“Why isn’t Frank at his own rooms in Half Moon Street?” she asked with some curiosity.
“Because, having discovered the secret, he is now in fear of his rivals, so is compelled to go into hiding. I, alone, his best friend, know his whereabouts. Quite romantic, isn’t it?” he laughed.
“Quite. Only—well, only—Captain Wetherton, I do wish you would tell me what has really occurred. I feel that you are keeping something from me.”
“I certainly am, Miss Griffin,” was his prompt reply, a reply which contained more meaning than he had intended. “Frank, in sending me to you, made the stipulation that he should have the pleasure of telling you himself. All I can say is that I believe the knowledge of the secret will be the means of bringing to him wealth undreamed of, and a notoriety world-wide.”
He was purposely keeping her engrossed in conversation, in order that they might cross Oxford Street; hoping that in the maze of turnings beyond that main thoroughfare she might lose her bearings.
Suddenly the “taxi” pulled up with a jerk before a closed shop, in a dark, rather unfrequented but seemingly superior street, and the Captain opened the side door with his latch-key, disclosing a flight of red-carpeted stairs.
“Here are my rooms,” Wetherton explained. “Frank has sought refuge with me here. He is upstairs.”
Gwen ascended the stairs quickly to the second floor, where the Captain opened the door with his key, and a moment later she found herself in a large, well-furnished bachelor’s sitting-room where the electric lamps were shaded with yellow silk.
It was evidently the room of a man comfortably off, for the furniture had been chosen with taste, and the pretty knick-knacks and quaint curios upon the table showed the owner of the place to be a man of some refinement.
“Where is he?” inquired the girl, looking around blankly, her cheeks flushed with excitement.