A week more slipped by. There were only seventeen days left now. I was sitting in my room, anxiously waiting for the Continental mail, and any telegrams which might arrive. I heard the postman's knock, and in a minute more letters were brought in. Eagerly I opened those which came from the detectives, and feverishly read them. "Still in the dark; nothing discovered"--that summed up the long reports they sent me. I read the other letters; there was nothing in them to help me.

Still another week went by. Only ten days were wanting to Christmas Eve, and I knew no more of Kaffar's whereabouts than I did on the day when I defied Voltaire and started on my search. Again reports from the detectives came, and still no news. No doubt, by this, Voltaire was gloating over his victory, while I was nearly mad with despair.

Only ten days! I must do something. It was my duty, at all hazards, to free Gertrude Forrest from Voltaire. That was plain. I could not find the Egyptian, and thus it was probable I had killed him as had been said. What must I do? This, and this only. I must go to Scotland Yard, and relate to the authorities my whole story. I must tell them of Voltaire's influence over me, and that it was probable I had, while held under a mesmerist's spell, killed the man I had been trying to find.

This was all. It _might_ bring this villain under suspicion, and, if so, it would hinder him from exacting the fulfilment of Gertrude Forrest's promise.

It was at best but an uncertain venture, but it was all I could do. I owed it to the woman I loved. It was my duty to make this sacrifice. I would do it.

I wasted no time; I put on my overcoat and walked to Scotland Yard.

I put my hand upon the door of the room which I knew belonged to one of the officials, to whom I determined to report my case.

I thought of the words I should say, when--

"STOP!"

I am sure I heard that word, clear and distinct. Where it came from I knew not; but it was plain to me.

An idea flashed into my mind!

Mad, mad, I must have been, never to have thought of it before.

Ten days! Only ten days! But much might be done even yet. I rushed away, and got into St. James's Park, and there, in comparative quietness, I began to think.

The clouds began to dispel, the difficulties began to move away. Surely I had hit upon a plan at last, a plan on which I should have thought at the outset.

I walked on towards Westminster Abbey, still working out my newly conceived idea, and when there jumped into a cab.

Yes, I remembered the address, for I had seen it only the day before, so I told the cabman to drive to ---- Street, Chelsea.

I was right. There on the door was the name of the man I had hoped to find--Professor Von Virchow. I paid the cabman, and knocked at the door with a beating heart.

A sallow-faced girl opened the door, and asked my business.

Was Professor Virchow at home?

Yes, he was at home, but would be engaged for the next quarter of an hour; after that, he could see me on business connected with his profession.

I was accordingly ushered into a musty room, which sadly wanted light and air. The quarter of an hour dragged slowly away, when the sallow-faced girl again appeared, saying that Professor Von Virchow would be pleased to see me.

I followed her into an apartment that was fitted up like a doctor's consulting-room. Here I found the man I had come to see.

He was a little man, about five feet four inches high. He had, however, a big head, a prominent forehead, and keen grey eyes. He wore gold-rimmed spectacles, and was evidently well fed and on good terms with himself.

"You are a professor of mesmerism and clairvoyance, I believe?" I began.

"That is my profession," said the little man, "Then I am in hopes that you may be able to help me in my difficulty."

"I shall be pleased to help you," he said, still stiffly.

"Can you," I went on, "tell the whereabouts of a man whom I may describe to you?"

"That is very vague," was the reply. "Your description may be incorrect, or a hundred men might answer to it. I would promise nothing under such conditions."

"Perhaps I had better tell my story," I said.

"I think you had," said the little professor, quietly.

"On the 2nd of January of the present year," I said, "a man disappeared in the night from a place in Yorkshire. He is an Egyptian, and easily distinguished. A great deal depends on finding him at once. Ever since May, endeavours have been made to track him, but without success."

"Perhaps he is dead," said the professor.

"Perhaps so; but even then it is important to know. Can you help me to find out his whereabouts?"

"Undoubtedly I can; but I must have a good photograph of him. Have you one?"

"I have not."

"Could you obtain one?"

"I think not."

"But this man has been seen by many people. Could not some one you know, and who knows him, sketch a faithful likeness from memory?"

"I do not know of any one."

"Then I could not guarantee to find him. You see, I cannot work miracles. I can only work through certain laws which I have been fortunate enough either to recognize or discover; but there must ever be some data upon which to go, and, you see, you give me none that is in the least satisfactory."

"Perhaps you can," I said, "if I relate to you all the circ.u.mstances connected with what is, I think, a somewhat remarkable story."

I had determined to tell this little man every circ.u.mstance which might lead to Kaffar's discovery, especially those which happened in Yorkshire. It seemed my only resource, and I felt, that somehow something would come of it.

I therefore briefly related what I have written in this story.

"That man who mesmerized you is very clever," said the professor quietly, when I had finished. "It was very unfortunate for you that you should have matched yourself with such a one. His plot was well worked out in every respect. He only made a mistake in one thing."

"And that?"

"He thought it impossible that you should ever be freed from his power without his consent. Still it was a well-planned affair. The story, the ghost, the quarrel--it was all well done."

"I fail to see what part the ghost had in the matter," I said.

The professor smiled. "No?" he said. "Well, I should not think it was a vital part of his plan, but it was helpful. He calculated upon the young lady's superst.i.tious fancies. He knew what the particular form in which the ghost appeared portended, and it fitted in with his scheme of murder. Evidently he wanted the young lady to believe in your guilt, and thus give him greater chance of success. Ah, he is a clever man."

"But," I asked anxiously, "can you tell me Kaffar's whereabouts now?"

"No, I cannot--that is, not to-day."

"When, then?"