A cold bleak afternoon in Kensington Gardens. The frozen gravelled path
was lightly powdered with snow, and against the bare black branches
showed the pale yellow light of the wintry afternoon. Bent to the
biting wind, men and women, wrapped to the ears, passed up the Broad
Walk, and among them was Gwen Griffin, a lonely, solitary, sweet-faced
little figure, neat with her black bow in her hair, her blue doth skirt,
fur bolero, and fur toque and muff to match.
She walked very slowly, her sad eyes cast upon the ground. She always
went into the gardens when she wanted to think. Near Hyde Park Gate,
she turned into one of the narrow and little-frequented paths, for she
wanted to be alone.
That afternoon the great blow which she dreaded had fallen, and her
young heart so light and happy, was crushed and broken.
Frank Farquhar had sent her, by messenger from Half Moon Street, a
cruel, brief letter, in which he told her plainly of the allegation
which Jim Jannaway had made, and explaining that, in consequence, he
must ask her to consider their engagement at a complete end.
Its rigid formality showed that he believed every word of that vile
calumny. Ah! if only Mullet would speak! If only he would consent to
the truth being told.
But alas! though a fortnight had passed since his hurried departure from
Pembridge Gardens after hearing of the betrayal of the secret, he had
sent her no single word. He was a will-o’-the wisp, gone abroad, in all
probability, in order to escape arrest.
For a fortnight, too, she had not seen Frank. After her admission of
Jim Jannaway’s visit, he had left the house in evident disgust and
anger, and had not returned. He had not even written to her, for she
understood that he had gone abroad. That afternoon, however, he had
sent her the note which for fifteen long anxious days she had been
dreading.
She sank upon one of the seats quite alone, yet within sound of the dull
roar of the traffic in Kensington Gore, and taking his letter from her
muff, re-read it, her vision half obscured by hot bitter tears.
“The scoundrel told such a circumstantial tale,” she murmured to
herself, “that Frank has believed it without question. Yet--yet if he
had come to me, and asked me, what could I have said? It was true that
I stayed in that hateful place, even though against my will. Ah! I
wonder what foul lies he has told against me--what--”
And hiding her face in her muff, she burst again into a flood of tears.
Her sweet, bright countenance had, alas, greatly changed in those past
few weeks. Instead of bearing the stamp of inward happiness, she was
now wan and pale, with thin cheeks and dark, deep-sunken eyes--the face
of a woman whose heart was troubled, and who existed in terror of the
future.
Both the Professor and Diamond--who was still a frequent visitor and had
long conferences with her father--had noticed the change. But neither
had made any remark. They attributed it to her heartfelt regret at not
having raised the alarm on finding Jannaway prying into their secret.
The girl’s mind, racked by the tortures of conscience and frenzied by
the cruel calumnies uttered against her, was now strained to its
greatest tension. She was utterly friendless, for even her father now
avoided her, and at meals treated her with a cool and studied aversion.
Instead of being petted and indulged as she had been all her life, she
was now shunned. He asked of her no advice, nor did he invite her to
his study each evening to chat, as had been his habit ever since she had
left school.
One friend she possessed in the world--“Red Mullet,” the adventurer who
posed as a mining engineer! Where was he? Ay, who could tell?
“That man threatened his arrest if I did not remain silent,” she said,
speaking aloud to herself, her eyes fixed upon the bare, cheerless
prospect before her. “I have told the truth, and already he has carried
out one of his threats. Perhaps he will carry out the other. Probably
he will, and then--and then I shall lose my only friend! He may allege,
too, that because ‘Red Mullet’ is my friend, he is my lover! Ah! I
wonder what shameful scandal he has told Frank! I wonder! Oh! Why has
Frank not come to me for an explanation for proof of those abominable
lies uttered by a man whom he knows as a blackguard and a thief. It is
cruel!” she sobbed, “cruel--too cruel! Ah! Frank, my own Frank, I love
you with all my heart--with all my soul! You are mine, mine!” she
cried, raising her clenched hands to heaven in her frenzy of despair,
“and yet I have lost you--lost my father’s great secret--lost
everything--_everything_!”
Her white lips moved, but no sound came from them. Her eyes were
closed, her hands clenched tightly as there, with none to witness her
agony of soul, she implored the protection of her Maker and the clemency
of Providence in that, the greatest trial of all her life.
She prayed in deep earnestness for assistance and strength to withstand
the evil machinations of her enemies.
With Frank’s departure, the sun of her existence had set. The future
was only grey and darkening, like the dismal, dispiriting scene that
spread before her.
Love and life were, alas, lost to her for ever.
Away over those leafless trees, eastward beyond Hyde Park and Grosvenor
Square, a curious scene was, at that moment, being enacted in the house
of her enemies.
Challas, stout and pompous, was standing with his back to the library
fireplace, while in an armchair near, sat the white-bearded old German
Professor.
“You see from this ‘wire’ from Jim, that all goes along beautifully
Erich,” the Baronet was saying. “He has engaged a Turk to purchase the
land on both sides of the Mount, the price asked being a little bit
stiff--eight thousand pounds for the lot. I ‘wired’ him this morning to
close at the lowest price possible, and at the same time I’ve placed him
a credit of ten thousand at the Ottoman Bank in Jerusalem.”
“Then by this time the deal is closed,” remarked the old German, rubbing
his thin hands in satisfaction. “Ah! I wonder how our friend Griffin
now feels?”
“Yes,” laughed Sir Felix, “thanks to Jim we obtained the whole secret
without the trouble of deciphering it. That was a smart move of his to
capture the little girl as he did.”
“Yes,” laughed the old man, “it seems that we’re on the straight road to
success.”
“The road!” echoed the great financier. “Why, by this time, I expect
the land is ours, and if so, I shall start myself on Saturday. I mean
to keep my intentions ‘dark,’ of course. The papers will say that I’ve
gone to Vienna, for if it were known that I’d gone to Jerusalem there
are men in the City who would be keeping a wary eye on me. They know
that when Felix Challas goes abroad, it’s generally to see some good
thing or other. That’s the worst of this cursed popularity. The public
eye is upon one the whole time.”
As he spoke, the old butler tapped at the door, and handed him another
telegram, which he broke open eagerly.
“Ah!” he exclaimed after consulting a little note book which he took
from a drawer--the code which Jim always used. “Another from Jim! He’s
closing at seven thousand eight hundred, the deeds to be signed
to-morrow. The story he has told is that the land is to be used for
building purposes.”
“I suppose the surveyor you sent out with him has fixed the exact spot?”
“Of course. They did that four days ago. It was a difficult task to
accomplish without attracting attention, but Jim succeeded. He always
does!” added the Baronet with a grin.
“I understood that the Mount was nearly covered by the Jews’ cemetery,”
remarked the German.
“So it is. But the plots we want are fortunately rocky places, where
burial is impossible. I think it a big stroke of luck--don’t you?” he
added with a self-satisfied laugh.
“Certainly,” was the German’s response in his deep, guttural voice, “but
what of Mullet? Have you heard anything of him lately?”
“Nothing. He’s abroad somewhere. I believe Jim and he have quarrelled.
I only hope they won’t get to serious disagreement--if they do it will
be very unpleasant for us all. ‘Red Mullet’ hasn’t acted straight in
this affair at all. He fell in love with Griffin’s girl, I think--and
became heroic--like the chicken-hearted fool he is.”
“You haven’t any fear of him turning upon you, I suppose?”
“Fear of him!” laughed Sir Felix heartily.
“Why, my dear Erich, I could put him away for ten years, to-morrow, if I
wished, and fortunately he knows it. No. He’ll keep a very still
tongue, never fear. He still draws his money from Paris, which shows
that he doesn’t intend mischief.”
“Ah! that’s all right,” declared the Hebrew scholar, greatly satisfied.
“I--well, I’ve always had suspicions that he meant to play into
Griffin’s hands.”
“So he did, undoubtedly, but Jim and I were rather too clever for him.”
At that moment the elderly butler re-entered with a card upon the
salver.
Sir Felix took it and his face changed in an instant. His mouth was
open, and for a second he seemed speechless.
“Not at home--not at home,” he snapped to the man. “Never at home to
that person--you understand?”
“Yes, Sir Felix,” replied the grave-faced servant, who bowed and
withdrew.
Erich Haupt noticed that the visitor, whoever it was, seemed a most
unwelcome one.
From the Baronet’s subsequent movements the old German realised that he
wished to get rid of him.
Therefore, he rose and departed, promising to call next day, and hear
the latest report of Jim Jannaway’s progress in Jerusalem.
Then, the instant Erich had left the house, Sir Felix rang for his
valet, a young Italian, giving him a note to take in a taxi-cab to his
office in the City and await a reply.
The man was gone an hour, during which time his master ascended to the
great drawing-room, and advancing cautiously to the window, peered out
into the grey twilight of the square. He stood behind the curtains so
that any one watching the house from the outside could not observe him.
From his nervous anxiety and restless movements it was apparent that he
feared his unwelcome visitor might still be watching outside.
As he peered through the crack between the heavy curtains of blue silk
brocade and the window sash, his eyes caught sight of a figure, and he
sprang back breathless, his face white and drawn, as though he had seen
a ghost.
It was a ghost--a ghost of the past that had arises against him in that
hour of his greatest triumph.
The young Italian returned, and handed him a bulky letter which he
placed in his pocket without opening. Then, having sent him forth with
a note to the Ritz Hotel, a mere excuse, he ran up to his dressing-room,
quickly exchanged his frock-coat and fancy vest for a suit of rough
tweed, and putting on a bowler hat, returned to the library. Upon his
face was a haunted look of terror. The unexpected had happened.
From his safe he took a small sealed packet of folded papers which he
opened and cast quickly into the fire, waiting in eager impatience until
all had been consumed. Then, unobserved, he slipped out by the back in
the evening gloom, hurrying down the mews, and through into Hill Street,
where he hailed a hansom and drove quickly away.
For the ghost of the past was still watching, silent and hideous,
against the railings of Berkeley Square.