ected him in Constantinople; another was equally certain he had,
at the same time, seen him in Berlin. I became almost mad with despair.
The first of December had come, and I was not a step nearer finding the
man whose presence would free me from Voltaire's villainous charge.

That which troubled me most was the fact that I did not know whether he
were alive. Even if I did not kill him, perhaps Voltaire had got him out
of the way so that he might fasten the guilt on me. "What, after all,"
was the thought that maddened me, "if he should be lying at the bottom
of Drearwater Pond?"

There were only twenty-four days now. Three weeks and three days, and I
knew not what to do. If I failed, my love would marry the man who was
worse than a fiend, while I, for whom she was to suffer this torture,
was unable to help her.

And yet I had tried, God alone knows how; but only to fail. Still, there
were twenty-four days; but what were they? Kaffar, if he were alive,
might be in Africa, Australia--no one knew where. I saw no hope.

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 ful