"Kirk is a mere acquaintance of mine," I responded, after a brief pause; "whether he is my friend, or my enemy, remains to be seen." "He's your enemy, depend upon that, Mr. Holford," declared Flynn emphatically. "He is a marvellously clever schemer, and the friend of few." I bit my lip. Well did I know, alas! that the fellow whose asides to his pet "Joseph" were so entertaining was not my friend. It was upon my tongue to explain how the description of that man who was travelling with my wife in search of me tallied with that of my strange neighbour who had, with such subtle cunning, drawn me into that mysterious tragedy. But next second I hesitated. This man Flynn I mistrusted. My impression was that he was not playing a straight game, either with myself or with his friend Leonard Langton. A thousand questions I had to ask those men--and Langton especially--but I saw by their attitude that their intention was rather to mislead me than to reveal anything. When I presently bade them farewell neither of them offered to assist me in my search for Mabel. Therefore I went forth into the darkness and silence of Wimpole Street-- for it was now near midnight--and walked down into Oxford Street ere I could find a taxi-cab to convey me back to my now cheerless home. Lying awake that night, I decided to postpone my journey to Germany. It was evident that the impostor passing himself off as the Professor had taken my telegram purporting to come from Kirk as a warning, and had escaped. I had been a fool to telegraph. I should have gone there instead. His reason for keeping up the fiction that the Professor was alive was, of course, obvious, for while he did so there would be no inquiry into the whereabouts of the missing man. I had made a promise to Kershaw Kirk, yet now that he had so grossly deceived me, why should I keep it? Why should I not tell the truth? I reflected; there were, I saw, three reasons why I should still preserve silence. The first was because, after that lapse of time, I should be suspected, perhaps arrested, as an accomplice and dragged through a criminal court. The second was that Ethelwynn herself was, for some amazing reason, pretending that her father still lived; and the third was by reason of the strange threat of Mabel's death uttered by the evil-faced Italian, and repeated by that Harley Street specialist who was Leonard Langton's closest friend. The assassins were actually holding my dear wife as hostage against any revelation I dared to make! That, in a word, was the true position. I paced my room that night in the agony of despair. Of nothing did I think but the dear, sweet-faced woman so suddenly enticed away from my side by reason of her eagerness to meet me. She was a woman of high ideals and of lofty sentiments; a womanly woman who, though fond of a little gaiety and of the theatre, realised that her place was in her own home, where she reigned supreme.