LITMIR.BIZ

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can’t my dear,” replied the doctor. “But tell me. Have you seen Lady Gavin since I’ve been away?”

      “No, dad. Mr Farquhar and his sister have come to stay at the Manor, so she’s always engaged.”

      “Frank Farquhar is down here again, eh?” asked Diamond quickly. Then he reflected deeply for a few moments.

      He was wondering if Farquhar could help him – if he dare take the young man into his confidence.

      Nowadays he was “out of it.” He knew nobody, buried there as he was in that rural solitude.

      “Is Sir George at home?” he asked the child, who, like all other children, knew the whole gossip of the village.

      “No, dad. He started for Egypt yesterday. Will Chapman told me so.”

      The Doctor ate his tea, with his wife and five “daughters” of varying ages, all bright, bonnie children, who looked the picture of good health.

      Then, after a wash and putting on another suit, he went out, strolling down the village to where the big old Manor House, with its quaint gables and wide porch, stood far back behind its sloping lawn.

      Generations of squires of Horsford had lived and died there, as their tombs in the splendid Norman church almost adjoining testified. It was a house where many of the rooms were panelled, where the entrance-hall was of stone, with a well staircase and a real “priests’ hole” on the first floor.

      He ascended the steps, and his ring was answered by a smart Italian man-servant. Yes. Mr Farquhar was at home. Would the doctor kindly step into the library?

      Diamond entered that well-known room on the right of the hall – a room lined from floor to ceiling with books in real Chippendale bookcases, and in the centre a big old-fashioned writing-table. Over the fireplace were several ancient manuscripts in neat frames, while beside the blazing fire stood a couple of big saddle-bag chairs.

      Sir George Gavin, Baronet, posed to the world as a literary man, though he had risen from the humble trade of a compositor to become owner of a number of popular newspapers. He knew nothing about literature and cared less. He left all such matters to the editors and writers whom he paid – clever men who earned for him the magnificent income which he now enjoyed. Upon the cover of one of his periodicals it was stated that he was editor. But as a matter of fact he hardly ever saw the magazine in question, except perhaps upon the railway bookstalls. His sole thought was the handsome return its publication produced. And, like so many other men in our England to-day, he had simply “paid up” and received his baronetcy among the Birthday honours, just as he had received his membership of the Carlton.

      Diamond had not long to wait, for in a few moments the door opened, and there entered a smart-looking, dark-haired young man in a blue serge suit.

      “Hulloa, Doc! How are you?” he exclaimed. “I’m back again, you see – just down for a day or two to see my sister. And how has Horsford been progressing during my absence – eh?” he laughed.

      Frank Farquhar, Lady Gavin’s younger brother, occupied an important position in the journalistic concern of which Sir George was the head. He was recognised by journalistic London as one of its smartest young men. His career at Oxford had been exceptionally brilliant, and he had already distinguished himself as special correspondent in the Boer and Russo-Japanese campaigns before Sir George Gavin had invited him to join his staff.

      Tall, lithe, well set-up, with a dark, rather acquiline face, a small dark moustache, and a pair of sharp, intelligent eyes, he was alert, quick of movement, and altogether a “live” journalist.

      The two men seated themselves on either side of the fireplace, and Farquhar, having offered his visitor a cigar, settled himself to listen to Diamond’s story.

      “I’ve come to you,” the Doctor explained, “because I believe that you, and perhaps Sir George also, can help me. Don’t think that I want any financial assistance,” he laughed. “Not at all. I want to put before you a matter which is unheard of, and which I am certain will astound even you – a journalist.”

      “Well, Doc,” remarked the young man with a smile, “it takes a lot to surprise us in Fleet Street, you know.”

      “This will. Listen.” And then, having extracted a promise of silence, Diamond related to the young man the whole story of the dead stranger, and the curious document that had been only half-consumed.

      When the Doctor explained that the papers had not been wholly burned, Frank Farquhar rose quickly in pretence of obtaining an ash-tray, but in reality in order to conceal the strange expression which at that, moment overspread his countenance.

      Then, a few seconds later, he returned to his chair apparently quite unmoved and unconcerned. Truth to tell, however, the statement made by the dwarfed and deformed man before him had caused him to tighten his lips and hold his breath.

      Was it possible that he held certain secret knowledge of which the Doctor was ignorant, and which he could turn to advantage?

      He remained silent, with a smile of incredulity playing about his mouth.

      The truth was this. Within his heart he had already formed a fixed intention that the dead man’s secret – the most remarkable secret of the age – should be his, and his alone!

      Chapter Five

      Spreads the Net

      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

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