THE ROOM OF SECRETS.

Taranaki Herald, Volume LXI, Issue 144147, 17 July 1913, Page 5

THE ROOM OF SECRETS.

BY WILLIAM LE QUEX. CHAPTER XI. (continued). The journey proved long and tedious. Often Joan dozed while I sat and watched her. Truly I had fallen in love with her. Frequently sho would wake suddenly with a start, ns though in fear. By the white drawn face and nervous lip's I knew that she was suffering agonies of dread. And before my own eyes there over arose the vision of' that hideous brown face lying still in death, as I had seen it by the flickering light of a match. Just after three o’clock in the morning we arrived at Paddington. I feared, however, to go near my own rooms, lest the police might already he there to arrest me. Therefore wo took a taxi across to King’s Cross Station, and at five o’clock left by the North express for Grantham, wfiero we breakfasted at that comfortable media?val hotel, the Angel and Crown. Here I duly installed my dainty little friend, but as we sat alone over our meal a sudden and terrible thought arose within me. “The revolver!" I cried, in a low whisper. “Where is it?” “I left it there," she replied. “But—why, it will he traced to you—it will be evidence!” I gasped. “No It was his own," she said. “I felt it "in his pocket, and drew it out and fired” —a reply which at once , relieved my mind. It was morning, and no doubt the body had been already discovered. The alfair would certainly be in the London papers that evening. I had examined the letters I had taken from the dead Arab, but they were of no importance and bore no address. I, of course, did not tell Joan that 1 had secured thorn. We took solemn counsel together, and ..decided that it would be better for her to remain there at least for a day or two while I returned to London. Tlte door was closed and we were alone. ... ... “Joan,” I said, suddenly looking across the table at her, “Forgive mo for calling you so familiarly by your Christian name; hut wo arc both in "rarest danger, and we should now both go firm friends." “We arc, Mr. Colefax,” she said, looking at me inquiringly with those wonderful eyes of hers. There was a glance of shyness in them. “Then will you tell mo one thing—one .thing I desire to know in order that I may act for our mutual protection—eh?” “And what is that?” “The whereabouts of your father’s house,” I said, quietly, looking straight into her eyes.

“No,” was her prompt response, shaking her head. “I cannot. It is mv father’s secret.” “You refuse—even now?” I cried. “Have I not told you that I dare not betray him?” < “And yet you have said that he will hunt you down, now Ibrahim is dead I Why are yon so careful to conceal the exact whereabouts of that grim house of mystery?” ■ “I have a reason,” she replied, in a low, faltering voice. “A reason beyond that which you have already given me, Joan?” 1 asked, looking into her eyes. Y’es, I, confirmed bachelor that I was, had actually fallen in love with her. Sho nooded in the affirmative, with her sweet lips parted in a strange smile. Then, after a long silence, I said; “I must, I suppose, continue my investigations. But I will find his hiding-place —never fear.” “Ah! No, do not attempt to search farther,” she cried, in a voice of distinct alarm. “Only evil will oomo of it, believe me. Go no farther ” But I was defiant, angered at her firm refusal to tell mo the truth, and filled with curiosity as to this second motive for her silence. Her attitude was extraordinary, unnatural, astounding. On the one hand, she hated her father for his evil actions, yet, on the other, she refused to betray him. Filial affection was certainly not the reason of that refusal. She had some deep hidden motive—that of a deadly and ever-present terror. I argued with her—argued for over an- hour—but all, alas 1 to no avail. Then, promising to return to her in the course of a couple of days at most, I left her and went back to London: Still fearing to show myself in Jermyn Street, ajid .not even daring to telephone to Davis, I took a room in a third-class private hotel in the Euston Road, and soon after dark alighted from a. taxi before the house in Craven Hill whence I had seen Koop emerge. The same maid-servant answered my ring. “Is Miss Ivy Fawcett at home?” I inquired. “No, sir,” was the girl’s polite reply. “Miss Fawcett is away.” “Is there anyone at home whom I can see? I have called upon a most fmportant matter,” I added, noticing that the girl had recognised me as having been there upon a previous occasion. She hesitated for a second, and in that second I handed her my visitingcard. which she reluctantly carried along the hall into a room on the left. A°few moments later she returned, and, ushering me into a cosy little sitting-room, she left mo. As soon as I entered, ray eyes fell upon something which caused me to start. Upon the centre table, in a heavy frame of silver, was the portrait of an elderly man. I took it up to examine it more closely, when, to my utter amazement, I found that I had not been mistaken. It was a picture of Koop himself! ’ In a second I had decided that, notwithstanding the girl’s assurances when, I had last been there, _ that house formed some curious link in the chain of evidence. Hardly had I replaced it in wonder when the door was opened, and a pleasant but diminutive old lady in black silk cap entered, greeting me stiffly. “I regret, sir, that my niece, Miss Fawcett, is not at home. But is there anything that I can do?” she asked, in a thin, squeaky voice. I hesitated. I hardly knew how to approach the somewhat painful subject. “May I ask you where your niece is at the present, moment ?” I said. “Ah! that is just the very question which for the past few weeks we have been vainly trying to solve.” “You mean that sho is—er—missing?” “Exactly, sir. She went out one morning to do shopping at the stores, but, strangely enough, nothing has since been heard of her.” “I know her through a young lady named Cooper,” I said—“ Miss Joan Cooper.” “Ah, you know Miss Cooper?” squeaked the old lady. “A most charming young girl, and a great favourite of mine. Ivy and she are very close friends.” “Could you tell me where Miss Cooper lives?” I inquired. “I know her quite well, but have, unfortunately, forgotten the number of the house.

Sho lives somewhere close by here, in Bayswater.” The old lady smiled—rather mysteriously, 1 thought. “No,” she answered, quietly. “Joan lives in Lexham Gardens, Kensington.” And sho pave mo the number of tho house, which I carefully noted. I told her no’tning regarding my grim discovery. Nevertheless, by judicious inquiry, I found that her niece was possessed of an antique Egyptian engraved seal, which sho wore in tho form of a pendant. “They say it is a most valuable curio—tho actual private seal of ono of tho Pharaohs of the earlier dynasties. Somebody gave it to her as a present. Professor Marvin, the great Egyptologist, saw it some three months ago, and pronounced it to be an intensely interesting relic.” “But have you not inquired about Miss Fawcett from Miss Cooper since your niece’s disappearance?” “No ; I've been unable. I went rotind to Lexham Gardens, but learnt that Joan had left there.” “Pardon my curiosity,” I said, next moment, “hut that phototgraph is strangely like a gentleman I know. Who is ho?” And I pointed to the picture upon tho table. “Oh, that’s a friend of Ivy’s, I believe. Sho brought it homo with her a few weeks ago. I asked her w’ho it was, but she only laughed and told me to mind my own business. Girls are very strange sometimes. She > is young, and must he forgiven, I supp'ose.” “Then you don’t know who it is?” I asked. “Unfortunately, I do not.” “I wonder if T might be permitted to take it from its frame and see tho name of the photographer?” I asked. “It arouses my curiosity, for it is so very like mv friend.”

At once she gave me permission, and a moment later I had it out of its frame, and took a note on ray shirtcuff of the iir.mc and address where it had been taken—an address in Shepherd's Bush—and also the number pencilled on tho back, which I presumed to be the number of the negative. Armed with that, I shortly afterwards left, allowing the old lady to remain in ignorance of her poor niece’s fate, for I had now established beyond doubt the identity of the girl I had discovered dead in that room of secrets. It was better to say nothing, I deemed —better for the present. She evidently was unaware of Koop’s existence, and her niece Ivy had some hidden motive in concealing his name. Why? I wondered. Was it not natural that she should have told her aunt that the original of that picture was tho father of her friend Joan? fTo he continued.)