A very grave look came into my father's face and he did not answer me at once. When he did so his tone was low and anxious. "Yes, he has. About a fortnight ago we came to the end, virtually, of our long task. There was only a little revision wanted, which he was to have left for me. The night that he disappeared the manuscript disappeared also. Evidently he took it away with him." "Perhaps he has taken it to the publishers," I suggested. My father shook his head doubtfully. "Only this morning I have heard from them, begging me to forward it without delay," he said. I was silent. Even if he had taken the manuscript, what use could he make of it? How could it profit him? Suddenly I stood still in the path. My heart gave a great leap and a cry broke from my lips. For the first time an idea, the vague phantom of an idea, swept in upon me, carrying all before it, and casting a brilliant, lurid light upon all that seemed so dark and mysterious. "This man, Marx," I cried, seizing my father's arm. "Tell me quickly. Has he ever reminded you of anyone?" My father looked at me wonderingly. "It is strange that you should ask that," he said. "Sometimes, especially when I have come upon him alone, or have seen him excited, his tone and little mannerisms have seemed somehow vaguely familiar. And yet," he added thoughtfully, "I have never been able to recall of whom they have reminded me." I opened my trembling lips to speak, but a wave of cold doubt swept in upon me. Surely this thing could not be! I must be mad to let the idea linger for a moment in my mind. And yet---- At that moment of my hesitation, my father's hand fell heavily upon my arm. He pointed forward along the dark avenue with a shaking finger. In the dim twilight we could see the tall gaunt figure of a man in ragged clothes, making his way up to the castle. "That is not one of my men, Philip," he said hoarsely. "Who is it?" I shook my head. "It is a stranger." My father turned abruptly from the avenue into a side-walk. "Follow me," he said; "we will go in by the private way." We walked across the turf, through a little iron gate, which my father unlocked, and entered the shrubbery walk. Once I looked round through an opening in the laurel leaves. The stranger was leaning wearily against the railings round the lodge, waiting for admittance. CHAPTER LII. WHERE IS MR. MARX? Not until we had reached the Castle and were in the library did my father speak to me. Then his words were grave enough. "We have done Mr. Marx an injury, Philip," he said slowly. "How?" I asked. "Listen, and you will know." He went to the telephone and signalled. The answer came at once. "Someone has been asking for me at the gate," he said. "Who is it?" "A stranger, sir, to see you." "What name?" "Hart, sir." "Is he waiting?" "Yes, sir. I told him that it would be useless, but he refuses to go away."