A week had gone by, and Frank had called every evening. Once he had taken her to dine at the Carlton, and on to the theatre afterwards, for now they had, by tacit though unspoken consent, agreed that all bygones should be bygones.
Often he felt himself wondering what had been the real cause of her mysterious absence from home, yet when such suspicions arose within him, he quickly put them aside. How could he possibly doubt her love?
The Doctor was back again at Horsford, leading the same rural uneventful life as before, but daily studying everything that had any possible bearing upon the assertion of Professor Holmboe.
Frank came down to visit Lady Gavin one day, and as a matter of course was very soon seated with the ugly little man in his cottage home.
Diamond, over a cigar, was relating the result of his most recent studies, and lamenting that they were still as far from obtaining a knowledge of the actual cipher as ever.
“Yes,” murmured the young man with a sigh, “I’m much afraid that old Haupt will get ahead of us—even if he has not already done so. How is it that you can’t get your friend Mullet to assist us further?”
“He has left London, I believe. He disappeared quite suddenly from his rooms, and curiously enough, has sent me no word.”
“You hinted once that he’s a ‘crook.’ If so, he may have fled on account of awkward police inquiries—eh?”
“Most likely. Yet it’s strange that he hasn’t sent me news of his whereabouts.”
“Not at all, my dear Doctor,” responded the other. “If a man is in hiding, it isn’t likely that he’s going to give away his place of concealment, is it?”