“Well,” he said with some deliberation. “I do not know whether you are aware that Mr Farquhar was interested in a great and remarkable secret—a secret which he was occupied in investigating?”
“Yes,” she answered quickly. “I know all about it. He told me everything.”
“The contretemps which has occurred is in connection with that,” the stranger said. “He was on his way to Copenhagen, but was compelled to return. He has, I believe, gained the key to some extraordinary cipher or other, and therefore he wishes to see you at once, and in secret. He told me that at present his return to London must be kept confidential, as there are other unscrupulous people most anxious to learn the truth upon which such enormous possibilities depend.”
“He wants me to go to him,” the girl cried. “Where is he then?”
“Not far away,” the man replied. “If you will allow me to escort you, I will do so willingly, Miss Griffin.”
The girl hesitated. She naturally mistrusted strange men. He saw her hesitation, and added:
“I trust you will forgive me for not being with you at the time Frank appointed, but—well, I don’t wish to alarm you unduly, but he was not very well. I was sitting with him.”
“Then he’s ill!” she cried in alarm. “Tell me. Oh! do tell me what has occurred.”
“He will tell you himself,” was the ingenious reply. “But,” he added, as though in afterthought, “I ought to have given you my card.” And he produced one and handed it to her. The name upon it was “William Wetherton, Captain, 12th Lancers.”
“Do relieve my anxiety, Captain Wetherton,” the girl implored. “Tell me what has happened.”