The Great God Gold

And the three men standing there saw that her tears were tears of shame.

Two hours later, Frank Farquhar, dark-faced and determined, stood in one of the smaller rooms in Sir Felix Challas’s house in Berkeley Square, while before him, seated easily on the edge of the table, was Jim Jannaway.

“Well, Mr Farquhar,” he said, “what you’ve just stated is to a certain extent correct. I have no reason whatever to hide the truth, now that you have come to me and demanded it. The investigation of Holmboe’s story has simply been a matter of business in which the keenest wits win. We have won.”

“By trickery – and by a burglary, for which Professor Griffin intends to have you arrested.”

Jannaway laughed impudently in his face.

“My dear sir, pray don’t be foolish,” he answered, “why it was Miss Griffin herself who let me in, and who showed me her father’s decipher of the message in Ezekiel. And if you don’t believe me,” he added, “here’s the telegram which the sent me.”

Frank took the telegram he handed him, and read the following words: “Shall place candle at my window at two to-morrow morning. Come. Have something very important to communicate. Love, Gwen.”

Love! The word danced before Frank’s eyes.

“Why should she be acting in your interests, Mr Jannaway, and not in her father’s? That seems to me a very curious point,” he said, for want of something else to say.

“There was a reason – a very strong reason,” replied the fellow, with a mysterious grin, pretending, of course, to be unaware that Farquhar was the girl’s lover; “the little girl is a particular friend of mine.”

“What do you mean?” gasped Frank, his face paler.

“Well – what I say. Need I be more explicit? It is not usual for a man to imperil a girl’s reputation, is it?”

“Come,” said Frank; “tell me the truth. Is your acquaintance an intimate one?”

The fellow nodded and laughed. He plainly saw the result of his cruel aspersions upon the girl’s character.

“I don’t believe it,” declared Frank.

“Oh! perhaps you are her friend also!” exclaimed Jannaway with a smile. “If so, you’d better ask her if she did not remain with me during a recent absence from home. I wanted her to go back, but she seemed afraid, and preferred life in a bachelor’s chambers.”

“You lie!” cried Frank, crimson with anger.

“No, not so quick, Mr Farquhar,” exclaimed the scoundrel coolly. “Just inquire of her, that’s all. Ask her if she did not meet me in secret late one night, and whether she didn’t remain with me in my chambers off Oxford Street. She will certainly not have forgotten the incident,” he added with meaning sarcasm.

“I don’t believe you!” declared Frank, “but even if she had, you’re a cursed blackguard for giving her away!”

“You asked me for the truth, and you’ve got it!” was Jim Jannaway’s response. “Anything more you wish to know? If so, I am entirely at your service.”

It was one of Jannaway’s characteristics that the more angry he became, the more cool was his exterior.

“I want to know nothing from one who is a liar, a thief, and a slanderer of women,” Frank responded, in a hard, bitter voice.

“I understand that the object of your visit was to inquire the reason why I called so early this morning at Pembridge Gardens. I have simply replied that I called at the Professor’s in response to this invitation,” and he indicated the telegram which he still held in his hand, and which, if the truth were told, he had taken the precaution to send to himself, as additional evidence against the innocent girl whom he had all along intended should be his victim.

“And you repeat your allegation that Miss Gwen has been your guest at your chambers for several days – eh? Remember, if untrue, such a statement is actionable.”

“I repeat it. And I ask you to satisfy yourself as to its truth by asking her. But,” he added, “I may as well tell you that the little girl is annoyed with me just now for betraying her father’s secret to my friends. Yet, after all, as I’ve already said, it was only a matter of business, and with business women ought never to meddle. They always burn their fingers.”

“And your friends – that is Sir Felix Challas and his associates – intend, of course, to profit by this secret which you’ve stolen – eh?” asked Frank, his face darkening.

“That’s their affair – not mine.”

“I hear that you bribed the parlour-maid at Pembridge Gardens – the crafty scoundrel that you are!”

“That’s it!” Jim laughed, “and I squeezed the cook, and kissed the kitchenmaid! Anything else? No, I really haven’t any more time to waste, Mr Farquhar. All I need add is, that if you doubt my statement, please ask Miss Griffin herself.”

Chapter Thirty Seven

Reveals a Woman’s Face

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.

Chapter Thirty Eight

Contains a Surprise

That short February day was indeed an eventful one, both for the rival investigators, and for the whole Hebrew race.

Almost at that same hour when Sir Felix Challas left his London mansion so hurriedly, and in such fear, “Red Mullet” was being conducted up a long, wood-built, unpainted corridor where the uncarpeted floor was full of holes and the broken windows were patched, to a small shabby little reception-room – the waiting-room of the Sublime Porte, or Government Offices at Constantinople.

A Turkish servant in a dingy red fez, handed him the usual formal cup of blade coffee and cigarette, and he was left alone to await his audience with the Grand Vizier of his Imperial Majesty, the Sultan.

It was not the first time in the course of his adventurous career that he had had audience at the Sublime Porte. He knew the shabbiness and the decay of that great shed-like building, its lack of order, its seedy-looking officials, and its altogether incongruous appearance as the centre of the administration of a great empire.

Smoking the cigarette, he stood gazing thoughtfully out upon the rubbish heap in the courtyard below. Beyond, lay Pera, and the blue Bosphorus. The room, with its bare walls, faded Oriental carpet, rickety writing-table and few shabby chairs, was the apartment where the Ambassadors of the Powers awaited audience of the Grand Vizier, or of his Excellency, Tewfik Pasha, his Majesty’s Minister for Foreign Affairs. A contrast indeed to the fairylike glories of the palace of Yildiz.

Five minutes later, the tall, red-moustached Englishman was conducted to a private room, shabby as was all at the Sublime Porte, where, at a table, sat a benevolent white-bearded old gentleman in frock-coat and fez, the Grand Vizier of the Sultan.

The high official greeted him in French, and having motioned him to a chair on the opposite side of the table, said:

“I am greatly obliged to you, M’sieur Mullet. I have read with intense interest the document you gave me yesterday, and last evening I placed the matter before his Majesty, my sovereign, at the Palace. As you are aware, his Majesty is always tolerant of other religions that are not our Faith, and has ever been most lenient towards the Hebrew race. This discovery, and your statement that certain persons hostile to the Jewish religion are in search of the supposed sacred relics, have both interested him, and he has commanded me to tell you that inquiries have been made by telegraph in Jerusalem. It appears that a certain Englishman named James Jannaway is staying at the Park Hotel, and is in treaty with the owners of two plots of land at the base of the Mount of Offence, one belonging to Poulios, a Greek, and the other to a certain Hadj Ben Hassan, an Arab. The Governor of Jerusalem reports that the price is fixed, and only the contracts remain to be drawn.”

“The man Jannaway, your Excellency, is the agent of Sir Felix Challas,” declared Mullet.

“As you yourself have been when you have visited Constantinople to obtain concessions from us on previous occasions, M’sieur!” remarked the wily Turkish official. “Why have you betrayed your employer?”

“For reasons which I have already explained in the document I handed to you. Your Excellency has always been extremely good to me personally, and I deemed it but my duty to inform you of the secret excavations about to take place in Jerusalem.”

“You have no ulterior motive – eh?” asked the old man, fixing his eyes keenly upon him.

“None whatever, your Excellency. On the contrary, I shall be the loser.”

The Grand Vizier stroked his beard for a few moments in thoughtful silence. Then he said:

“His Majesty never fails to repay generously any service rendered him. I may as well tell you he considers the rendering of this information a very valuable service. It might easily have happened that the most sacred relics of the Hebrews could have been taken from our country in secret by enemies of the Jews, a circumstance which would have caused his Majesty the utmost annoyance and anger.”

“Your Excellency has already satisfied yourself that I have told the truth, I hope?”

“Certainly; during the night I have had several long telegrams from the Governor of Jerusalem, all of which bear out your allegation of a secret attempt about to be made to excavate in the Mount of Offence.”

“And what action will the Ottoman Government take?” asked “Red Mullet,” eagerly.

“His Majesty has already taken action,” was the Grand Vizier’s reply. “This morning he signed an irade which I placed before him, prohibiting the sale of any of the land of the Mount of Offence to any foreigner, and forbidding any excavations or any investigation whatsoever being made there.”

“Red Mullet” was silent. The situation was an unexpected one. Such an irade would prevent Griffin and Diamond – the rightful holders of the secret – from taking any action, or making any investigation! By successfully opposing Challas, he had unfortunately also opposed Professor Griffin!

“Is not that – well – well, just a little in opposition to his Majesty’s well-known policy of progress? The Imperial irade forbids any investigation whatever, I take it?”

“It forbids every investigation, of whatever nature,” slowly replied the white-bearded mouthpiece of the Sultan. “Besides, there is a Jewish cemetery in close proximity; we will not have that desecrated, by either archaeologists or treasure-hunters.”

“Then the secret cipher elucidated by Professor Griffin is to remain an unsolved problem?” Mullet said in a tone of great disappointment.

“For the present, yes,” was the old gentleman’s response. “There are many difficulties. Suppose the sacred relics were really discovered, to whom would they belong?”

“To the Hebrew race – and permit me to express the opinion, your Excellency, that they should be searched for, and given over to the Jews.”

“I am not yet in a position to advise his Majesty upon that point. For the present, investigation and excavation are absolutely prohibited. But, rest assured, that no one is more alive to the importance of Professor Griffin’s discovery than his Majesty himself. Indeed, he wishes for an exact transcript of this extraordinary record in your Bible.”

“That investigation by the anti-Semitic group should be prohibited, I am, of course, much gratified, your Excellency. But I do hope sincerely that one day his Majesty will allow the right of research to the rightful holders of the secret – who, as I have stated, are the discoverer, Professor Griffin, and his friends.”

“Including yourself, M’sieur Mullet – eh?”

“Yes, including myself, your Excellency,” laughed the red-moustached man. “I would most humbly petition his Majesty, through you, to grant to me the concession to search after the truth, if his Majesty ever grants one.”

“For the present, rest assured, Mr Mullet, that no permission will be given to any one. There are many eventualities to be considered, as well as international complications. But if any concession be granted in the future, his Majesty will certainly accord it to you, in consideration of the important and timely information which you have so generously furnished to us.”

“Then we need not fear the success of our enemies,” laughed the tall Englishman, with much gratification.

“Certainly not,” answered the venerable old gentleman with a smile. “See here,” and he pointed to an open telegram before him, “this is the last despatch from the Governor of Jerusalem, an hour ago. By my orders the Mount of the Offence is surrounded by a cordon of military, who have instructions to allow no one to pass. I have taken this precaution in case the affair gets into the press, and the spot is visited by great crowds, as it well may be. So,” laughed the Grand Vizier, “you have to-day given your friend, M’sieur Jannaway, a rather unpleasant surprise, I should fancy.”

Chapter Thirty Nine

Is the Conclusion

The anxiety of Erich Haupt may easily be imagined when, next day at the Waldorf Hotel, he received a telegram from Challas, despatched from an obscure place in Holland, saying that he had been called away unexpectedly, and telling him to go to Berkeley Square and open any telegrams that might be there.

He drove westward in a “taxi” – and found one message. It was in code from Jim Jannaway. The old German had noticed where the financier kept the code-book, and had but little difficulty in finding it.