THE ROOM OF SECRETS.

Taranaki Herald, Volume LXI, Issue 144130, 27 June 1913, Page 5

THE ROOM OF SECRETS.

(BY WILLIAM LE QUEUX.;

CHAPTER I. EXPLAINS SEVERAL MATTERS. The affair was distinctly mysterious —utterly inexplicable. Now that I to-day sit down to calmly pen this strange, even amazing narrative of what actually occurred quite recently within my own experience, 1 realise, for the hist time, the true depths of human perfidy, and to what lengtlis may criminal ingenuity he extended . Surely upon no man in the whole City of London hare more serious trials been placed, aud to no man have adventures more remarkable or astounding occurred; surely my experience has been as weird and breathless as it was unique. True, some few disjointed facts did leak out to the sensational Press, but there were, at the time, reasons—grave reasons which will afterwards be tound obvious—why the astounding truth should be carefully concealed from, the public, in order not to create undue excitement and alarm. In order, therefore, that the actual truth shall bo known, that the curious sequence of circumstances may be properly understood, and that the public may form their own conclusion as to the' wisdom, or otherwise, of my own actions—which have more than r once been sadly misjudged—l have, /after much hesitation, resolved to set down the strange history of the affair without embellishment or curtailment, just as it happened. For the rest, I leave my reader to put himself in my place, to view the remarkable drama through the eyes of one of the principal actors, to consider all the complicated circumstances, and to form his own conclusions regarding the Room of Secrets, the actual existence of' which has only hitherto been whispered from, mouth to mouth in a certain limited section of society of the- West End of London.

First, I suppose it is necessary for me to say something of myself- But what need I really say more than to tell you that I am Sidney Colofax; I am aged thirty-one last birthday; that I am junior partner in a trading concern which has offices in Moorga-to Street and which carries on a largo business in Manchester and Birmingham goods, chiefly with the savage races of Africa ancf South America; and further, that I was a bachelor, and when not travelling abroad in the interests of my firm, occupied a comfortable* flat half-way up Jermyn Street?

Business took me a great deal from England, often into savage lands, to the Congo, to Abyssinia, to the interior of Morocco, to Ecuador and to far Peru. Hence, for only five or six months a year did I enjoy the comfort of ray small circle of bachelor friends.

Early in November two years ago I had returned ■ from the White Nile by way of Khartoum and Port Sudan, and one damp, dreary evening, about eleven o’clock, I went forth, as was my habit, for a stroll to get some air. I had been working with my secretary all day, and had all the evening been discussing a business deal with a wily Greek from Athens; therefore, taking my coat and stick, I lit a cigar and set out to wander whither I cared not. All I wanted was to get air, 'and to think.

I suppose I must have strolled up Park Lane, turned up the Bayswatcr Road, and, taking one of the thoroughfares on the right, entered that maze of quiet better-class streets and squares w'hich lie between the edge of Hydo Park and Paddington Station. I was passing through a long, wide, deserted street of drab houses with porticoes, where the street-lamps shone dimly in the thick yellow mist, and, engrossed by my own thoughts—for 1 had a peculiarly delicate deal on hand —I was taking no notice of things about me. All I sought was quietness, exercise and air.

One or two taxi-cabs liad passed and re-passed me, but one docs not heed them in London streets. Suddenly, however, while passing beneath a street-lamp, I saw another taxi approaching and as it dashed past I caught sight of the grey, hard-drawn face of an elderly man peering out from behind the closed window—a face so marked and striking that it causccl mo a second’s wonder as to who the man' could be.

Next moment, however, I had dismissed the incident, and, strolling onward, I found that-1 was in Gloucester Terrace, with Bishop’s. Road running at right angles before, me. The November mist was thicker hero than it had been nearer the Park, when, of a sudden, I was aroused from my reverie by hearing a child’s thin voice, low and refined, exclaim; • “Please, sir, could you toll me where Weldon Street is?” As I glanced down I found a pretty, fair-haired little girl of perhaps eleven, hatless and dressed in pale blue silk, as though she had been, at a party. “Hulloa! Who are you?” 1 asked, looking at her becoming dress, the white ribbons in her hair, the white silk stockings and white kid shoes now sadly soiled by mud. “I’m Jessie,” was her brief reply. “Jessie who?” “Jessie Moncrieff.” “Well, this isn’t the kind of night for you to be out without a coat, you know, my dear,” I said. “Your feet must be wet, too. What’s the matter?” I asked. “Where have you been?” “I’ve been to a party at my amit’s in Porohester Terraco, but there were two gilds there I don’t like, so I came away. I thought I’d walk home, but I’ve* been walking and walking, oh! ever so long, and I canjt find Weldon Street,” the child declared sorrowfully'. “You live there, eh? What number?” “Number forty-five. I live with my uncle, Mr. Koop. They cal! him Cooper, but his real name is Koop,” she replied frankly, standing on the movement with her hands behind her hack. “What is the time?” she inquired after a pause. 1 looked at ray watch, and found that it was near midnight. “Oh dear! Poor uncle will be in such an awful way! Smith was to call for mo at ten o’clock. She called, I suppose, and found me gone.” “Then you slipped out, and nobody knew?” “That’s just it. I thought X knew my way. and that I would get homo before Smith started. But this fog is so dreadfully puzzling. I’ve never been out in fog a-lono before.” “Well, well,” I said, with a cheerful laugh. “IT take you home, Jessie. Don’t worry. I don’t know Weldon Street, but we’ll very - soon find it. It isn’t very far away, is it?”

“No. It’s quite close to Oxford Square. ’ ’ “Oil, I know that. We’ll take the first taxi which comes along,” I said, whereupon the little woman was much relieved and took my hand. The look of distress upon the child’s face had amused mo. She did not seem at all frightened, but appeared greatly worried at the suspense in which her uncle would ho at her disappearance. Otherwise, she was quite sell -possessed. “Probably Air. Koop has informed the ]X)lice, and all the policemen are looking for yon,” I said. “No, 1 don’t think that,” she replied wisely, after a few seconds’ consideration. “He don’t like policemen.” “Have you lived long with your uncle?” I asked for the purpose of making conversation, as I led her towards Bishop’s Road, where 1 saw rax is passing. “Oh, yes, for a long time—over since my daddy died. Wo used to live in France till two years ago.” “In France! Whore?” “In Paris. Do you know it?” “Oh, yes. I’vo been there,” I said. 1 “I suppose you speak French, then?” “No, not very much. I don’t like it. My governess tries to make mo learn, But I hate it. Miss Barlow conies every day to teach mo. I liko her- - mil;,-, she gives me such horribly hard sums.” And listening to her childish chatter and musical laughter, I icd her to where, at a signal from me, a taxi drew up at the kerb, and we both entered. “This is really awfully good of you.” my pretty little companion declared ns we drove around Paddington Station into Praed Street. “I don’t know how to thank you sufficiently. You’ll see my uncle and explain, won’t you? Ho will thank you. 1 began to think. I would have to spend the night on a door-step, liko some of the poor people I’vo fsccn.” As slip raised her hand, covered by its white silk glove, I saw upon her wrist a'small, thin bangle set with diamonds—a costly ornament for a child of that age. Her slim refinement, the smartness of her dress, and her low, well-modulated speech told mo instinctively that she belonged to a wealthy family, and her bright little face full of sunny smiles I found very attractive. As a lonely bachelor I was very fond of children of that age, and in the houses of my friends was usually popular with them. “Ah!” she sighed a few moments later, and then, as though speaking to herself, said: “If Joan had been at home, this wouldn’t have happened. She would have gone with me.” “Who’s Joan?” I asked. “My cousin—my uncle’s daughter., She’s just twenty—and she’s so pretty!” was the reply. “She bad to be out at a dinner-party this evening somewhere in Grosvenor Street, I think I heard her say. I wish I was older, and could go, too. We are such friends, and she’s so awfully good to me. She may be back homo by this time.” (To he continued.)