Over the picturesque Welsh mountains the wind blew fresh, even though the afternoon was a brilliant one in August.

Outside the great Marconi wireless station high up at Ceunant, midway between Carnarvon and Llanberis, Geoffrey stood with Sylvia and her mother, explaining the huge aerial system with its ten masts, each four hundred feet high, placed around the cluster of white buildings comprising the power-house, transmission rooms, and other departments. The tall masts dwarfed the buildings beneath them, and both mother and daughter gazed up at them wonderingly when Falconer explained that from them messages had actually been sent through the ether and received clearly at Sydney, a distance of twelve thousand miles.

They had spent a most interesting afternoon watching the commercial messages, most of them in code, being transmitted to Belmar, on the opposite side of the Atlantic, and now the car was waiting to take them back to Carnarvon where they were staying the night at the Royal Hotel. They had all three travelled down by the Irish Mail from Euston to Holyhead, arriving there in the morning, and after breakfast at the hotel the car had taken them out to Ceunant, where they had lunched with the engineer-in-charge, and Geoffrey had afterwards acted as their guide, making full explanation of all they witnessed.

“Wonderful!” declared Sylvia as they entered the car. “The public speak airily of wireless, yet they little know to what marvellous perfection it is being brought.”

“That’s so, dear,” replied the South American widow. “I’m sure we’re awfully obliged to Geoffrey for showing us the station. It is a privilege accorded to very few.”

“Well,” laughed Geoffrey, “the company certainly do not encourage the merely curious. Otherwise all our stations would be overrun with visitors.”

The drive back through Llanrug to old-world Carnarvon was delightful, and after tea Sylvia and her lover took a stroll through the town as far as the great mediÆval fortress which is washed on two sides by the waters of the Menai Straits and the Seiont. They were shown the Eagle Tower, where the first Prince of Wales was born; the Queen’s Tower, and the other historic portions of the fine old castle, and then returned to the hotel to rejoin Mrs. Beverley.

Later on, while they were at dinner, a tall, good-looking, dark-haired young man entered and glanced around to find a seat.

Instantly Geoffrey recognised him as Jack Halliday, an old schoolfellow at Shrewsbury, who was now a mining engineer, and was rapidly rising in his profession. The men greeted each other warmly, and on being introduced to the two ladies, the newcomer was invited to a vacant seat at their table.

“When I last met you, Jack, you were just going out to Peru,” Geoffrey said.“Yes, that was a couple of years ago—wasn’t it? I did some prospecting in the Andes, and was quite successful,” replied the young man. “Now I’m off to Egypt for a trip.”

“How lovely!” remarked Sylvia. “I wish you’d go to Egypt, mother.”

“Mine will not be a very comfortable journey,” said the young man. “I’m going prospecting.”

“In search of mines?” asked Sylvia.

“Yes. There is believed to be a rich deposit of gold at a spot a little to the south of the ancient city of Berenice, on the west coast of the Red Sea, not far from Cape Ras Benas. I have obtained from the Egyptian Government a permit to prospect.”

“How extremely interesting!” remarked Mrs. Beverley. “What makes you think that gold is there?”

“Well, it appears that after Pharaoh Ptolemy II founded the port about three centuries before the Christian era, gold was discovered in considerable quantities about eight miles off. For several centuries the mines were worked, until, with the destruction of the city, they were also obliterated,” was Halliday’s reply. “Quite recently, however, my friend, Professor Harte, the well-known Egyptologist, has been exploring the ruins, and among the hieroglyphic inscriptions there, he found mention of the mines and of their richness. Therefore, it is my intention to endeavour to locate them.”

“I wish you every success, Jack,” exclaimed Geoffrey. “You certainly deserve it, for you’re always on the move.”

“And you meet with a good many adventures when you are on prospecting expeditions, I suppose?” remarked the widow.

“Well—a few,” he answered modestly. “It is a pretty rough life sometimes, but one gets used to it,” and his bronzed face relaxed into a merry smile.

The party spent an enjoyable evening together, and while Geoffrey gossiped with the rich widow, his friend Jack had a long chat with Sylvia.They all retired to bed early, and were up betimes to the usual country hotel bacon-and-egg breakfast, the habit from which the Englishman, however cosmopolitan, can never break himself. In northern Europe they eat cheese for breakfast, in the south the horse-shaped roll with coffee, but the Briton must ever have his eggs-and-bacon in no matter what climate.

On arrival at Euston that evening they parted, and Geoffrey went back to his work in the research department at Chelmsford. He was experimenting with the four-electrode valve, the latest and most scientific invention applied to wireless reception.

Hour after hour, and day after day, with his telephones clamped over his ears, he experimented with new circuits, new inductances, and new condensers, the main object being the application of wireless telephony to commercial and household requirements in opposition to the heavy cost of construction and maintenance of land lines.

Many of the experiments in that great, well-lit room had given marvellous results, which when made public, would cause amazement throughout the world.

One afternoon, ten days later, Geoffrey met Jack Halliday in London. The latter was busy preparing his outfit for the expedition to recover the mine of the ancient Egyptians. Falconer was walking along the Strand not far from Marconi House when they accidentally came face to face. With Halliday was a man of about forty, smartly-groomed and well-set-up, apparently an ex-officer, with a well-dressed and rather pretty young woman. The man’s name was Gilbert Farrer, and the girl’s Miss Beryl Hessleton.

“We’re just going along to the Carlton to tea,” Jack said. “Come with us.”

Geoffrey accepted the invitation, and they all took tea in the palm-court.

Farrer struck Geoffrey as quite a good fellow—a man who had knocked about the world a good deal, no doubt. His companion seemed a smart, go-ahead woman, who smoked her after-tea cigarette in a long amber holder, and seemed to thoroughly enjoy it.

It was soon apparent from the conversation that they were new acquaintances of Jack’s. He had met Miss Hessleton on a steamer between Bergen and Hull a few weeks before, and they had met again by chance at Ciro’s. Then she had introduced him to her friend, Farrer.

After tea, while the orchestra played softly, the conversation naturally turned upon Jack’s expedition, for he had mentioned it to Beryl Hessleton on the trip across the North Sea.

“Well,” said Farrer, “I wish you every good luck on your venture. There’s no doubt that there’s gold in Egypt—and a good deal of it. I recollect when I was at Oxford reading up a lot about the mines of the ancient Egyptians. The workings have, I suppose, during the ages, been buried in the desert sand?”

“Yes,” replied Jack. “The sands are always shifting, and no doubt when the ancient city was destroyed and abandoned before the advance of the enemy, the Egyptians took good care to obliterate their mines.”

“I expect you’ll have some difficulty in finding it,” remarked the smart young lady between puffs of her cigarette. “Oh! how I wish I were a man, so that I could travel and prospect. I’d love it! You’ve got nothing to do, Gilbert. Why don’t you have a trip out to the Red Sea?”

“Ah!” laughed Halliday. “I fear you would soon wish yourself back in London.”

Three evenings later Geoffrey, who had dined at Mrs. Beverley’s, walked round to his club to get his letters before returning home to Warley, when in the hall he found Jack Halliday. The latter had just looked in to leave him a note of farewell, as he was leaving the following day for Egypt.

“Come with me round to Bevin’s and have a bit of supper,” he urged. “It’s my last night in town. And you can get a train home and on to Chelmsford early in the morning.”

“Chelmsford!” laughed Geoffrey. “I can’t very well turn up at the Works in a dinner-jacket!”

But thus pressed, he nevertheless accepted his old schoolfellow’s invitation, and went round to Bevin’s, the smart night club close to Portman Square.

The scene there was one of gay abandon, of reckless expenditure, and somewhat questionable morals. Alas! how the West End has degenerated since the war! Yet these adventures of Geoffrey Falconer have no concern with the morals of Underground London.

Beryl Hessleton and Gilbert Farrer were there, and all four had supper, during which Halliday told them that he hoped to win a fortune upon the information which his friend, the famous Egyptologist, had derived from the ancient monuments in the colossal ruins of Berenice, some of which were quite as wonderful as those at Thebes.

“If I find this mine, I have a first-class firm into whose hands I can easily place the concession,” he said to Falconer across the table, amid all the gay laughter and irresponsible chatter of the assembled company. The West End to-day only emulates the Montmartre of yesterday, with its “Heaven,” “Hell,” and “The Red Windmill,” without counting the “Dead Rat.”

The war has passed, but your cosmopolitan of any nation is just the same easy-going Bohemian traveller, a gipsy whose laughing boast is that when his hat is on his roof is on.

Such a man was Jack Halliday.

Geoffrey next day saw him off from Victoria Station with an array of green canvas bags—long bags like those of cricketers. And with him upon the platform stood Beryl Hessleton. The young mining engineer had been pleasant to her, but he was rather surprised that she should take the trouble to see him off. Geoffrey noted it, but made no comment.

About six weeks went by. One evening, having worked late in the research laboratory at Marconi House, Geoffrey walked westward to his club. On the way he met a middle-aged man-about-town named Franks, whose acquaintance he had formed at Mrs. Beverley’s, and after a brief chat, Geoffrey invited him to dine at the Grill of the Piccadilly Hotel.

While they were eating their meal a stout, white-haired man entered, accompanied by the handsome Beryl Hessleton, who, recognising the young radio-engineer, waved her hand across at him and smiled.

“Hulloa! Do you know her?” asked Franks with some surprise.

“Slightly,” was Geoffrey’s reply.

“H’m!” grunted the other. “A pretty cute crowd she’s in with.”

“How?” inquired Falconer.

“Oh—well. That old chap she’s with is old Daddy Whittaker—a friend of a fellow named Farrer. The whole crowd are international crooks, so be careful if you happen to know them.”

Geoffrey was surprised at this. But, as usual, he kept his own counsel. It seemed that his old school chum, Jack, had got mixed up with a very queer set. But in the West End there are queer sets on every hand, the dancing and drug-taking degenerates of both sexes who live upon their wits, and live very well, too. In certain circles within a mile of Piccadilly Circus, thieves and blackmailing vampires hobnob with young and pretty women of title, while innocent persons of both sexes fall into the vortex of vice and gaiety.

Presently Geoffrey asked, glancing across at Beryl:

“What do you really know about her? She’s rather fond of a great pal of mine.”

“Then I pity your pal, my dear Falconer,” was the elderly man’s reply. Franks was a member of Wells’ and the Bachelors’, and he moved in a very fast, go-ahead set.

“Why?” asked the young radio-engineer.

“Because of the past record of the crowd of which she is the decoy-duck. That’s all,” was his friend’s reply. “Daddy Whittaker, who is sitting yonder with her, is an old gaol-bird who still directs the nefarious operations of a dozen men and women. And woe betide anyone who falls into that girl’s net.”

Falconer, full of thought, went on with his dinner. They were out of hearing of the girl and her companion. At last the young fellow related how he had been at Bevin’s Club with his old schoolfellow, Halliday, where Beryl and Gilbert Farrer had also been.

“Well, all I hope is that your friend Halliday will keep clear of that unholy organisation,” said his companion. “They’ll stick at nothing. But why are they friendly with your old schoolfellow? What is the motive—eh?”

“I don’t know. He’s a mining engineer, and has just gone to the Red Sea prospecting for a gold mine of the ancient Egyptians.”

“Ah! Then he should beware. There’s no doubt some very subtle plot afoot. You should warn your friend to have a care.”

“I can’t get at him. He’s gone out to Cape Ras Benas, and, like all prospectors, has not left an address.”

“That’s a pity. But when you get in touch with him again, warn him at once to avoid Daddy and his crowd as he would a poison bowl. They’re dangerous—very dangerous. I heard from my old friend, Superintendent Tarrant, of Scotland Yard, all about them. You recollect the Alleyn scandals in the papers about nine months ago? Well, old Whittaker and the girl yonder were at the bottom of it all. They escaped prosecution for blackmail, but they had netted over ten thousand pounds out of old Mr. Alleyn.”

Falconer now grew suspicious of Beryl’s acquaintance with his chum. Why had she seen him off so affectionately?

“I wonder where Farrer is to-night?”

“Farrer! Why, he’s a bird of passage—the kind of man who eats his breakfast in London, dines in Paris, and lunches next day beyond the Mont Cenis tunnel. He’s one of the cleverest thieves in all Europe—with Daddy’s brain, of course, behind him,” was Franks’ reply.

Falconer looked across the crowded room to where the old man and the girl were eating their dinner together. To others they appeared to be father and daughter. The man had an evening paper, and now and then glanced at it when the courses were finished.

When Geoffrey and Franks rose, the former looked across and bowed as he went out, full of wonder and suspicion.

The days that followed proved busy days for Geoffrey. An entirely new circuit for wireless telephony had been devised by the well-known radio-expert, Captain Meredith, at the Works, and it was being tested—low voltage on the anode of the valves and a high amperage on the aerial—an achievement which had been attempted for a year with little success. Here, however, the combined brains of the Marconi personnel were again persevering towards perfection, and it had fallen upon Geoffrey to assist in some of the most delicate and intricate experiments.

Hence he had but little time to go up to London to see Sylvia.

One day, about three months later, as he sat down to luncheon in the bright, airy “officers’ mess” at the Works, one of his fellow engineers, named Davies, seated opposite him, exclaimed:

“There’s a big find of gold just made at a mine worked by the Pharaohs in Egypt. By Jove!” he added with a sigh, “mining seems to be more profitable than wireless!”

Geoffrey, pricking up his ears, instantly asked:

“Where is the mine situated?”

“Somewhere on the Red Sea, close to the ruins of an ancient city—I forget the name of the place.”

“Is it Berenice?”

“Yes—that’s the name of the place. How do you know? I was told in London yesterday, and I was told in confidence,” Davies said.“By whom?”

“By a fellow I know named Farrer. He’s been out there and got a concession from the Egyptian Government. And he’s no doubt made a fortune. I wish I were in his shoes!”

Geoffrey held his breath.

“Is your friend Farrer a mining engineer?” he asked.

“Not at all. He’s a speculator—bought the concession off somebody, I suppose. A lucky speculation. I met him the night before last at the Palais de Danse. He had with him a very pretty girl he called Beryl.”

“And I suppose you met an old white-haired man named Whittaker?”

“Oh, yes—‘Daddy,’ they called him,” was the reply.

“And perhaps you met them at Bevin’s night club—eh?” asked Falconer.

“How did you know that?” inquired his friend.

“Well—because I guessed it.”

“Then you also know Farrer?”

“Yes,” Geoffrey replied briefly, for the conversation had increased his wonder and suspicion. Along the table the conversation turned, as it always does, upon wireless research and the business of the Company, interspersed with personal chaff. At Chelmsford there is a daily reunion of heads of departments at luncheon, where the interchange of ideas is always intellectual, for gathered there are men of the greatest scientific knowledge, mostly young, all enthusiastic, and all experts in their own branches of radio-telegraphy.

Later that day young Falconer went into the testing department where Davies was busily engaged, and returned to the conversation they had had at luncheon.

“Is Farrer an intimate friend of yours?” asked Geoffrey.

“Not intimate. I know Beryl, his pretty little friend. I’ve dined once or twice with him in town.”

“Have you ever met a fellow named Jack Halliday?”

“No. Never heard the name. Why?”

“Well, because Halliday, who is an old schoolfellow of mine, is prospecting for gold on the Red Sea coast.”

“Ah! Then no doubt Farrer has bought his secret.”

“Perhaps he’s stolen it,” Geoffrey suggested.

“No,” declared his friend. “Farrer is a real good fellow, most generous to his friends, and one of the most upright men I’ve ever met.”

Geoffrey, reflecting upon what his friend Franks had told him, became more mystified.

Where was Jack Halliday?

Next day Geoffrey, being in London, called at the address in Bayswater, which Jack had given him.

The landlady said it was true that he had rooms there, but she had not seen him since he left for Egypt. About three weeks ago, however, she received a telegram from him, and this she produced. It had been dispatched from Alexandria three weeks before, and asked Mrs. Gibbons to send through Pickford’s by grande vitesse his big black trunk addressed to Cook’s baggage department at Marseilles, adding that he was unable to return to London at present, as he was sailing for Cuba.

“And you have sent the trunk?” asked Geoffrey of the pleasant, round-faced woman.

“It went on the day after I received the message. Pickford’s collected it,” replied the landlady.

“What did the trunk contain?”

“Oh! of that I have no idea, except that I think Mr. Halliday kept most of his business papers in it,” she said. “Once it was open in his bedroom, and I saw in it a lot of papers tied up with pink tape, like lawyers use.”

Falconer paused. Why had it been sent to Marseilles when his friend had these rooms as his pied-À-terre in London?

They were standing in Jack Halliday’s little sitting-room at the time, and he glanced around. Mrs. Gibbons pointed to one or two souvenirs of travel upon the walls, and a few curios upon a side-table which she kept carefully dusted in the eager expectation of her wandering lodger’s return.Geoffrey Falconer left Bayswater with a distinct impression that something was radically wrong. He could not understand why Jack, if he were called from his prospecting upon the Red Sea coast to go to Cuba, should have wanted his private papers sent to Cook’s at Marseilles—that great baggage organisation through which passes half the luggage of those going to India and the Far East.

That night he spoke to Sylvia, telling her the whole facts.

“I believe with you, Geoff, that something is wrong. Why should Mr. Farrer, who is not an expert mining engineer like your friend Halliday, be in possession of the secret of the Berenice Mine?”

“I mean to make it my business to inquire,” replied the young fellow. “Jack shall not suffer if I can help it.”

Falconer did not allow the grass to grow beneath his feet, for next day he was on the alert. The telegram had been sent by the Eastern Company’s cable from Alexandria, but at ten o’clock that morning he inquired of S.U.H. (Ras-el-Tin), the radio station at Alexandria, whether the Englishman, Mr. Halliday, could be found in that city.

Half an hour later there came back a reply that inquiry had been made at the chief post-office at Alexandria, but nobody of that name was known there.

The next message Falconer sent was to the engineer-in-charge at Port Sudan, on the Red Sea, south of Cape Ras Benas, asking him if he had heard anything of the young mining prospector, Jack Halliday.

The answer by wireless was “Wait—wait—wait: for two hours.”

Geoffrey waited. Two hours later Port Sudan replied that nothing was known of Mr. Halliday, and suggested that inquiry be made of Cairo. But the high-power station at Abu Zabal, outside Cairo, later on answered as follows to the experimental call-signal he had used:

“2.A.Z. from S.U.S. Reply to your inquiry re mining engineer Halliday, can obtain no knowledge of him here except that he was at Ras Benas two months ago.”

That night Falconer went up to London, and with apparent idleness, he lounged into Bevin’s night club. The place was crowded, and the supper-room full after the theatre. It was not, however, long before he espied the man he sought.

“Hulloa, Farrer!” he cried in warm welcome, and a moment later he bent over the hand of his well-dressed companion, Beryl Hessleton. “Why, I thought you were abroad!” exclaimed Geoffrey.

“Gilbert got back some time ago,” replied Beryl. “He’s had a lovely time in Egypt. I only wish I had been there.”

“Yes,” said the smartly-groomed man in evening clothes, “I really had a tophole time in Cairo. And afterwards I went up the Nile to Assouan. There I met your friend Halliday. He’s found that ancient mine, and I’ve bought it from him. He’s gone to Cuba.”

“Did you buy it?” asked Geoffrey in surprise. “Then I suppose Halliday will soon be back in town again—eh?”

“No, I don’t think so. He’s been engaged by some big firm of American mining engineers to prospect for iron in Cuba, I believe. Anyhow, when we met at the Cataract Hotel, in Assouan, he was full of it. He didn’t seem to think that the mine in Berenice was worth very much—worked out centuries ago, he said. So he sold it to me with the concession—lock, stock, and barrel.”

“And you will re-sell it to a company, I suppose?”

“Perhaps. I don’t quite know yet. I’ve one or two people in the city ready to take it up.”

“But if the mine is worked out, of what use is it?”

“I don’t think that Halliday really explored it very much. He found it, but just at the moment he received the tempting offer from America; so he was glad to get rid of it. I went over to Ras Benas before I bought it, and looked into the hole in the sand which gave entrance to the ancient workings.”

“Well, I hope you will find that it is still a rich mine. Gold is sadly wanted now that America holds all that we had before the war.”

“That’s just it,” said the smartly-dressed man. “Old Julius Evenden used that selfsame argument yesterday when I put the prospect before him.”

“Then you’ve offered it to Evenden?” asked Falconer, naming one of the greatest financial houses in the city.

“Yes, and I believe he’ll take it up. If so, it will mean a fortune for me.”

“Oh! you always were terribly lucky, Gilbert!” laughed Beryl. “Let’s go across and have a drink. I’m sure Mr. Falconer wants to wish you good-luck!”

And the trio passed along to the little bar just off the dancing-room.

A Marconigram sent from Fenchurch Street to Marseilles next day by Falconer elicited the fact, from Cook’s Agency, that the black trunk received from London addressed to Mr. Halliday had been claimed three days after its arrival.

Again Geoffrey inquired by wireless for a description of the man who had claimed it, but the reply was that he was “an elderly Englishman”!

Though Geoffrey was very full of work, experimenting upon the new circuit for wireless telephony, nevertheless he devoted all his spare time to solving the whereabouts of his old school chum. And in this Sylvia gladly assisted him.

By constantly spending his evenings amid the gay crowd at Bevin’s he was able to watch Gilbert Farrer pretty closely. He often met the sprightly Beryl, who was never loth to dance with him, Geoffrey being an unusually good dancer, and good-looking into the bargain. So by being on friendly terms with the girl Falconer was enabled to keep Farrer under observation.

Farrer knew, of course, of Geoffrey’s friendship with the mining engineer, but that fact did not concern him now that he had purchased his interest in the re-discovered mine of the Pharaohs.

At Bevin’s, late one night, Geoffrey had been dancing with Beryl, Farrer being absent. He had not looked in all night, and it was already three o’clock in the morning. Geoffrey was about to return to his club when a white-haired, benevolent-looking old gentleman, whom he at once recognised as “Daddy” Whittaker, the notorious crook, came in and advanced to meet the girl, who, in turn, introduced him to her companion.

“Seen Gilbert to-night?” asked old Mr. Whittaker eagerly of Beryl.

“No; I haven’t seen him all day. He promised to take me to lunch at the Pall Mall, but he never turned up—and he didn’t ‘’phone’.”

“Ah! he’s busy,” replied the old man in a low voice. “He fixed up that little matter with Evenden this afternoon. They are sending out two experts to Egypt at the end of the week.”

“What!” cried the girl. “The Berenice Mine sold! Then Gilbert’s made his fortune! He always was a lucky fellow.”

“Yes; but he doesn’t want it known yet,” the old fellow went on confidentially. “So say nothing about it.”

“Farrer told me about his purchase of the mine,” Geoffrey remarked quite casually. “It’s most interesting—is it not? My friend, Jack Halliday, re-discovered it after the secret of its existence had been lost for two thousand years.”

At mention of Halliday the white-haired old man glanced at him quickly, but his manner did not alter in the least.

“Yes; I believe Gilbert bought it from a man named Halliday, together with the concession which he’s got from the Egyptian Government. Anyhow this mine could not be in better hands than those of Evenden. Of course it may be exhausted. But the experts they are sending out will soon decide that.”

“In any case a company will be formed to run it, I suppose?” asked Beryl, whereupon the crafty old man smiled knowingly, as he remarked:

“An ancient gold mine always attracts subscribers.”

Two days later Geoffrey Falconer sat in the old-fashioned room of Mr. Julius Evenden, the world-famous financier, and made inquiry regarding the Berenice Gold Mine.

At first the head of the great financial house, whose dealings were world-wide, was inclined to resent undue intrusion into his business dealings with Gilbert Farrer, until the young fellow explained that his old schoolfellow had, owing to Professor Harte’s discovery of the hieroglyphics, gone to the ruins of the ancient Egyptian city for the purpose of searching for the long-forgotten mine.

“I never heard Professor Harte’s name in connection with the affair,” said old Mr. Evenden. “Of course, he is one of our greatest Egyptologists. Perhaps he is on the telephone,” and he rang his bell and gave his clerk instructions to endeavour to get through to the Professor.

Ten minutes later Mr. Evenden was speaking with the Professor, who lived at Wimbledon, and urged him, if possible, to call at Great Winchester Street that afternoon.

The hour fixed was four o’clock, and Geoffrey was present at the interview.

When Mr. Evenden informed the great Egyptologist that he had purchased all interest in the re-discovered mine from Gilbert Farrer, he stood amazed.

“But surely my friend Halliday, to whom I gave a copy of the inscription upon the ruins of the Temple of Isis at Berenice, and whom I trust implicitly, would never have parted with his interest in the mine without first consulting me!” he cried.

“Here is the transfer,” replied Mr. Evenden, handing the Professor a document. “It was signed before a French Notary-Public in Alexandria you will see.”

The old Professor adjusted his pince-nez, and after reading the document carefully, examined the signature.“That is forged!” he declared at once. “I know Jack Halliday’s signature extremely well. I have some of his most recent letters here,” and he took several letters from his pocket. These all three examined very closely. Some were signed “Jack,” others “J. Halliday.” But in no case did the signature on the document exactly correspond with the signature on the letters!

“You see the last letter was dated from Alexandria six weeks ago, and speaks of his success, and his intention of coming straight home,” the Professor remarked.

“Then where is he now—and why has his luggage been sent so urgently to Marseilles and claimed?” asked Falconer.

Mr. Evenden thereupon became suspicious, and related his dealings with Gilbert Farrer, and how he had already paid him a considerable sum on account, until the reports of the engineers he was sending to Egypt should be forthcoming.

“There is no doubt that Halliday has re-discovered the workings,” said the Professor. “But where is he now! He seems to have mysteriously disappeared.”

“The only man who knows his whereabouts is Gilbert Farrer,” declared Geoffrey decisively. “For what reason was that trunk containing his private papers sent so hurriedly to Marseilles?”

“That we must discover,” declared Mr. Evenden. “Our policy must be to act without arousing Farrer’s suspicions,” he added.

Thereupon the three sat down and evolved a plan.

The first step was taken by Geoffrey, who, through Beryl, discovered the whereabouts of “Daddy” Whittaker. Next day he met him by appointment in the Park, and as they were walking together, Sylvia, who was dressed as a tourist, took a secret snapshot of them as they passed.

This photograph was quickly developed, and that same night Falconer left with it for Marseilles.

Two days later he showed it to the employÉ at Cook’s baggage depÔt, who at once, and without hesitation, declared the elder man to be the person who claimed the trunk addressed to Mr. Halliday. The trunk had been signed for and taken away on a taxi-cab. The signature in the book was that of “J. Halliday.” But it certainly was not Jack’s!

Geoffrey took the rapide back to Paris that night, sorely puzzled. What had become of his old chum? Marconigrams were sent broadcast in search of him. The passenger lists of six ships sailing from Marseilles to Cuba were examined, but in no case was there any trace of any such person in the lists.

Early in the morning, as the express halting at Laroche awakened him, it suddenly crossed his mind that Jack’s identity was being obliterated by some clever combination of the crooks. In Paris he would go to the Bureau of the SÛretÉ and make inquiries.

At noon he was in the dull, drab office of the famous French detective, Gaston Meunier, to whom he told the story, and asked whether he thought his friend had met with foul play.

The little bald-headed official raised his shoulders and replied that, in view of the fact that the trunk had been sent to Marseilles, it was quite possible that Monsieur Halliday had returned from Egypt to France.

Then they went into dates. Afterwards the great detective rose, and left him. Ten minutes later he reappeared, having a number of police photographs of persons who had been found dead, suicides, and those wilfully murdered, whom the police both in Paris and in the Departments had failed to identify.

The period covered was six months.

With great eagerness Geoffrey Falconer examined one after another—many of them pictures of recovered bodies, a terrible, gruesome collection—when at last he came across the picture of a man lying face upward on the grass.

“That’s Jack!” he exclaimed wildly. “I have no hesitation in identifying him!”

Monsieur Meunier turned to the back of the large unmounted photograph, and read what was written there as follows:

“An unknown. Supposed to be English. Discovered at 7.10 a.m., on October 28th, behind a small pottery factory, a mile from the village of St. Uze, close to Valence, Department of the DrÔme. The medical examination showed the person to have died from some vegetable poison. It is believed that he was deposited at the spot during the night from a passing car. No arrest has been made. Any details of identification to be sent to the Prefect of the DrÔme.”

Three days later Geoffrey arrived at Charing Cross accompanied by an agent of the Paris SÛretÉ, who at once applied for the arrest and extradition of the adventurer, Gilbert Farrer.

This took place when Farrer called at Mr. Evenden’s office next day—and two months later, at his trial before the Assizes of the Seine, the clever assassin who had stolen poor Jack Halliday’s secret was sentenced to penal servitude for life.

At the present moment he is still in the convict prison at Lyons, while his friend Beryl and “Daddy” Whittaker, who were both deeply implicated in the plot, were each sentenced to fifteen years’ penal servitude at the Old Bailey.

The great Berenice Gold Mine is being worked with huge success, but the profits which should have been poor Jack’s are being paid regularly to his widowed mother, who lives in seclusion in Pembrokeshire, deeply mourning the loss of one of the finest and bravest of Englishmen.