the young man were content with fifteen per cent, what
had he further to fear?
Therefore, after some further persuasion on Frank’s part, he promised to
write out an agreement upon a fifteen per cent, basis, and submit the
fragments to the young man’s friend.
They returned to the village, and the Doctor promised to call upon him
at noon with an agreement written out.
This he did, and in the library at the Manor Frank appended his
signature, receiving in return the precious fragments carefully
preserved between the two pieces of cardboard.
When the deformed man had left, Frank Farquhar lit a cigarette, and
stretching his legs as he sat in the armchair, laughed aloud in triumph.
“Now if I tie down old Griffin the secret will be mine,” he remarked
aloud. “I’ve already ‘wired’ to Gwen, so she’ll expect me at eight, and
no doubt tell her father.”
At five o’clock Sir George’s red “Mercedes” came round to the front of
the house to take Frank into Peterborough, and half an hour later he was
in the “up-Scotsman” speeding towards King’s Cross, bearing with him the
secret which he felt confident was to set the whole world by the ears.
He dropped his bag at his rooms in Half Moon Street, had a wash and a
snack to eat at his club, the New Universities, round in St. James’s
Street, and then drove in a taxi-cab to a large, rather comfortable
house in Pembridge Gardens, that turning exactly opposite Notting Hill
Gate Station.
Standing behind the neat maid-servant who opened the door was a tall,
dark-haired, handsome girl not yet twenty, slim, narrow-waisted, and
essentially dainty and refined.
“Why, Frank!” she cried, rushing towards him. “What’s all this
excitement. I’m so interested. Dad has been most impatient to see you.
After your letter the day before yesterday, he’s been expecting you
almost every hour.”
“Well, the fact is, Gwen, I couldn’t get the business through,” he said
with a laugh. “We had terms to arrange--and all that.”
“Terms of what?” asked the girl, as he linked his arm in hers and they
walked together into the long, well-furnished dining-room.
“I’ll tell you all about it presently, dear,” he replied.
“About the secret?” she asked anxiously. “Dad showed me your letter.
It is really intensely interesting--if what you suspect be actually the
truth.”
“Interesting!” he echoed. “I should rather think it is. It’s a thing
that will startle the whole civilised world in a few days. And the
curious and most romantic point is that we can’t find out who was the
original holder of the information. He died in Paris, refusing to give
his real name, or any account of himself. But there,” he added, “I’ll
tell you all about it later on. How is my darling?”
And he bent until their lips met in a long, fervent caress.
Her arms were entwined about his neck, for she loved him with the whole
strength of her being, and her choice was looked upon with entire favour
by her father. Frank Farquhar was a rising man, the adopted candidate
for a Yorkshire borough, while from his interest in Sir George Gavin’s
successful publications he derived a very handsome income for a man of
his years.
“I’ve been longing for your return, dearest,” she murmured in his ear as
he kissed her. “It seems ages ago since you left town.”
“Only a month. I went first to Perthshire, where I had to speak at some
Primrose League meetings. Then I had business in both Newcastle and
Manchester, and afterwards I went to Horsford to see my sister. I was
due to stay there another fortnight, but this strange discovery brings
me up to consult your father.”
“He’s upstairs in the study. We’d better go up at once. He’s dying to
see you,” declared the bright-eyed girl, who wore a big black silk bow
in her hair. She possessed a sweet innocent face, a pale soft
countenance indicative of purity of soul. The pair were, indeed, well
matched, each devoted to the other; he full of admiration of her beauty
and her talents, and she proud of his brilliant success in journalism
and literature.
At the throat of her white silk blouse she wore a curious antique
brooch, an old engraved sapphire which Sir Charles Gaylor, a friend of
Dr Griffin, had some years ago brought from the excavation he had made
in the mound of Nebi-Yunus, near Layard’s researches in the vicinity of
Nineveh. The rich blue gleamed in the gaslight, catching Frank’s eye as
he ascended the stair, and he remarked that she was wearing what she
termed her “lucky brooch,” a gem which had no doubt adorned some
maiden’s breast in the days of Sennacherib or Esarhaddon.
The first-floor front room, which in all other houses in Pembridge
Gardens was the drawing-room, had in the house of Professor Griffin been
converted into the study--a big apartment lined with books which, for
the most part, were of “a dry-as-dust” character.
As they entered, the Professor, a short, stout, grey-haired man in round
steel-framed spectacles, raised himself from his armchair, where he had
been engrossed in an article in a German review.
“Ah! my dear Farquhar!” he cried excitedly. “Gwen told me that you were
on your way--but there, you are such a very erratic fellow that I never
know when to expect you.”
“I generally turn up when least expected,” laughed the young man, with a
side-glance at the girl.
“Well, well,” exclaimed the man in spectacles; “now what is all this
you’ve written to me about? What ‘cock-and-bull’ story have you got
hold of now--eh?”
“I briefly explained in my letter,” he answered. “Isn’t it very
remarkable? What’s your opinion?”
“Ah! you journalists!” exclaimed the old professor reprovingly. “You’ve
a lot to answer for to the unsuspecting public.”
“I admit that,” laughed Frank. “But do you really dismiss the matter as
a ‘cock-and-bull’ story?”
“That is how I regard it at the moment--without having been shown
anything.”
“Then I can show you everything,” was Farquhar’s prompt reply. “I have
it all with me--at least all that remains of it.”
The old man smiled satirically. As Regius Professor of Hebrew at
Cambridge, Dr Arminger Griffin was not a man to accept lightly any
theory placed before him by an irresponsible writer such as he knew
Frank Farquhar to be.
He suspected a journalistic “boom” to be at the bottom of the affair,
and of all things he hated most in the world was the halfpenny press.
Frank had first met Gwen while he had been at college, and had often
been a visitor at the professor’s house out on Grange Road, prior to his
retirement and return to London. He knew well in what contempt the old
man held the popular portion of the daily press, and especially the
London evening journals. Therefore he never sought to obtrude his
profession when in his presence.
“Well?” said the old gentleman at last, peering above his glasses. “I
certainly am interested in the story, and I would like to examine what
you’ve brought. Burnt papers--aren’t they?”
“Yes.”
“H’m. Savours of romance,” sniffed the professor. “That’s why I don’t
like it. The alleged secret itself is attractive enough, without an
additional and probably wholly fictitious interest.”
Frank explained how the fragments had fallen into his hands, and the
suggestion which Doctor Diamond had made as to the possibility of a
financial value of the secret.
“My dear Frank,” replied the professor, “if it were a secret invention,
a new pill, or some scented soap attractive to women, it might be worth
something in the City. But a secret such as you allege,”--and he
shrugged his shoulders ominously without concluding his sentence.
“Ah!” laughed the young man. “I see you’re sceptical. Well, I don’t
wonder at that. Some men of undoubted ability and great knowledge
declare that the Bible was not inspired.”
“I am not one of those,” the professor hastened to declare.
“No, Frank,” exclaimed the girl. “Dad is not an agnostic. He only
doubts the genuineness of this secret of yours.”
“He condemns the whole thing as a ‘cock-and-bull’ story, without first
investigating it!” said Farquhar with a grin. “Good! I wonder whether
your father will be of the same opinion after he has examined the
fragments of the dead man’s manuscript which remain to us?”
“Don’t talk of the dead man’s manuscript!” exclaimed the old professor
impatiently, “even though the man is dead, it’s in typewriting, you
say--therefore there must exist somebody who typed it. He, or she, must
still be alive!”
“By Jove!” gasped the young man quickly, “I never thought of that! The
typing is probably only a copy of a written manuscript. The original
may still exist. And in any case the typist would be able to supply to
a great degree the missing portions of the document.”
“Yes,” said the other. “It would be far more advantageous to you to
find the typist than to consult me. I fear I can only give you a
negative opinion.”