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First Person Paramount

by Ambrose Pratt · English · Gutenberg #35775 · 454,224 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: First Person Paramount

Author: Ambrose Pratt

Illustrator: J. Macfarlane


        
Release date: April 6, 2011 [eBook #35775]
                Most recently updated: January 7, 2021

Language: English

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SUCCESSFUL NOVELS

By AMBROSE PRATT.


VIGOROUS DAUNT, BILLIONAIRE.

The Newcastle Journal.--"Mr. Ambrose Pratt has with conspicuous success
followed up his previous ventures in the world of romance with a tale
that for sensation and daring originality goes to the furthermost
limit. 'Vigorous Daunt' is an amazing creation."

The Sheffield Telegraph.--"'Vigorous Daunt, Billionaire,' is worthy of
a place among the best of its kind. The book is capital reading."

The Scotsman.--"The novel is at once fresh, witty, ingenious, and full
of entertainment. In his portrayal of character and the creation of
incidents and situations, Mr. Pratt's audacity simply defies criticism;
he has given free rein, with literary taste, to a vivacious
imagination."

The Dundee Courier.--"If you want innocent excitement read 'Vigorous
Daunt.' His wild adventures will make you grasp your chair-arms as you
read."

The Hull Weekly News.--"Well written, this book is one that can be well
recommended. It is certain to keep the attention and to prove
attractive."


JAN DIGBY.

Financial Times.--"The book is written in a clear, lively style, and as
the interest is well sustained to the end, it should enhance the
author's already considerable reputation."

People's Saturday Journal.--"A tale in no wise lacking in human
interest. From the first page to the last the tale grips, and its
pleasant humour is well handled and its cynicism will appeal to all who
like a breezy tale well told."

The Bristol Times.--"Mr. Ambrose Pratt has given us of the best of his
work in this tale. We have not for some time read a novel that
interested and held us right through as this has done."

Glasgow Herald.--"The very considerable merit of the story lies in its
vivid picture of the resolutely adverse and conflicting forces. Besides
illustrating the author's grip of characterization, the story gives
fresh evidence of his descriptive vigour and his literary
accomplishment."

Northern Whig.--"A tale at once cleverly told and absorbingly
interesting throughout. It will appeal to all readers who relish rapid
movement and imaginative sweep of a writer who evidently closely
observes men and manners."


THE COUNTERSTROKE.

The Daily Telegraph.--"Mr. Pratt is nothing if not startling. In this
story he unfolds amazing experiences in such a dauntless and effective
manner that he almost succeeds in making such curious and furiously
exciting adventures appear to be real."

The Daily Graphic.--"In 'The Counterstroke' the author has surpassed
his previous efforts and given us a tale which is daring in its
conception and powerful in its narration. From the first page, on which
we are introduced to the 'Academy of ex-Ambassadors' and Mr. Perigord,
their mysterious master, down to the last, the book never loses its
hold upon the reader."

Dundee Advertiser.--"Ambrose Pratt is to be heartily congratulated on
the imaginary gifts and the marvellous ingenuity displayed in his book.
It is one of absorbing interest, and the reader pursues with almost
breathless eagerness the many and varied experiences of Lord Francis
Crossingham, the brave hero of the book."

The People's Journal.--"There have been many Nihilist novels written,
but few which contain the grip and strength of Mr. Ambrose Pratt's
story. His plot is daring to a degree. It is worked out with an
ingenuity which cannot but appeal to all those readers who like a
cleverly-constructed romance in which the interest is kept up to the
end."

The Evening News.--"A novel never to be forgotten."

Belfast Northern Whig.--"A story which keeps the reader absorbed all
the time."

The Dublin Daily Express.--"A novel which should be eagerly read, and
anyone who reads it will look eagerly for further books from Mr.
Pratt's pen."

The Newcastle Chronicle.--"Tremendously exciting."

Southport Visitor.--"Crowded with incident, is full of excitement, and
abounds in dramatic and delicate situations."

Leeds Mercury.--"Written in vigorous and dashing style, the story will
certainly commend itself to a wide circle of readers."




FIRST PERSON PARAMOUNT




[Frontispiece: "In another second I had him by the throat." (Page 189)

_First Person Paramount_]          [_Frontispiece_]




FIRST PERSON PARAMOUNT



BY

AMBROSE PRATT


AUTHOR OF

"VIGOROUS DAUNT: BILLIONAIRE," ETC., ETC.




_ILLUSTRATED BY J. MACFARLANE_




LONDON

WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED

1908




CONTENTS


CHAPTER I

The House in Curzon Street


CHAPTER II

The Foundation of a Fortune


CHAPTER III

The Kingsmere Hospital for Consumptives


CHAPTER IV

The Operation


CHAPTER V

The Campaign Opens


CHAPTER VI

A Battle of Wits


CHAPTER VII

A Dream of Love


CHAPTER VIII

Torture


CHAPTER IX

"The Anglo-American Hotels, Limited"


CHAPTER X

The House among the Pines




FIRST PERSON PARAMOUNT




I

THE HOUSE IN CURZON STREET


My name is Agar Hume. My mother died when I was two years old. My
father was the first violin in a second-rate music hall orchestra at
Birmingham. He had once been a gentleman. He taught me French and how
to play the flute. Between whiles he treated me like a dog. He wished
me to become a member of his orchestra. My tastes, however, inclined to
the stage. From early childhood I had possessed an almost perfect
talent for mimicry. When I was nineteen years old, there was not an
artist I had ever seen whom I could not represent to the life. One
morning, about that time, in a fit of drunken rage my father gave me a
terrible beating. I was then somewhat undersized--the result of
irregular meals and bad food. I could neither retaliate nor defend
myself. That night, as soon as my father had set off for the theatre, I
ran away from home. I walked to Liverpool, and easily obtained
employment at a music hall, where for three years I nightly imitated
every actor and person of note whom the Liverpudlians wished to see.
They grew tired of me at last and ceased to applaud my turn. I was
promptly discharged by the management. Not caring to return to
Birmingham, as my father had never forgiven me for deserting him, I
made my way to London. I had saved a little money, and I thought that
before it was spent I should procure a new engagement. The London
market, however, was simply glutted with mimics, and before three
months had passed I was penniless and still without a place. I haunted
the theatres and employment agencies to no purpose. I was obliged to
pawn my wardrobe, and at last a day came when I stood in the Strand
owning nothing in the world but the suit of decent black I wore and my
make-up box, which I carried in my hand because I had been turned out
of my lodging-house that morning. I had not tasted food for
four-and-twenty hours. I mentioned the latter fact ten minutes later to
the manager of the next employment agency I visited. He had seen me so
often that he knew me well, and he sympathized with my misfortune.

"Look here," said he, "if you are so hard up as all that, your only
hope is to try your hand at something else. There is no chance for you
at the theatres."

"I'm ready to turn boot-black!" I assured him.

"Well, well," said he, "a client of ours inquired yesterday for a
valet. If you are really willing to put your pride in your pocket, I
shall personally recommend you."

"I have no pride," I answered, "but I have also no experience."

He gave me a pitying smile. "Certainly not, but I believe that you are
hungry--you look it!"

I was so hungry indeed that I thanked him warmly, and a few minutes
afterwards I was walking as fast as I could towards Piccadilly with a
letter in my pocket which bore the following address:--"Sir William
Dagmar, Bart., 22a Curzon Street."

It was a small two-storied house, but it looked good, and I raised the
knocker tremblingly.

A footman opened the door, to whom I gave my precious letter. He was
civil because my clothes were well cut, and because I have the
appearance of a gentleman. He invited me to a seat in an anteroom, and
went off with my letter. When he returned, he carried his nose in the
air, and his bearing was unaffectedly contemptuous.

"Huh!" he sniffed. "Step this way, but wipe your shoes on that mat
first, please!"

I obeyed. He led me to a room on the first floor, opened the second
door and announced in an oily voice

"The valet--Sir William."

Had I been a man of pride, I should have felt offended. As it was I
walked into the room quite undisturbed, and with the most respectful
mien I was able to assume.

The door closed behind me. The walls of the room, which was a large
one, were piled from floor to ceiling with books, which ran in long
straggling tiers, on shelves of carven oak. Books littered the carpet
about the bases of the shelves. Rows of books lying one upon another,
were heaped upon an immense table that occupied the centre of the room.
Dust covered the books. A revolving bookcase crammed with books stood
beside the chair upon which Sir William Dagmar sat. The apartment
resembled, except for its air of general untidiness, nothing so much as
a corner in the British Museum library. It possessed no windows, and
was lighted from the roof like a gallery of pictures. I am a keenly
observant man by nature, and from a lad I had persistently developed my
peculiar faculty for the sake of my profession. At that time it was
only necessary for me to glance at a place, person or thing in order to
photograph its character and details on my mind. A second after I
entered the room I looked at Sir William, but I had already said to
myself: "A book-worm!"

So he appeared, and nothing to my surprise. He was of middle size and
age. His features were regular and even handsome. His complexion was
yellow and bloodless. He possessed a broad rather high forehead, and a
large head covered with a mass of stubbly iron-grey hair. His nose was
long and straight. His chin was a trifle weak. He was clean shaven. The
key to his face was his mouth. It was large and sensitive. It had a
trick of screwing itself up at the corners, and sending the upper lip
into a curl of sneering querulousness, which I immediately experienced
an itch to imitate. His teeth were long, even and very white, but the
right incisor was lacking, and this circumstance made his voice sound
slightly sibilant. His eyes were grey like my own, but they were set
deeper in his head, and the man had twice my weight of years stooping
his narrow shoulders.

He regarded me appraisingly. "I need a valet," he began. His voice was
querulous like his mouth.

"Yes, sir," said I.

"You are recommended by Mr. Bray. You look young--rather too young. Why
did you leave your last place?"

"My employer could not afford to keep me any longer. I was with him for
three years, sir."

"Show me your references."

I had expected that demand. "I gave them to Mr. Bray, sir," I answered
glibly. "Did he not send them on to you? He said he would enclose them
in his letter!"

Sir William shook his head, and a bored look crept into his eyes. "I
suppose they are all right," he muttered wearily. "I like your voice;
it is soft. If you want to please me never raise it. My head aches very
easily."

"I shall remember, sir," I answered in my mildest accents.

"When could you commence your duties?"

"At once, sir."

He raised his eyebrows, then nodded languidly.

"Very well. I shall give you a trial. Your wages will be L5 a month and
your keep. Butts, the footman, will show you to your room and explain
my ways to you. I shall ring when I require you."

"Thank you, sir."

"By the way, Bray writes me that your name is Agar Hume. I dislike it.
Once upon a time I had a friend named Hume. I shall call you Brown."

"Very good, sir."

I backed out of the room, and as I half expected found the footman in
the passage. His air of defiant indifference informed me that he had
been listening through the keyhole. He was an owlish looking creature,
but there were garrulous wrinkles about his eyes and lips which
determined me to treat him civilly.

"Sir William has engaged me, Mr. Butts," I said in a low voice. "Will
you be good enough to show me to my room. I am to start work at once."

"You won't stay here long," he mumbled as he tip-toed off. "They never
do."

I had no intention of staying one day longer than I could help. But I
did not confide the fact to Butts. As I followed him my one thought was
to get my hands on food as soon as possible. I was desperately hungry.
He took me upstairs to an attic room at the back of the house. It was
small, but well lighted and clean, also it smelt of lavender. It
contained a deal wardrobe with a full length mirror, a truckle bed, a
dressing table and a wash stand. There was also a carpet on the floor.
I felt pleased, but I was famished.

"Here you hare!" growled Butts.

I put down my make-up box, and faced him.

"I should like to be friends with you, Mr. Butts," I said. "I dare say
we shall be cast a good deal in each other's company. What do you say?"
I offered him my hand.

He grinned and took it. My apparent ingenuousness had melted him at
once. He was not a bad hearted fellow, it seemed.

"All right," he said. "What's yer name?"

"Brown."

"What did yer think of 'im," he jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

"A book-worm, isn't he--but what do you say if we discuss him over a
glass of beer and some bread and cheese?"

"Good!" said Butts, and with an alacrity that delighted me, he led the
way by the servants' staircase to the pantry on the ground floor. For
beer, however, he gave me port wine, and for bread and cheese a cold
partridge.

"You seem to live well here," I commented with my mouth full.

"So so!" answered Butts with a sigh. "Tucker's all right--but it's so
cursed lonely. Master never goes out, except to meals, and it's very
seldom he hever has any company here, honly about once a month."

"Oh! a bit of a hermit, eh?"

"A bloomin' misanthrope--that's what I call him! He 'ates noise like
poison. Hif I was to drop a plate 'e'd ring to know what the devil I
meant by it?"

"Married?"

"No. He 'ates women wors'n noise, I believe."

"How does he pass his time?"

"Reads all day--half the night too."

"What does he want with a valet, then?"

"You'll soon find out," said Butts with a snort of contempt.

"Please tell me."

Butts wagged his head. "Bar shavin' him you won't 'ave much to do,
'cept give him his medicines at the proper hours. He's a sick man is
Sir William Dagmar! The last valet 'e had here, Joe Bates, was a real
smart un he was. He'd done for Lord X---- and Mr. Francis, and a lot more
tip-toppers. He was just celebrated for fixing hevenin' dress ties; and
Sir William always wears ready made ones to save trouble. Bates got the
miserables in a week, an' hup an' cleared out before the fortnight was
up."

"What is the matter with Sir William?"

"Consumption! He's got it bad!"

"Oh! is he rich?"

"Rich as Croesus."

"Any relatives?"

"A cousin he 'ates wors'n noise and wors'n women. A young chap name o'
Sefton Dagmar. He's heir to the title, but I'm not thinkin' he'll get
much o' the splosh. Sir William's got it all in Government bonds and he
can leave it as he likes."

"What is this Sefton Dagmar like?"

"Not a bad sort. He's always haffable enough to me. He lives at
Newhaven, but he calls here once in a while to see how Sir William is.
But he hardly ever sees him. Hi! there's master's bell--I'll be back in
a minute."

As soon as Butts had disappeared I gave my appetite free rein and a
very hearty meal I made. He was absent a quarter of an hour, and on his
return he wore a look of annoyance. "Nuisance!" he began. "He's halways
worriting about this time. He's goin' to give a dinner party to-morrow
night. He gives one every month. But he wants you! Hurry up, he 'ates
to be kep waitin'."

I was up the stairs in a twinkle, and again standing before Sir
William. He looked bored to death.

"Some gentlemen will dine with me to-morrow night, Brown," he drawled.
"Six in all. Their names are on this paper, and their table places
marked. I wish you to serve--Butts is a clumsy waiter."

I received the paper with a deferential bow. "Very good, sir!" I
murmured.

"You will also see that card tables are arranged in the smoking room.
Butts will order the dinner, he knows my ways. But you will take charge
of the arrangements. You seem a capable young fellow."

"Thank you, sir!"

"And Brown," he frowned heavily.

"Yes, sir."

"Don't fill my glass too often. I am an invalid, you know, and wine
does not agree with me. That is all. I shall not want you again until
seven o'clock this evening, when you may dress me for dinner!"

Butts and I studied the paper that Sir William had given me, with the
greatest attention. I soon gathered that the six gentlemen who were to
dine with my master were not members of the smart set of society such
as Butts called "tip-toppers," but men of intellectual attainment, and
leaders of thought, if not of fashion. Butts knew them all. "They
belong to Sir William's club, the 'Athenian,'" he remarked. "This here
Sir Charles Venner who's to take the seat of honour is a cove what cuts
up dead dogs and such like while they are alive."

"A vivisectionist?" I asked smiling.

"Don't know what you call 'em," responded Butts. "But he's doctor, and
so is Mr. Fulton, who is to sit opposite on master's left. The next
chap on the right--Luke Humphreys--is a hauthor, on political economy.
Mr. Husband is the chap who wrote that article in the _National Review_
on the weakness of the Navy, which kicked up such a blessed fuss a
while since. You must have heard of him?"

"Oh, yes."

"Well, George Cavanagh is an artist and a R.A. Master has one of his
pictures in the dining room--you'll see it presently: a naked woman
with a chap--'Love and Death' it's called."

I had much ado not to laugh outright. "I've seen prints of it," I
muttered. "Who is the last, Mr. Nevil Pardoe, Butts?"

"He's a playwright," answered Butts with a sigh. "They're playin' one
of his pieces now at the Kensington Theatre. I went there the other
night and got my pocket picked for my trouble." He kicked over a chair
as he spoke, as if carried away by temper in remembering his
misfortune. The bell rang on instant. "Oh, Lor!" groaned Butts. "I'm in
for it again, that man has the ears of a mole!"

He came back a few minutes later looking very sour. "Called me a clod
hopper!" he growled in a low voice. "He's got a reptile tongue. But
come upstairs, Brown, and I'll show you his bedroom--an' where he keeps
his clothes an' things!"

It was an immense apartment, magnificently furnished. But it was very
untidy and medicine bottles, some full, some empty, crowded the
mantelpiece and dressing tables. The place smelt like a druggist's
store. "I'll clear that rubbish away first thing," I declared. But the
footman seized my arm as I caught up the first bottle. "He'd go ravin'
stark starin' mad if one of them was shifted," he cried. "Don't you
touch 'em, lad."

I shrugged my shoulders, and watched Butts ransack our master's
wardrobe, he explaining to me the while certain preferences in matters
of taste and dress which Sir William had always manifested. It appeared
that he detested colours. All his suits were black, also his boots and
gloves.

"You seem to know him so well, Butts," I remarked at last, "that I
wonder more and more why he has not made you his valet."

"It's my haccent!" sighed Butts. "He can't abear it. Whenever I drop a
haitch, in his 'earing, he shrivels up."

During the afternoon I borrowed half a sovereign from Butts, and
purchased some fresh linen.

While dressing Sir William Dagmar later in the evening, I only spoke
when he addressed me, and then in softest monosyllables. He seemed
pleased with my attentions. But then I have frequently noticed that no
man is hard to please whose idiosyncrasies are humoured when detected.
He gave me a list of his medicines and the hours when they should be
administered, after which he departed to dine at a neighbouring
restaurant, in which his habit was to take most of his meals in a
private room, perfectly alone.

Butts and I dined together in the pantry, and a merry time we spent,
until our master's return, when noise was prohibited.

On the morrow the house was more or less in the hands of a bevy of
restaurateurs preparing for the dinner. Sir William went out early in
the morning, and he was absent all day, but he returned in time for me
to dress him, and he appeared to be pleased with our arrangements. The
table indeed looked magnificent, for I had taken care to deck it with
flowers, and my taste in such matters is excellent. I did not see the
guests until dinner was served, and they were all seated at the table.
I wore an evening suit of my master's, which on Butts' advice I had
borrowed beforehand without the formality of asking permission, having
none of my own. Sir William was not an observant man, _grace au Dieu_!
I entered the room noiselessly, and slipped behind my master's chair.
The table had been previously spread with oysters. No one spoke, until
the shells were emptied; meanwhile I studied the six attentively. They
were intelligent, but cold-faced men. Sir Charles Venner had an
enormous nose, and very small grey eyes. Dr. Fulton possessed a
hare-lip. Mr. Humphreys rejoiced in a squint. George Cavanagh might
have stepped from a portrait by Van Dyck, but he had a trick of
screwing up the tip of his nose under the influence of excitement, at
intervals, as a rabbit does. Mr. Husband put out his tongue, to meet
his fork as he ate, he possessed a prodigious chin; and Mr. Nevil
Pardoe had watchful heavy lidded eyes. These traits were their
key-notes so to speak--their individual and predominant peculiarities,
which distinguished them from each other and from other distinguished
men. From the rest of the world, they were one and all distinguished by
a common pallor of complexion, and a curious cough, which stamped them
as consumptives.

As I removed their plates, Sir Charles Venner broke a silence that I at
least was beginning to find oppressive. "I believe you will be the
first to go after all, Dagmar!" he remarked in French, casting a keen
glance at my master. "Pardoe seems picking up. He doesn't cough so much
to-night." It was evident that no one suspected me of an
acquaintanceship with French.

Sir William shrugged his shoulders. "I am ready," he returned. "But I
don't think so. Will you bet, or any one?"

"I'll lay you even money that Pardoe turns up his toes before you,
Dagmar!" cut in Mr. Husband.

"Very good," said Sir William. "How much?"

"A hundred!"

"It is a wager!" Sir William took out his pencil and scrawled some
figures on his shirt cuff.

"I'll take you too, Husband," cried Mr. Cavanagh.

"And I," chorused Dr. Fulton and Sir Charles.

"No thanks," retorted Mr. Husband drily. "My book is full. How are you
feeling yourself, Venner?"

"Nice and poorly, thanks, but with care I'll out-last the lot of you!"
He broke out into a fit of coughing as he finished speaking, and the
others bending forward, watched him eagerly. Their expressions reminded
me of a lot of hungry carnivora eyeing a bone held just beyond their
reach.

They drank their soup in silence, but while I served to them the
entree, they conversed again.

"I'm in the hands of a quack," began Nevil Pardoe. "The enterprising
devil has agreed to cure me for the sake of an advertisement."

"Oh! How long?"

"Ten days now. Upon honour I feel a little better already."

"Where is he to be found?" demanded my master suddenly.

A roar of laughter drowned the reply. But Sir William looked annoyed.
"It's not that I want to live," he explained in tones of anger. "I know
I'm doomed, but Cavanagh stands to lose two thousand pounds--if I
predecease Pardoe, and as he is only a poor devil of an artist--I'd
like to improve his chances!"

"Quite so," sneered Sir Charles. "We all know your affection for
Cavanagh. But my dear Dagmar, fair play is a jewel you know. You must
kill or cure yourself off your own bat, unless you choose to pair with
Pardoe and adopt his treatment altogether. Those are the rules."

"You need not remind me," said my master drily. "By the way, Husband,
what was the result of your last examination?"

"Two pounds short of my former weight, but the hole in my remaining
lung has not sensibly increased. Jackson gives me solid assurance of at
least twelve months."

"Lucky devil!" sighed Mr. Cavanagh. "I'm booked in half the time,
though I might drag on for a year or two if I were to try Egypt!"

"Has your limit been changed since our last meeting, Fulton," asked Mr.
Pardoe.

"Only by effluxion of the intervening time. I'll feed the worms in just
under ten months, unless a cab runs over me, or some other accident
occurs."

Sir William raised his wineglass. "Gentlemen," said he, "I drink to the
Tubercle Bacillus!"

"Our master!" chorused the others, and every glass was drained.

I quickly refilled all but Sir William's, wondering the while whether I
had fallen among an assembly of ghouls, or if I was not the victim of
some ghastly joke. The _piece de resistance_ of the dinner was a
dressed calf's head, which Sir William Dagmar carved. Not one of his
guests began to eat until all were helped. But when that was done, my
master suddenly ordered me to leave the room. Butts regarded me
enquiringly as I came out. "Spoke some foreign lingo, didn't they?" he
asked.

I nodded.

"They allers do," he went on. "Why, I don't know, for the life o' me. A
lot of death's heads I call them."

"They look like consumptives," I suggested.

"Like as not they hare!" he returned. "Look at this muss, Brown! What
do you make of it?"

He held up a huge bowl of cream into which a hundred different species
of nuts had been grated. "This is what they take for sweets," he said
with a shiver. "It tastes 'orrible!"

"Perhaps it is medicine."

"May be. I spose you didn't make out hanything they said, Brown?"

"They spoke in French, Butts," I replied.

He shrugged his shoulders, and we waited for the bell. When it rang I
took in the bowl of nut cream.

"Do you understand French, Brown?" demanded my master as soon as the
door closed behind me.

"Not a word, sir."

"Very good. Serve the sweets, please."

A murmur of approval went round the table. The gentlemen ate their
cream in silence, and washed it down with champagne. I refilled their
glasses with the dexterity of an expert waiter, and I was about to
resume my old place behind my master's chair, when he fixed me with his
eyes, and addressed me suddenly in French. "Brown!" cried he, "leave
the room this instant!"

I halted and looked at him with a stupid air. "Beg pardon, sir. Did you
speak to me, sir?"

He smiled and answered in English. "Yes, Brown, fill my glass please. I
forgot that you do not understand French!"

"You should have tested the fellow beforehand," said Sir Charles Venner
in French. "The closer you approach your tomb, Dagmar, the more
careless you become!"

"What does it matter," said my master wearily. "Pardoe, kindly present
your report!"

Mr. Pardoe got slowly to his feet, and I marvelled to see for the first
time, his lean ungainly frame. A bag of skin and bone it was, no more.
A frightful fit of coughing preluded his speech. When he had recovered,
he put his right foot on a chair, and leaning on his bony knee, began
as follows:--

"Gentlemen, this is our seventeenth monthly gathering since the
initiation of our order, and we are all, seven of us, still above
ground, although we were all condemned as incurable before we first
foregathered. During the period I have indicated not one of us has
flinched from his bargain, and as your latest secretary, gentlemen, I
am pleased to announce that I have duly and regularly received from
each member the weekly contribution fixed by our rules. The amount at
present standing to my credit in trust for the order is L7,000." He
took a small pass-book from his pocket, and handed it to his nearest
neighbour, who glanced at its contents and passed it up the table to
Sir William. "You will find in that book, gentlemen, a cheque for the
amount named marked 'good' by the Bank. I have the honor now to tender
you my resignation. Mr. Cavanagh should, I believe, be my successor."

He sat down again, coughing terribly.

Sir William nodded. "It is your turn, Cavanagh," he said quietly. "You
will hold office for the current month."

"Very well," replied Mr. Cavanagh, tugging fiercely at his moustache as
he spoke. "You fellows can forward your subs, direct to my studio,
without waiting for notices. I never write letters."

Sir William arose, holding the cheque above his head. "Whose shall it
be this time, friends?" he demanded. "Remember that I have won three
times running. Will any give me odds?"

"I," cried Dr. Fulton sharply. "I'll lay you seven to one in hundreds,
Dagmar, that you do not win to-night."

"Done! Come, gentlemen."

They trooped out of the room, and I, ablaze with curiosity, made haste
to follow them, carrying a silver tray of coffee and liqueurs with
which Butts supplied me.

I found them standing around the larger card-table, watching, in
perfect silence, Mr. Nevil Pardoe shaking an iron dice-box. Upon the
middle of the cloth lay the cheque for L7,000 face upwards, which Mr.
Pardoe had given to Sir William. No one heeded me, so I put down the
tray and watched them. Presently Mr. Pardoe scattered the dice upon the
cloth.

"Five," said Mr. Cavanagh, picking up the dice. "Your turn, Sir
Charles."

Sir Charles took up the box, scarcely rattled it, and threw.

"Six," said Mr. Cavanagh. "Dr. Fulton."

The doctor threw eleven; Mr. Husband five; Mr. Humphreys thirteen, and
Mr. Cavanagh sixteen.

When the latter's fortune was declared, Dr. Fulton rubbed his hands
together. "He! he! he! beat that, Dagmar!" he chuckled.

Sir William took up the box for half a minute, and scattered the pieces
without looking at the board.

"Seventeen!" said Mr. Cavanagh in a stifled voice. The poor young man's
face was a ghastly sight to witness. He had evidently made sure of
winning, and the snatching of the cup from his lips had cost him a
month of his fast dwindling life, or his looks belied him. He sank into
a chair and began to cough so violently that a bloody foam soon stained
the handkerchief he held before his mouth.

Sir William, with a curiously blank smile, took up the cheque and
slipped it into his pocket. "I'll trouble you for seven hundred pounds
at your leisure, Fulton," he said quietly.

"I'll post it," snapped the doctor. "May the furies seize your luck!
That is the fourth time in succession you have fleeced us!"

The others shrugged their shoulders, and sought chairs, which they drew
about the board. I served them immediately with coffee. A moment later,
each had a pile of bank-notes and gold before him, and at the centre of
the table, in a little cup-like depression, lay a heap of sovereigns.
The game was draw poker. It was a strange experience for me to watch
them. All seven seemed gamblers born. All had death in their faces, and
were living only by the grace of their disease. All were men of
uncommon intellect. They played with a rigid affectation of
indifference, that poorly concealed their underlying eagerness. They
only spoke to bet, and the stakes ran high. From the first Sir William
Dagmar won. His luck was marvellous. Standing as I did behind his
chair, I could see his cards and his opponents' faces. Twice running,
four queens were dealt him. Each time he won a considerable sum, and
each time six pair of wolfish eyes detested his good fortune. Twice
again he drew for a flush, and made it. On the latter occasion, two of
his opponents held full hands--Sir Charles Venner and Mr. Cavanagh. The
others passed out, but Venner and Cavanagh bet to the limit, a hundred
pounds. Sir William called them, and with his customary blandness,
scooped the pool. They arose, with muttered curses, to their feet, and
became spectators. Half an hour later the game broke up. Sir William
had despoiled the last of his guests, and his pockets simply bulged
with money.

"It is an omen!" he declared. "I now believe that I shall be the first
to go! Fate is fond of such little ironies! Brown," he added in
English. "Help these gentlemen to don their cloaks. My friends,
good-night."

They replied with the curtest of nods, and I attended them from the
house.

While I was undressing my master I racked my brains to try to discern a
means of turning to my own advantage what I had seen and heard that
night. Sir William seemed worn out, and he got into bed immediately.
But as I was about to extinguish the gas, he called me to him. "Well,
Brown," said he, "what do you think of my luck?"

"Wonderful, sir!" I replied, "simply wonderful."

He nodded, and a sneer curled his lips. "In this life, Brown," he
muttered, "the things we neither need nor desire are oftenest showered
upon us. Be good enough to count my winnings."

I obeyed, eyeing him covertly the while. But he had turned his back,
and appeared to pay me no heed.

"Seven thousand six hundred and thirteen pounds," I announced at last.

He glanced round at me, a smile upon his face. "I am glad to see that
you are an honest man, Brown," he said quietly. "That will do--you may
go."

I had been bitterly tempted, but, well he had turned his back upon me.
Charmed with the result of my astuteness, I left the room and sought my
own. There I occupied myself for a few minutes with my make-up box, and
when quite satisfied with my appearance, I tip-toed down stairs to the
pantry.

Butts was seated before a dainty meal, and in the act of opening a
bottle of champagne.

"Butts!" said I, "when did I give you permission to drink my champagne?"

He sprang to his feet uttering a cry of terror, and the bottle toppled
over the table.

"Sir William!" he gasped, "Oh, sir; oh, sir!"

"Look at me!" I commanded.

His eyes almost bulged out of his head. "Is there anything in my
appearance?" I demanded, "which might lead you to suppose that I am the
sort of man to allow my servants such indulgence."

"Oh, sir. Please forgive me, sir!" he mumbled, shaking like a leaf.
"I--I----"

"Dishonest in one thing, then in another," I interrupted sternly. "How
much did you steal in providing to-night's dinner? Tell me the truth,
or I shall send for the police!"

"Not a penny sir--so--help me! The wine man gave me two pounds
commission on the order, that is all, sir--so help me!"

"Hand it over to me at once, and let this be a lesson to you!" I
commanded.

Butts, trembling, placed two sovereigns in my outstretched palm.

"Was Brown a partner in your rascality?" I demanded.

"No--no, sir," he stammered. "Oh! oh! please forgive me, sir. I'll
never do it again, sir--so help me!" The fellow actually fell on his
knees before me, and tears of entreaty rolled down his cheeks.

"I'll forgive you this once!" I returned, and swinging on my heel, I
left the pantry.

Ten minutes later Butts poured into my ears a wild tale of how Sir
William Dagmar had caught him opening a bottle of champagne, and of the
row that they had had. But he told me nothing about the two sovereigns
reposing that instant in my pocket.

I went to sleep that night perfectly self-satisfied, and so reconciled
with my position as Sir William Dagmar's valet, that I would not have
changed places with Dan Leno himself. I had formed a fine plan to
enrich myself, and I determined to abandon the stage for ever.




II

THE FOUNDATION OF A FORTUNE


The next month passed very quietly. I got used to Sir William and his
ways, and so assiduously attended him that I had the satisfaction to
perceive that my services were gradually becoming indispensable to his
comfort. I studied him so closely that before long I was able almost to
read his thoughts, certainly to anticipate his wishes. I waited upon
him like a shadow, as silently, as faithfully. His life was for the
most part of fixed habit. At nine o'clock he arose and breakfasted. He
then repaired to his library where he read or wrote until noon. I found
that he was engaged in compiling a compendium of philosophy, one volume
of which had already been published and which had procured for him a
great measure of literary fame. His heart was wrapped up in his work.
It had more charms to him than the love of woman to an abandoned rake,
or dice to a gambler. Once seated there before his manuscript he
permitted nothing to interrupt him, except noise--at which he raged
like a madman. I have seen him bend murderous glances on
Butts--entering by chance with some persistent visitor's pasteboard. I,
however, came and went as I pleased with his medicines, which I obliged
him to take at the proper hours. For me he had always a smile,
impatient truly, but a smile; for I wore shoes of felt, and from
careful practice my voice became more softly modulated every day. At
noon Sir William went out for a walk in the park, and for lunch at his
restaurant. He returned at three and worked steadily until seven, when
I dressed him for dinner, for which he also went abroad. From ten
o'clock until midnight he worked again, when I put him to bed. Such was
our daily round for six days in every week. On the seventh Sir William
arose an hour earlier than usual, and immediately after breakfast he
left the house and seldom returned until past midnight. What he did or
where he went on those occasions I could not by any means discover, for
Butts was as ignorant as I, and I dared not ask our master. I
determined that one day in the near future I would follow him, but I
could not do so immediately, because of Butts. Visitors came to the
house at times, but he seldom received any, and if he saw his friends
at all it must have been during meals. I directed my leisure hours to
the perfection of the plan I had formed for my own aggrandisement. In
that behalf I prosecuted diligent inquiries concerning the six
gentlemen who were my master's monthly guests. I could learn very
little of them it is true, try how I would, and nothing at all of the
curious link of agreement which I knew bound them together. But I found
that they were all men of private fortune and of great esteem in the
world of learning; also that each of them, like my master, was
passionately devoted to a particular intellectual hobby horse. Sir
Charles Venner, it seemed, had already spent ten years of research in
extending the acquaintance of science with the functions of the thyroid
gland. Dr. Fulton's ambition was to discover some great destructive to
the bacillus of bubonic plague, yet otherwise harmless to the human
system. Mr. Humphreys was engaged upon a propagandist mission to teach
the masses the blessings of what he called "Purer Socialism." Mr.
Cavanagh painted riddles of pictures for the Academy, which his brother
Academicians wished, without daring, to reject. Mr. Nevil Pardoe wrote
problem plays, and Mr. Husband was a naval expert. Like my master, all
were confirmed bachelors who had acquired a reputation for misogyny
because they remorselessly eschewed society. Earnest workers and
infernal idiots! So I came to regard them the more I heard of them.
Indeed, who but a fool would prefer to waste his life in barren study,
when he might squire instead such exquisitely beautiful dames as I saw
and coveted every time I wandered down Piccadilly or the Row?

The secret of my master's monthly entertainments cost me many an
unquiet night of puzzled thought and anxious contemplation. I tried to
believe that he and his six fellow students had simply agreed to
assemble periodically at Sir William Dagmar's house in order to enjoy a
quiet gamble as a recreation from their ordinary and persistent
labours, and also to gratify a morbid desire of marking the ravages
which their common disease had made in each other since their last
meeting. Some instinct, however, forbade me to rest satisfied with an
explanation so simple. Why, I asked myself, should they always converse
in French, if they had nothing better worthy of concealing? Why, again,
should they subscribe weekly to a common fund, the combined fruits of
which evidently passed into one man's keeping at the dictation of the
dice? That seemed a curious thing, and it was a circumstance all the
more puzzling to account for, since they gambled at cards for high
stakes as well. Was it just possible that the winner of the cheque was
bound, by rule, to apply the money to some esoteric purpose? I felt
inclined to suspect it was! But what then? I watched Sir William, the
last winner of the cheque, as a cat might a mouse for three weeks--but
I discovered nothing. I censored his correspondence with a like result.
Every Monday morning he gave me a letter to post to Mr. Cavanagh. I
opened those over a bowl of steam, but each only contained a crossed
and unnegotiable cheque for L250, with never a line of explanation. As
for the rest of his post budget, he received many letters, but he
answered none, and his correspondents seemed to be for the most part
beggars. The mystery irritated me so much that it began to trouble my
sleep. Butts also annoyed me. He developed such a fancy for my company
that I was obliged to lock my door whenever I wished to be alone; and I
frequently wished to be alone, for my great plan required that I should
be able to imitate at will Sir William Dagmar's every look and gesture,
his every tone and trick of speech. I foresaw that I should have to get
rid of Butts. He was a naturally inquisitive, interfering fellow. But I
reflected that when I had got rid of him, it would be necessary for me
to perform his duties as well as my own, if I wished to have a clear
field for my designs. If Sir William engaged another footman, I should
have my work to do all over again. With that end in view, I persuaded
Butts to instruct me in the business of ordering and providing the
monthly dinners, cleaning silver, and so forth. Pride is not one of my
weaknesses, as I have remarked before. I felt able to assume his post
in a very few days, just two days indeed before the next monthly dinner
was due. That very night I dressed myself up to resemble my master, and
marched stealthily downstairs into the pantry about the hour when I
knew, from experience, that Butts enjoyed a first night-cap of port
wine. There he stood, a bottle before him, glass in hand.

"Butts!" said I, without preliminary, "I was wrong to forgive you for
stealing my wine. But I wished to give you a chance--No, don't speak to
me, Butts. You have had your chance and wasted it. If you are not out
of my house before breakfast hour to-morrow, I shall give you in charge
of the police. If, however, you make the least noise in taking your
boxes downstairs, I shall prosecute you in any case. Be careful,
therefore! Good night, Butts!"

I left him standing like a frozen image, staring after me. Half an hour
later he came to my room and poured the whole story into my sympathetic
ears. He was almost drunk, and bitterly incensed with my master, also
he was terribly afraid of the police. I sincerely commiserated with
him, and earned his undying gratitude by forcing into his hand one of
the sovereigns of which I had previously despoiled him, and which I had
had no occasion to spend, for Butts had put me in the way of
replenishing my wardrobe on the credit system. I felt truly sorry for
Butts, but he had to go. He stood in my way. My philosophy is embraced
in the maxim, "First person paramount." I may be thought inhuman by
some of the people who read these memoirs, but I dare swear that none
will consider me a fool. The surest way to succeed in life is to kick
down as soon as may be the ladders by which one climbs. To do otherwise
is to court disaster, for envy is the most powerful passion of the
soul, and envy is inevitably excited by contemplation of the successes
of our equals or inferiors.

When I had half dressed Sir William on the following morning, I broke
my fixed habit of silence.

"If you please, sir," I said very softly, "I have something to inform
you which I fancy you should know."

My master looked as much surprised as if he had previously considered
me to be a dummy.

"What is it?" he curtly demanded.

"Butts left this morning, sir, soon after daylight, in order to catch a
train to the West. His closest living relative is dying, I believe; I
persuaded him not to trouble you last night by asking your permission."

"What a cursed nuisance!" cried Sir William with a frown. "I expect
guests to dinner here to-morrow night. When will Butts return?"

"I don't think he will come back, sir, he has expectations of
inheriting a little fortune; he has, however, given me minute
instructions regarding the dinner, and if you will be good enough to
confide the matter to my hands, I think I can promise that you'll not
be disappointed!"

"You are an invaluable fellow, Brown," said my master in tones of great
relief. "Certainly, take charge of everything. I know that I can trust
you."

"Thank you, sir," I said demurely. "Will your guests be the same as
last time, sir?"

"Yes!" He shrugged his shoulders and slipped his arms into the coat I
held out for him.

"And will they be placed at table as before, sir?"

"Exactly. But what about my breakfast this morning, Brown?"

"It will be ready for you in five minutes, sir."

I slipped out of the room and hurried down stairs. I had not studied my
master's tastes for nothing. The breakfast I had prepared comprised
every dainty that he cared about, and the look of surprise he cast
about the table sufficiently rewarded my forethought.

"Why, Brown," said he, as he sat down, "you are a perfect treasure. If
Butts does not return I shall feel inclined to double your duties and
your pay. Some years ago I had a valet who managed the whole house
without assistance."

"I could do that," I assured him quietly. "There is really only work
here for one man, sir. Pardon me for saying it, sir, but half my time
so far has hung upon my hands, and I detest being idle, sir."

"Well, well, we shall see," he replied. I felt that I had gained my
point and I said no more.

I made four pounds in spot cash by way of commission in ordering the
dinner. It was really very easy. The restaurateurs were so anxious
indeed to secure my custom that I might have made more, but I am not a
greedy man, and four sovereigns seemed a lot to me just then.

The dinner passed off much as the first had done. Similar grisly jokes
were interchanged in the French tongue, and many bets were concluded
between Sir William and his guests. They toasted the tubercle bacillus
again, and after I had served the nut cream Mr. Cavanagh handed a
cheque for L7,000 to Sir William and then resigned his office in favour
of Dr. Fulton, just as Mr. Pardoe had done upon the former occasion. I
noticed that Mr. Pardoe looked very ill, frightfully ill, in fact, and
his cough was horrible to hear. It is true that all looked worse than
they had before, but Mr. Pardoe had outstripped the others, and he was
mercilessly rallied on his appearance. The most consequential wager was
arranged between Mr. Humphreys and Sir Charles Venner. The latter laid
the former six to four in hundreds that Mr. Pardoe would die within the
next month. I shall never forget Mr. Pardoe's face as he listened. Its
expression was indescribably vexed and full of despair, but the others
roared with laughter to see it. As for me, I confess that their
laughter sickened me, and I had to slip out of the room in order to
recover my nerve. Such monstrous disregard of a fellow creature's
manifest anguish inspired me with dismay and something like terror.
Were these people men of flesh and blood, I asked myself, or ghouls?
But my curiosity was so poignant that I soon returned, and when they
trooped out to the card room I followed closely at their heels.

The same formula was observed as upon the first occasion that I had
witnessed. The cheque was placed upon the table and all gathered round
to watch and throw the dice.

Sir Charles Venner was the first to cast. As he rattled the box he
looked about him with a sort of snarling smile. "By all the laws of
chance it should be my turn!" he declared. "I have never won the
incubus yet!"

He threw eighteen! The others exclaimed, but Mr. Cavanagh did more. He
stepped back from the throng and gritting his teeth he threw out his
clenched hands with a gesture of savage abandon. "There," said I to
myself, "is a man who wishes more passionately to win than the rest,
but why?"

"Cavanagh, your turn," said Dr. Fulton.

The artist's face was chalk white as he took up the box. "You tremble!"
cried Sir Charles in mocking tones. "You tremble!"

"Bah!" exclaimed Mr. Cavanagh, and he threw.

"Eighteen!" shouted Dr. Fulton.

Sir Charles flushed crimson, and swore beneath his breath. But Mr.
Cavanagh uttered a cry of triumph that had yet in it a note of agony. I
watched him attentively thenceforward, because it suddenly occurred to
me that he would better repay such trouble than the others. His
passions were least well controlled of any there. His was the weakest
face and most ingenuous. I determined that he should be my key to the
mystery I wished to solve. He was a wonderfully handsome person, small,
slight, elegant, exquisite. His hair was thick and black, but his
moustache and pointed beard were of rich red gold. He had large and
singularly soulful eyes, whose colour changed with light from black to
amber. His mouth, however, though full and beautifully shaped, betrayed
a vacillating and unstable disposition. I judged him for a man to
trust, to admire, to like, but not to lean upon. He waited for his turn
to throw again in a fever of inquietude. His hands clenched and
unclenched. His features spasmodically twitched and the tip of his nose
moved up and down with alarming speed. Not any of the others was lucky
enough to throw eighteen, so presently Sir Charles Venner took up the
dice again. He looked perfectly indifferent, but I saw his eyes, and
they were gleaming. He allowed the dice to fall one by one.

"Seven!" announced Dr. Fulton.

Sir Charles bit his lip and handed the box in silence to Mr. Cavanagh.

The latter threw eight. Dropping the box he darted forward and clawed
up the cheque, with a strangled, animal-like cry. The others exchanged
glances of disgust; all, that is to say, except my master. He shot a
look of passionate menace at the artist and called him in a dreadful
voice by name.

Mr. Cavanagh stood erect, shaking and ghastly. He seemed convulsed with
shame.

"I--I--forgive me, I am not myself to-night," he muttered.

"A fine, a fine," shouted Mr. Humphreys. "He has pleaded his
ill-health."

"Ay, ay," cried the others, "a fine!"

"Twenty pounds!" said Sir William Dagmar.

Mr. Cavanagh paid the money to my master without demur. Sir William
gave it to Dr. Fulton, and a second later all were seated at the table.

I served them with coffee, and they began to play. My master had no
luck that night--he lost about four hundred pounds. Mr. Cavanagh also
lost rather heavily, and so did Dr. Fulton. The principal winners were
Mr. Pardoe and Sir Charles Venner; Mr. Humphreys left off as he
commenced, while Mr. Husband disgustedly declared that he had won a
paltry sovereign. As before, on the first stroke of midnight the game
broke up and all arose. As before, no farewell greetings were
exchanged, but the guests departed after curtly nodding to their host.
My master looked more wearied than I had ever seen him. He retired at
once to bed, and he was half asleep before he touched the pillow with
his head. But I was more than pleased thereat, for the time was ripe to
prosecute the first move of my plan. As soon as he dismissed me, I
hurried to my room, and in less than twenty minutes I was Sir William
Dagmar to the life, save for one tiny circumstance. My master, as I
have previously mentioned, possessed a fine set of teeth, but his right
incisor was lacking. When I had impersonated him for Butts' benefit,
that detail had not troubled me, for Butts was a dull, unobservant
creature. I reflected, however, that Mr. Cavanagh might be of a
different calibre, and I dared run no risks. Now every tooth in my head
is false. Moreover, I was wearing at that moment my stage set, which
was so peculiarly constructed that with very little bother and a screw
driver I might remove any tooth I pleased. I therefore whipped out the
plate from my mouth, and with the aid of a penknife, I presently
abstracted my right incisor. A glance in the mirror made me tingle with
triumph. I believe that had Sir William seen me at that moment he would
have swooned with sheer shock at seeing so perfect a double of himself.
Having provided myself with a latch-key, I stole downstairs and
abstracted from the hall my master's hat and cloak. A few minutes
afterwards I was flying towards Mr. Cavanagh's studio and residence at
St. John's Wood, in a hansom, which I chose wisely, for the horse was a
speedy brute, and he drew up at Hamilton Crescent in less than half an
hour.

In answer to my vigorous tug at the bell, the door opened quickly and a
servant's face appeared.

"Be good enough to ask Mr. Cavanagh to let me see him for a moment, my
name is Dagmar," I said haughtily, "Sir William Dagmar," I added, for
the fellow seemed to hesitate.

He admitted me forthwith. "Mr. Cavanagh has not long come in," he
volunteered in sleepy tones. "He is in the studio--step this way, if
you please, sir." He yawned in my face and turned about. I followed him
down a spacious dimly lighted hall, furnished with almost regal
magnificence in the oriental style. He opened a door at the further
end, announced me in quiet tones between two yawns and immediately
withdrew. Sir William Dagmar would not have put up with such a servant
for five minutes. Evidently, thought I, Mr. Cavanagh is not a hard man
to please. I entered the studio and shut the door behind me; but to my
astonishment, I perceived Mr. Cavanagh, seated in a deep saddle-bag
chair beneath an immense arc glow lamp, fast asleep. His chin was sunk
upon his chest, his arms hung at his side, and he was breathing
stertorously. I glanced about the room. It was rich and commodious, but
conventional. Priceless silks and satins covered the walls. Rugs and
skins from all parts of the world bestrewed the polished parquet floor.
A large crimson curtained easel stood upon a dais of carven oak beside
Mr. Cavanagh's chair, and in a far corner glimmered an ebony framed
grand piano. Beyond a few pieces of rather fine statuary, a prodigious
chesterfield, and half a dozen antique throne-shaped chairs, the place
contained no other furniture of note. I had expected something out of
the common rather than rich, and I felt keenly disappointed, for I had
seen a dozen such studios pictured in the monthly magazines and
fashionable periodicals. I marched straight up to Mr. Cavanagh and
placed a heavy hand upon his shoulder. He opened his eyes and looked up
at me in a dazed questioning fashion, but having grasped the situation
as it was apparent to him, he sprang to his feet with a cry of
consternation.

"Dagmar!" he gasped. "You--you--you!" His voice trailed off in an
ascending inflection into a whisper of what I considered terrified
amazement.

I pointed to the chair he had just quitted, "Sit down!" I commanded
sternly.

He obeyed limply; his eyes were dilated, fixed and staring. It was
plain that he stood in real fear of me. I determined grimly to discover
why.

Standing before him I folded my arms, and bending my brows together I
surveyed him, as I had seen Irving in some of his heavy parts confront
a character he was destined by his playwright to subdue.

This for two full minutes in a silence like that of the tomb. The
wretched man began to shake and shiver.

"For God's sake, Dagmar," he stammered at last. His voice was as hoarse
as a raven's croak.

"Cavanagh!" said I, "what are you intending to do with the money given
you by the dice to-night?"

To my astonishment he covered his face with his hands and his body
began to heave with sobs. Without stirring a muscle I waited for his
explanation. I divined that to be my cue. He grew calmer by degrees,
and at length with a sheer muscular effort he forced himself to look at
me. He shivered as he met my eyes and groaned aloud.

"Woman!" I muttered cuttingly.

"You--hard devil!" he hissed with sudden passion. He started forward,
and our glances contended for a moment, but his quailed before mine.

"Answer me," I commanded.

He bit his lips until the blood appeared, and he gripped the sides of
his chair with all his energy.

"Answer me," I repeated.

Of a sudden he began to cough. He coughed so violently that the
convulsions racked his frame, and at length he sank back in his chair
half-fainting, with half closed eyes.

I waited pitiless as fate. "Answer me," I repeated. "Must I wait for
ever?"

But the fight had gone out of him. He heaved a sigh, and two salt tears
trickled down his cheeks. "You know," he muttered, in a low,
heartbroken wail. "You know--you know!"

"Answer me," I thundered. Sir William Dagmar might have known, you see,
but I was ignorant.

"I am going to give it to her--to her," he murmured; his eyes were now
quite closed and he seemed upon the verge of a collapse. This would
never do!

I strode forward and shook him roughly by the shoulder.

"To whom?" I hissed.

"To Marion, Marion Le Mar." He sat up and looked dazedly around. "Oh,
do what you please," he cried wildly, as he met my eyes. "What do I
care--I have not long to live in any case. A few months more or less,
what does it matter? And she--God help her, she needs it--needs it as
well you know--you hard, inhuman devil!"

"You are mad!" I hissed. "What claim has that woman upon you?"

"The woman I love?" He sprang to his feet and faced me with just such a
look as a tiger might defend his mate. "The woman I should have
married, but for the accursed laws of the society which you enticed me
into joining!"

"You are a consumptive, a death's head!" I sneered. "A nice man you to
marry any woman! Fool that you are, ask yourself would she have married
you?"

He gave me a look of almost sublime contempt. "She loves me!" he said,
and there was in his bearing a dignity so proudly self-conscious, yet
compassionate, that my heart went out to the man; I began to pity him
profoundly, ay, and wish to help him. I could hardly understand myself.
I had never felt like that for any living creature prior to that
instant. But I had work to do, pressing work, and I put my feelings
resolutely aside.

"George Cavanagh," said I, "you reproach me with having bound you to a
society whose laws forbid your marrying the woman you love. But it
seems to me you aspire to break another of its laws in giving her this
money. What of that?"

"Fear nothing," he replied in tones of ice. "I shall pay the penalty.
When next the society foregathers at your house, Fulton will announce
your numbers lessened by one death."

In spite of myself I started. Aha! thought I--I grow hot upon the track.

"You will kill yourself?" I demanded.

He bowed his head, and sat down again. He had once more fallen to
trembling. A curious man this, a mixture of strength and weakness. He
was past redemption, wedded to the grave by his disease, and yet he
shivered at the thought of death. And yet again, he could deliberately
resolve to shorten his life.

I frowned down at him. "Cavanagh," said I, "I wish you to be good
enough to repeat to me, word for word, the rule you dare to dream of
breaking."

"Useless!" he retorted. "I have well considered it. For God's sake
leave me, Dagmar, I am done and desperate. I believe you mean me well,
but you are killing me."

I saw indeed that he was desperate, and straight away I changed my
tactics.

"George," I murmured in a soft and winning voice, "I have come here
to-night to save you if I can, not to break you. Listen to me--it has
been well said that no rule or law was ever yet devised by human
ingenuity which might not be evaded by a criminal with brains enough.
You seek to be a criminal. Well, well!" I nodded my head mysteriously.
"It is a pity--but I like you, boy--I don't want you to die just yet.
There may be a way out, in spite of all. Now--trust me and obey me."

A curious pang altogether strange to my experience shot through my
breast, as I watched the glow of hope that flashed into the poor
fellow's eyes, and the colour flame into his ashen cheeks.

"Dagmar!" he gasped, "Dagmar!" and he stretched out his shaking hands
as a child might do.

"Repeat it word for word!" I commanded. "Come, calm yourself--that is
better; now!"

He could hardly articulate at first, but he grew calmer as he proceeded.

"Whosoever shall win!" he began, "shall win the proceeds of one
completed month's joint contributions, shall--during--the succeeding
month, apply the gold so gifted him by hazard of the dice unto
the--the--purpose that--that is--is provided for by rule three. Should
he, on the contrary, apply it--to--to--Ah! you know, Dagmar, you know."

"Ay!" said I, "I know what follows--it spells suicide in brief. But, my
dear George--there is hope for you in rule three."

"Impossible!" he gasped. "Impossible!"

I smiled. "There is no such word in my vocabulary," I answered firmly.
"Now, George, give me all your mind, every atom of your attention, and
I shall show you a path from your dilemma--an honourable expedient.
Repeat rule three!"

He knitted his brows together, and a curiously strained introspective
look came into his eyes.

"You are trying me!" he muttered. "Dagmar--if you dared----"

"Fool!" I interrupted hoarsely--for my suspense was painfully intense.
"What object could I serve? Do as I bid you! Do as I bid you!" I
pressed his hands more tightly, and with all my strength I strove to
subordinate his will to mine. I succeeded.

"I'll trust you!" he muttered in a tense trembling whisper. "I'll trust
you, Dagmar. God forgive you if you play me false!"

There was something so infectious in his emotion that I felt myself
tremble too, and involuntarily I followed the terrified suspicious
glances that he darted about the room.

"Amen!" I cried. "Now Cavanagh--"

But he uttered an exclamation. "Oh! You are hurting me!" he cried.

In my excitement I had forgotten the man's womanish physique, and I had
cruelly crushed his hands. Upon such trifling incidents does an
ironical malicious fate love to hang tremendous issues! I do not
remember if I have previously mentioned the fact that the thumb of Sir
William Dagmar's right hand lacks a joint. But such is the case. He had
lost it through a gunshot when a lad. Now this circumstance constituted
the one flaw in my disguise, for my hands are perfect. In the earlier
part of the interview I had been careful to conceal them from view, but
startled by Cavanagh's cry of pain and words of reproach I did an
unpardonably foolish thing. I permitted myself, for one second, to be
victimized by a human impulse. Forgetting everything except that I had
hurt him and was sorry, I opened my hands--and looked down at his
delicate crumpled fingers from which my brutal grasp had driven all the
blood. On the instant I realized my own fatuity and attempted to repair
my error. It was, however, too late.

Mr. Cavanagh staggered back a pace. At first he looked dazed, almost
stunned, but his face turned livid as I watched it and his eyes filled
with flame. They swept over me with glances that scorched, that wished
intemperately to harm, to avenge--to kill! Finally they met my eyes,
and for a long moment we gazed into each other's souls. His was full of
rage, despair and terror--mine of savage self-contempt and baffled
hope, and fiery but impotent regret.

"Who are you?" he hissed. "Curse you--who are you?"

Desperate diseases require desperate remedies. Already there floated
before my eyes visions of police, of handcuffs, courthouses and gaols.
I saw myself a prisoner serving sentence for criminal impersonation. A
shudder of horror shot through my frame. Then came a blessed
inspiration. "Mr. Cavanagh belongs to a society--" cried my
thoughts--"which must have a criminal foundation, since its laws dare
impose such a penalty as suicide for their infraction." I set my teeth
together with a grim snap and hoarsely retorted to his question. "You
wish to know who I am, sir. Well, I shall answer you in part. I am a
detective from Scotland Yard!"

The effect of my announcement was completely terrible.

Mr. Cavanagh threw up his hands, and with a deep groaning gasp sank
limp and insensible to the floor. His face was so ghastly that I
thought him dead. I sprang to his side, and kneeling down pressed my
ear to his breast. I could not hear his heart beat. With a moan of
agony I stood erect. I was shaking like a man in an ague--and for the
first time in my life fear took hold of me, sharp, senseless fear. My
mastering wish was to escape quickly and without being seen. Darting to
the door, I waited but to open it without sound, and then hurried
through the hall, thanking Providence in my heart that I still wore my
felt-soled shoes. No one hindered, no one saw me. In another second I
was out of the house, and seated in my waiting hansom.

"Marble Arch!" I muttered to the driver, "and quickly man, quickly, if
you wish to earn a double fare!"

When I reached the Marble Arch I was still panic-stricken and incapable
of coherent thought. I do not wish it to be supposed that I am in any
sense a craven. But this was the first great crisis of my career, and,
like certain brave soldiers I have read of who had fled from the field
during their first battle at the first fire, I was governed by an
overwhelming blind impulse impossible to withstand immediately. I
believe now that my excited imagination convinced me that I stood in
peril of being caught and hanged for murder. At any rate, it seemed
terribly necessary to hide myself, and adopt every conceivable
expedient to shake all possible pursuers off my trail. Running down
Oxford Street, I hailed the first cab I met and drove to London Bridge.
There I took another hansom and doubled back to Piccadilly Circus. A
third took me to Tottenham Court Road. A clock chimed two as I stepped
upon the footpath. I was a good deal calmer then, although still in a
wreck of jangling nerves. But I found that I could both control my
thoughts and think. I set off at once at a brisk walk towards Holborn,
growing more tranquil at every step. I racked my brain for a plan of
action. I felt that I must get out of England at once and start life
anew in some foreign land. Fear, you see, was still my tyrant. But how
to effect my purpose? I had only three pounds in the world, for the
cabs had run away with a sovereign. Bitterly I cursed my folly and the
panic which had prevented me from rifling Mr. Cavanagh's pockets. They
would have yielded me a golden harvest I doubted not! Of a sudden, as I
strode along, I caught sight of my reflection in a tailor's window. I
stopped short, shocked--horrified. I was still Sir William Dagmar to
the life! For two minutes I stood there paralyzed in body and mind,
then came a second inspiration. I swung on my heel and glanced about
me. The street was almost deserted, but a belated hansom was
approaching. I hailed the driver. "200 Harley Street," I cried and
sprang inside. I had given the fellow Sir Charles Venner's address. In
a very few minutes I was ringing at Sir Charles Venner's bell. After a
long wait and three successive summons, the physician himself attired
in an eiderdown dressing gown and slippers opened the door.

"What, Dagmar!" he cried, in great astonishment. "Come in. Whatever is
the matter?"

"A call of private urgency!" I replied. "The fact is, Venner, you can
do me a favour, if you will. A very dear friend of mine must get away
from England before morning on a matter of life and death, and he needs
more money in cash than I have by me in the house. If you'll be so good
as to let me have three hundred pounds immediately, I shall post you a
cheque within the next hour."

We were standing confronting each other in the hall beneath a low
turned swinging gas jet. He raised his eyebrows and shrugged his
shoulders.

"Will three hundred do?" he asked.

"Yes, thank you!"

"Then excuse me for a moment."

I waited in breathless suspense, but he returned almost immediately,
carrying a bag of gold and notes from which he counted three hundred
pounds into my hand--you may be sure--into my left hand. I kept my
right behind me.

I curtly thanked him, begged him to excuse me, and hastily withdrew.
But he stood at the door and watched me enter the cab.

I was therefore obliged to give the cabby Sir William Dagmar's address.
"Back to Curzon Street!" I called out. As soon as we had turned the
first corner, however, I redirected the driver to Victoria Station, and
during the journey I set to work to alter my appearance as much as lay
in my power. I tore off my false eyebrows, and with my kerchief I
vigorously rubbed the paint from my cheeks and brow. A mirror set in an
angle of the hansom showed me, by the light of a match, a blotchy
nondescript face that nevertheless could not be mistaken for my
master's. Better satisfied, I began to reflect on my position, and to
my intense gratification I found that I was no longer the slave of
fear. Arrived at the station, I discharged the cab and made inquiries
for the trains to the south. I found that I should have to wait a great
while. I therefore selected a dark corner and gave myself up to
thought. In ten minutes I was wondering what on earth I had ever been
afraid of--and calling myself moreover by very nasty names. Even if Mr.
Cavanagh were dead, and I began to doubt if my perturbed examination of
his body had given me the truth, who could accuse me of his death?
Again, if he lived, he would infallibly, on his recovery, still believe
me a detective. He had not remotely guessed at my identity. Oh! the
fool I had been! But what next? Were I to fly to France, I should give
myself away! My master would search my room and discover my make-up box
and various disguises. Were I to stay it would probably never enter his
mind to suspect me! Ai! Ai! With patience, boldness, and a little luck,
I might even yet convert the defeat I had sustained that night into a
triumph. I felt the blood bound in my veins. Waiting for no more I
sprang to my feet and hurried from the station. Ten minutes later I
noiselessly inserted my latch-key into Sir William Dagmar's door, and
gently as any burglar stepped into the house. The place was profoundly
still. I hung up my master's coat and hat in the hall and crept
upstairs. At Sir William's bedroom door I stopped, and stooping pressed
my ear to the key-hole. I distinctly heard him breathing. He was a
heavy sleeper, and his respirations were deep and somewhat laboured. I
passed on with a smile of purest joy. Upon my dressing table stood my
make-up box and a profusion of wigs, beards and moustaches. The sight
gave me pause. "It is wise to be bold!" I thought, "but not rash. Here
is danger. When Mr. Cavanagh recovers and informs Sir William of
to-night's happenings--Ah!--and when, moreover, Sir Charles Venner
discovers that he has been swindled! What then? It is unlikely, but at
the same time just possible that my master's thoughts may turn to me!"

I caught up the wigs and stuffed them into the box which I locked.
Where to hide it? Not in my room, nor in the pantry! nor in any place
under my control! Search would reveal it there--infallibly. I must then
dispose it in some place not likely to be searched. Where then? For a
third time in one evening I was suddenly inspired. Seizing the box, I
stole downstairs into my master's private study and, using the utmost
caution, I bestowed it behind some mounds of books that were covered
with many summers' dust. Heaving a deep sigh of relief and satisfaction
I returned to my little chamber and leisurely undressed. Three o'clock
chimed as I pulled off my boots. I then removed the last traces of my
disguise with a lavish application of soap and water, and last of all I
screwed back into its plate the tooth I had removed from my false set
earlier in the evening in order more perfectly to resemble my master.
After that I got into bed. I felt secure and almost happy--was I not a
capitalist? Under my pillow reposed three hundred pounds, and never in
my life until then had I possessed more than a paltry fraction of that
sum. I rejoiced in determining to bank it on the morrow, and I sleepily
assured myself that I would make it the seed of a great fortune. I
should have been quite happy, save for one thing. I was already
beginning to repent the magnanimity or cowardice which had prevented me
from asking Sir William Venner for six hundred pounds instead of three.
I felt sure he would have given me six as readily as three, and it was
a great opportunity wasted. Wasted! It is terribly sad to look back
upon wasted opportunities; a heartrending thing indeed. Even now I
recall that circumstance with melancholy. I dreamed of death and
murders and shadowy unutterable horrors. Soon after dawn I awoke,
bathed in perspiration, and shivering in every limb. There was a sound
of rushing waters in my ears, and I retained a shuddersome impression
of a dark brooding figure bending over me. With a gasp of terror I
plunged my hand beneath my pillow, but my three hundred pounds were
safe. The delight of that discovery quickly dispelled the phantoms of
my tired fancies, and I arose, with a glad heart, to begin the work of
the day, by performing the work that I should have done on the previous
night--the clearing up from the dinner party.




III

THE KINGSMERE HOSPITAL FOR CONSUMPTIVES


I prepared a particularly tasty breakfast that morning for my master,
and I took special pains to please him as I assisted him to dress. He
was not a man given to paying compliments, but when he entered the
dining-room, and was unable to discover a single trace of last night's
feast, he did not dissemble his surprise.

"You have re-established order very quickly--here at all events," he
remarked, "Butts always took a day or two to clear up."

"That is not my way," I softly replied. "I could not sleep until I had
cleared up everything. If you take the trouble to visit my pantry, sir,
I will challenge you to find a stain on floor or wall, or a single
speck on plate or cutlery."

"You appear to know your business," he conceded.

"From A to Z, sir," I answered. "Let me persuade you to try this
omelette, Sir William. I cooked it myself."

A talent for making omelettes is one of the few accomplishments I had
acquired from my father.

My master nodded, and helped himself to a dainty little roll. He tasted
it, and actually smacked his lips.

"Excellent!" he observed. "Brown, I hope that Butts will not return,
for his own sake. I wish you to take charge of my household henceforth
from to-day. Your salary will be eight pounds a month."

"Thank you, sir," I murmured gratefully. "I shall do my best to please
you, sir."

The street bell rang as I spoke. I slipped out, and opened the front
door. Mr. George Cavanagh waited upon the steps, and on either side of
him stood Sir Charles Venner and Dr. Fulton.

Well was it then that over my features I can exercise an admirable
control, for at sight of that trio my heart felt like lead, and I
shivered in my shoes.

"We must see Sir William Dagmar at once!" said Mr. Cavanagh. "Our
business is of the utmost importance."

I bowed and invited him to enter. "Sir William is at breakfast,
gentlemen," I muttered as I closed the door. "I shall warn him of your
presence at once. In the meanwhile will you kindly step into this
ante-room."

"No!" replied Sir Charles. "We shall go directly to him. Don't be
alarmed, Brown, we are sufficiently intimate with Sir William to take
such a liberty."

I shrugged my shoulders, and deferentially preceded them. Their faces
were paste coloured and preternaturally solemn. I was, however, glad to
see Mr. Cavanagh; I liked him, and it was a relief to be sure that he
was still alive.

Tapping softly at the dining-room door, I opened it and entered, but I
had no occasion to utter a word, for the others had trooped in on my
heels.

"Excuse this intrusion, Dagmar," began Sir Charles in the French
tongue, "you may believe me when I tell you that nothing could have
induced me so to invade you except necessity."

My master leaned back in his chair, his mouth agape with astonishment.
"Necessity!" he repeated. "What the deuce has happened?"

"Nothing less than a calamity. But first dismiss your servant--we must
run no risks, the matter is too serious."

"Brown," said my master in English, "kindly leave the room. I shall
ring when I require you."

I bowed and obeyed. I would have cheerfully given my three hundred
pounds for an opportunity of listening unseen to their conversation.
But my fate was in the balance, and I dared not play the spy. Making a
virtue of necessity I retired to the pantry, and tried to eat. But in
truth I had no appetite. My nerves were on the jump. I lighted a
cigarette, and consumed it in half a dozen puffs. I chewed another to
pulp, but smoked the third. The sixth restored me to calm. I felt
myself again, and began to polish the glassware. I postured my
indifference to myself and experienced an itch to whistle, just to show
myself how brave I was. Needless to say, however, I suppressed the
inclination. An hour passed so, and then the library bell smartly
tingled. So they had left the dining-room. I hurried upstairs,
smoothing my expression as I ran. My master met me at the door--a
letter in his hand. "I wish you to go out at once, and post this at the
nearest post-office--not in a letter box," he commanded. "It is an
important missive."

"Certainly, sir!" I replied, and took the letter. He looked at me very
keenly. His face was expressionless, but it bore traces of recent
agitation. "I shall hurry back," I said.

"Not in a letter box!" he repeated. "Remember, Brown."

I bowed deeply and departed. In half a minute I was out of the house,
but not until I had turned the corner did I so much as glance at the
"important missive." It was directed to Mr. John Brown, Box 89, G.P.O.
The envelope was of thin foreign parchment. I held it up to the sun and
smiled. It contained a single sheet of blank paper. My message then was
a ruse to withdraw me from the house while they searched my room. I
felt so confident, however, that they would never discover my make-up
box, that I smiled again, and to save myself the bother of walking, I
took a cab. After posting the letter, I entered the first bank I came
to, and requested the manager to allow me to make a deposit. He wished
a reference, and I was bold enough to refer him to my master. I then
paid into the credit of Agar Hume L290, and left the office. Two
minutes later, I returned and paid in nine pounds. I thus procured two
deposit slips. The one for L290 I tore in very small pieces, which I
scattered far and wide; I was not afraid that the bank would swindle
me. But the other I treasured carefully. I walked home very leisurely,
and I found my master alone in his study. He was pacing the floor, with
an abstracted air, his hands clasped tightly behind his back.

"I posted the letter, sir!" I announced.

He stopped in his walk and frowningly regarded me. "Very good, Brown,"
he replied. "By the way, my man, I want you to be very careful in
admitting visitors here again. I don't refer to the three gentlemen who
came this morning, they are friends of mine. But strangers."

"Yes, sir."

"Above all, Brown, permit no one, stranger or otherwise, to question
you concerning me. If any one attempts to do such a thing, inform me at
once!"

"Certainly, sir."

"That will do, you may go."

"I beg your pardon, sir," I muttered hesitatingly, "I hope you will
forgive me, sir, but the fact is I have ventured to take a liberty with
you this morning, sir."

"Ah!" He started and looked at me with piercing eyes.

"It's this way, sir," I said quickly, "I'm a saving man, sir, and I've
always wished to have an account at a real bank, sir, not a
post-office. Well, sir, I went into a bank while I was out just now,
but they would not let me open an account without a reference. So--so I
dared to give them your name, sir. I hope you'll excuse me, sir."

His eyes bored through me like a pair of gimlets. "How much money have
you saved?" he demanded.

"Nine pounds, sir. Here is the ticket!" I eagerly handed him the slip.

He glanced at it, and his face cleared immediately.

"That is all right, Brown!" he said, smiling slightly. "If they apply
to me, I shall try to satisfy them that they have secured a worthy
client. Good luck to you, my man, I am glad to know you are thrifty."

It is a curious thing how tenacious of life one's conscience is. My
master looked at me so kindly, that I felt a perfect brute for having
so mercilessly deceived him, and I vow that for one fateful moment I
was on the point of voicing my compunction.

"You are t--too kind, sir," I began. "I--I'm afraid I----"

But he cut me short with a frown. "That will do, my man," he
interrupted in harsh tones. "I am busy, and I wish to be alone."

Had he remained silent, or allowed me to proceed, it is just possible
that these memories might never have had occasion to be written. As it
was, I hastily backed out of the room, and my conscience yielded up its
final spark in the passage.

Anxious to verify my suspicion, I proceeded to my bed-room. It
appeared, at first glance, exactly as I had left it, but I am not a
casual observer. The door of my wardrobe stood slightly ajar. I had
latched it. My ready made evening suit was still lying neatly folded in
its drawer, but the waistcoat occupied a different position from that
to which I had formerly assigned it. Finally the napped edge of my
counterpane was tucked beneath the bed-tick. I had left it hanging, so
as to curtain the iron rail. I noted these trifling discrepancies with
all the pride of an explorer who has discovered a new territory. There
is no experience more gratifying to one's vanity than to have
successfully penetrated and prevised another man's intention. I began
to believe myself a prodigiously clever fellow, and even yet I dare to
boast with reason. I have no deep learning, indeed, my knowledge of the
sciences might be scratched with a pin, but I have nevertheless not
permitted the talents God has given me to rust, and there is one book
with whose contents I am fairly well acquainted, the book of life.

Immediately my master had gone out to lunch, I repaired to his study,
and repossessed myself of my make-up box. This I carried to my
bed-room, and placed in the wardrobe. I did not, however, intend to
leave it there very long. I did not anticipate another search party, it
is true, but I thought it thoroughly advisable to have clean hands at
home. My idea was (now that I had capital to work upon) to secure a
private room somewhere in the neighbourhood, which I might use as a
stronghold, and to which I might repair whenever I should desire to
disguise myself. During the next few days I took frequent excursions
abroad in my leisure hours, and at last I discovered exactly the place
I wanted. It was on the top floor of a bachelor apartment house in
Bruton Street. The chamber was small, but excellently lighted, and it
had this advantage, it was disconnected by an angle of the building
from its fellows; moreover its door faced the stairs, and was not
overlooked by any other. On that very account, it had long been
untenanted, but me it suited perfectly. After a good deal of haggling
with the agent, I secured it on lease for L25 a year, and by paying six
months' rent in advance, I persuaded him to dispense with references. I
furnished it only with things I absolutely needed. A bed-chair, in case
I might ever be obliged to sleep there, an oil stove, a thick rug for
the floor, a fine three-fly-full-length mirror set upon a revolving
stand, a dressing-table, and a large cabinet. I procured a locksmith to
fit the door with a practically impregnable latch lock, and with the
key upon my chain, I felt as proud as the most bloated land-holder in
Westminster. My next move was to purchase a fresh supply of paints,
wigs and various other sartorial disguises including a number of new
and second-hand character costumes. I have before remarked on the fact
that every tooth in my head is false. Now in all the paraphernalia of
disguises, there is nothing so important as the item of teeth. Teeth
give expression to both mouth and voice. A difference of one twentieth
fraction of an inch in their length for instance, will alter the voice
beyond hope of recognition, even to a truly practised ear, however fine
its sense of perception. As for the lips, they at once become drawn
out, and utterly transformed in shape. My last and most tender care,
therefore, was bestowed upon my teeth. I visited a dozen different
dentists, and procured a dozen sets of varying shapes and sizes, whose
only point of resemblance was, that they fitted my mouth. When all was
done, my bank account was depleted by a hundred and fifty pounds, but I
felt that I had acquired a first-rate stock-in-trade, and I did not
repent of the expenditure.

While I was busy with these arrangements, I by no means neglected my
master. For a week or two after the disturbing visit paid by Sir
Charles Venner, Mr. Cavanagh, and Dr. Fulton, he remained in a
preoccupied and gloomy mood, and seemed unable to settle down to work.
I listened in my pantry by the hour, to his footsteps restlessly pacing
the floor of his library above my head. He also went out more
frequently than was his custom, and remained longer away from the
house. He was irritable and hard to please. However quietly I entered
any room where he was, he heard and anxiously confronted me. He seemed
constantly to expect an unwelcome visitor. Sometimes he swore at me for
startling him, but he always apologised, and I saw that he was
beginning to like me well. I longed for him to trust me, for I was
burning with curiosity to know what determination his society had
arrived at, regarding his daring impersonator. But that was out of the
question, and I was obliged to content myself with guesses. Gradually
his alarm passed off, and he resumed his literary labours as of yore.
That pleased me, for I felt that his attitude might be relied upon to
reflect the feelings of his fellow conspirators. I began to consider
what further step I should take in my campaign to elucidate the mystery
surrounding that strange brotherhood. After a great deal of reflection,
I resolved to shadow Sir William on the next Sunday excursion, for I
could not help suspecting that his regular absences from home on that
day in each week had something to do with the secret society to which
he belonged. With that end in view, on the following Saturday
afternoon, I begged my master to allow me a holiday until the Monday
morning, pleading by way of excuse a dear friend's sudden illness. He
graciously consented, upon my promising to prepare his breakfast
beforehand. I left the house about nine o'clock, and repaired to my
little stronghold in Bruton Street, where I spent the night. Always an
early riser, I arose at dawn, and made a hearty meal of the provisions
which I had brought with me. I occupied the next few hours in selecting
and perfecting a disguise. On this head, I may here remark, that I have
never in my life committed a mistake of attempting to assume a
character representative of a class. Such an undertaking requires too
great a strain upon the imagination, and however clever one may be,
breeds mischievous errors of detail and anachronisms, so to say, which
may readily be detected by a keen observer. My method has always been
to impersonate, that is, to duplicate as closely as possible, some
living person, with whose habits and idiosyncrasies I am familiar. On
this occasion I chose for my model an old actor with whom I had once
upon a time shared rooms in Birmingham. His name was Francis Leigh. He
was a tragedian of a bygone generation, and he had many tricks and
mannerisms which I had delighted to imitate. When I had completed my
make-up, I am sure that had Francis and I chanced to meet in the
street, he would have believed that he looked upon his own counterfeit
presentment in a mirror. I wore a frock suit of shabby genteel
respectability, a frayed topper, and well-worn shoes. The original
character of my mouth was altered by a set of false teeth, much longer
than those I ordinarily made use of. Long iron-grey locks fell from my
hat rim, to my collar, my nose was attenuated by skilfully-painted
hollows, and a pair of heavily frowning false eyebrows cast my eyes
into a natural and also a senna-tinted shade. I was quite ready by
seven o'clock, but I occupied the hour I had to spare in practising
gestures before the mirror. Perfectly satisfied at last, I strolled to
Curzon Street, and before many minutes had elapsed I was gratified to
perceive Sir William Dagmar emerge from his house, and set off at a
brisk walk towards Park Lane. I followed him at a reasonable distance,
keeping all my faculties alert. Entering Park Lane, he pursued his way
towards Marble Arch, without once looking behind him. He was dressed in
a sack suit of plain grey tweed, he wore a soft felt slouch hat, and he
carried a stout walking stick, and a dark overcoat. Convinced that he
was not in the least mindful of my existence, I gradually diminished
the distance between us, until I could distinctly hear his somewhat
laboured breathing. When almost at the corner of Oxford Street, he
paused suddenly, glanced about him for a moment, as though he had
forgotten where he was, and then abruptly crossed the road to the cab
stand. He chose a hansom, and ordered the driver to take him to
Hampstead Heath by way of Finchley Road and Frognal Rise. I waited
until he had disappeared, then followed in a second hansom, which bore
me leisurely in his wake. He alighted and dismissed his cab at the
gates of the Heath. I did likewise. I had watched him enter the Heath,
and proceed in the direction of Jack Straw's Castle, as my vehicle
toiled up the hill. For a while I lost sight of him, but hurrying
through the gates, I was just in time as I came to White Stone Pond, to
perceive him enter the inn. He emerged as I approached, wiping his lips
with his handkerchief. Evidently he had partaken of refreshments.
Without wasting a glance at me, he turned down Heath Brow, and set off
in a north-westerly direction, towards Heath House and Hendon. He
descended the hill slowly, as though already fatigued, and often he
rested in a musing fashion, looking steadily before him for a minute at
a time. I lingered at a great distance, confident of overtaking him
when I wished. It was a glorious morning, and the green sparkling Heath
was dotted with still and moving figures of men and women, taking
advantage of the sunshine, in which I was revelling. Sir William Dagmar
looked, however, neither to right nor left. Either he was too
bitter-minded to notice and rejoice in the beauties of the landscape,
or he had some pressing business to perform, which absorbed his
attention. Crossing the valley he began to climb an opposing slope, and
at length entered a long straggling thicket. From where I stood, I
could see three different paths emerging from the thicket's further
side, and as the country thereabouts was rugged and broken up with
rocks and trees, I waited for some time in order to discover which path
he might choose, lest I should lose him. Ten minutes went by, however,
and he did not appear. At the end of another five, I began to fear that
he had given me the slip. Hurrying down the hill, I crossed the slowly
rising vale and cautiously approached the thicket, by the route that my
master had taken. It was less dense than it appeared at a distance, but
in places it was thick enough for a man to hide in. A hundred paces
brought me to the edge of a small, clear patch of fresh green-sward,
furnished with a couple of rustic benches, set fairly close together.
Upon the further bench, my master was seated, his face set towards me,
in earnest converse with a woman. I almost cried aloud in my surprise.
Indeed, I must have in some fashion exclaimed, for he raised his eyes
and surveyed me with an intolerant annoyed expression, as though to
inform me that I intruded. On instant I pretended to be the worse for
liquor. Shambling forward, I sank down upon the first bench, stretched
out my feet before me, and permitted my hands to fall limply by my
sides. For three or four minutes a dead silence reigned. Conscious of
their examination, I kept my face set straight, and frowning heavily. I
heard at length the mutter of exchanged whispers, and fearing to drive
them away, I began to act. Flinging out my right hand with a fiercely
tragic gesture, I declaimed in a hoarse voice, broken with hiccoughs,
portions of Hamlet's immortal soliloquy. This gave me opportunity for
an occasional glance at my quarry. Sir William was very pale, and he
looked weary. His companion was watching me, but her face was veiled.
Her figure was lithe, and beautifully shaped, and she was richly
dressed. I knew she must be young. Of a sudden I resolved upon a bold
stroke. I rose up, and ceasing to declaim, staggered towards them.
"Friends!" I cried, "in me you behold a wreck of former greatness, a
shattered hulk, cast by unkind fate on a lee shore of fortune. Gaze on
this battered form, this shrunken frame, these gaunt and famished
limbs, and t--r--r--emble when I tell you that time was, when in
happier hours, a shouting populace acclaimed their owner's frame
immortal!" I paused, and swaying from side to side the while, I drew
from my pocket a tattered kerchief. "Sic transit gloria mundi--Good
friends," I wailed, "kind friends, if you have tears prepare to shed
them now, for by'r Lady do I swear to ye that nor bite nor sup has
passed these parched and fever-smitten lips these four and twenty
hours!"

I put up my kerchief to my eyes, and sobbed aloud; but my hard-hearted
auditors preserved a stony silence.

Without uncovering my face, I stretched out my left hand. "Charity,
friends, charity!" I muttered brokenly.

"No, Marion," said my master's voice. "Cannot you see that the rogue is
tipsy?"

"True, but a small gift may induce him to depart." The woman's tones
were of dulcet softness, but the accent was distinctly foreign.

"Charity!" I hiccoughed, "Charity!"

"Be off with you, you rascal!" cried my master sharply. I clutched a
shilling, and broke into a stream of drunken sobbing thanks. Moving off
I collided designedly with the vacant bench, and sprawled upon the
ground. There I lay pretending to be senseless. They came up, and
turned me over on my back; Sir William Dagmar also kicked my ribs, but
I answered all attempts to revive me with snores.

Satisfied apparently with my condition, they presently returned to
their seats and began to converse. The crown of my head was presented
to their gaze, so I could not see them, but I could hear, and not a
word escaped me. "I thought for a moment he was really hurt," said the
woman.

"He is half stunned and wholly asleep," replied my master,
"nevertheless let us speak in French. We cannot be too careful, Marion."

"Would it not be as well to move on?" asked the woman.

"For you perhaps, my child. You are young and strong, but I am old, and
my stroll has tired me out. Let us rest yet a little!"

"As you please, M'sieur."

"You were describing the effects of the picra toxic solution,"
suggested my master.

"That is true. Alas! M'sieur, we have once more a failure to record--so
many failures!" she replied drearily. "The operation is always so
perfect, so perfect, and yet always the patients die,--of shock!"

"Ah! Then the woman is dead."

"There will be a funeral to-morrow, M'sieur. The failure is complete.
Sir Charles is sad. He does not speak, but he shuts his mouth, so!"

"And Fulton?"

"From the first he had no hope, M'sieur. He declared the drug a poison,
a neurotic intoxicant--malignant, deadly. He smiles--so--like a dog,
and shrugs his shoulders. But he too said little!"

"What next Marion?" asked my master in a hoarse hollow voice.

"God knows, M'sieur. Soon we shall have exhausted the pharmacopoeia.
Providence is very cruel to us, very cruel. We have been vouchsafed one
half of the secrets of life, and it seems to me that in seeking the
remainder we expand our energies in vain. Meanwhile the hands of us all
become more deeply dyed with blood! M'sieur, as God hears me, I
sometimes think myself a murderess."

"Hush, Marion!"

"No, M'sieur, I shall speak what is in my heart. I cannot see these
wretched creatures die, as day by day they perish, without often asking
myself the question--are we justified? I have spoken to Sir Charles and
Dr. Fulton, but they freeze me with their cold cold 'Science.' I swear
to you, M'sieur, that were it not for George, I would be tempted to
break my oath!"

"Foolish child, you must not trifle with this weakness. Crush it,
subdue it!"

"Ah! Bah! M'sieur. Bid the breeze cease blowing. A woman's heart is
weak!"

"But not the heart of a woman who loves, my child. Remember, this is
George's life for which you are striving. And those others, what are
they but worthless ones, condemned already past redemption. Granted
perhaps that our experiments may hasten the inevitable end. Of what do
we deprive them, but a few weeks or days of painful suffering. Ah, no
my child, you must not turn back now. Any day the secret may be
discovered, the door of life thrown open to us all. And that to you
will mean the instant realizing of your dearest dreams. Think of it,
Marion, your lover yours to wed, yours for long years of happiness."

The woman answered in a sobbing voice. "George is so miserable,
M'sieur."

"Does he yet know?"

"Yes, and he speaks of death, he is filled with despair!"

"You must be firm with him, my child. I have discovered that he is in
debt, deeply in debt. For that reason he most despairs, because he
fears to leave you poor as well as desolate. I fear that he
contemplates some desperate expedition. But you must persuade him to be
patient. You know, Marion, that we are all pledged not to assist each
other financially. On that account I dare not help your lover, though I
care for him as if he were my son. But with you it is different."

"How, M'sieur?"

"Why, my dear--you are not of our order, being a woman, although you
are attached to us by ties which may not be unravelled. Take this
package, child. It contains a great sum of money. Ten thousand pounds.
I shall not ask you to tell me what you do with it. No child, not a
word."

"M'sieur, M'sieur!" cried the woman.

I was so amazed, so confounded with astonishment, that to have saved my
life I could no longer have kept still. I sat up, and turned my head.
The tableau is as clear to my remembrance now as though it had happened
yesterday. My master was gazing at the woman, his companion, with a
look of paternal tenderness. His countenance was transfigured beyond
recognition, for in place of his half saturnine, half querulous aspect,
I saw an expression of such holy and unselfish love, that in very
wonder I caught my breath. The woman with both hands held the package
he had given her, to her breast. Her bosom heaved and fell with deep
inarticulate emotion. Moreover she had raised her veil. Never had I
seen a face one half so beautiful. Her eyes were large and finely
shaped, in colour a passionate red brown. Her nose was straight, and
cast in the Grecian mould, with thin quivering curved nostrils. Her
mouth a perfect bow. The lips were tremulously parted. I have since
seen the expression they wore then, perpetuated on the canvas of
Botticelli's most famous Madonna. It was indescribably pathetic, full
of both bliss and pain. Her face was pure oval, and so delicately
tinted was the skin, that I could have fancied that I looked upon an
inspired painting, rather than a mere human woman. Fortunately for me,
neither had remarked my movement. As soon as I perceived the
indiscretion of which I had been guilty, I turned about again, and
bending my forehead to my knees, I groaned aloud. The sound broke the
spell. I heard them mutter together, and a moment later their departing
footsteps. I waited until all sound had died away, then rose hurriedly
to my feet, and cautiously pursued them. Shielded by the trees, I
watched them from the edge of the grove take a north-westerly course,
that seemed destined to lead them to a point between Child's Hill and
Hendon. I followed in a diagonal direction, taking advantage of every
obstacle in the landscape to conceal myself from view, for the woman
frequently looked back. Quitting the Heath at length, they entered a
hedge-fenced road, full of twists and turns, which helped my purpose
famously. At the angle of each curve, I waited until they had turned
the next, and so on. Soon, however, they abandoned the main road, in
favour of a devious maze of lanes. At last I lost them; lingering over
long at one bend, when I reached the next they had disappeared. They
had been moving so slowly, that I knew very well that they must have
entered some house. I retraced my steps, and searched the lane, which
had evidently swallowed them up. Only one house had a frontage to that
spot. It was a large grey stone edifice, set back about a quarter mile
from the road. The grounds were encompassed with a high stone wall, and
planted thickly with beeches, chestnuts, and elm trees. I nodded and
approached the gates, which stood wide open. Upon one of the posts was
fastened a small brass plate, inscribed with the following
legend:--"Kingsmere Hospital for Consumptives." I closed one eye
slowly, and nodded again. As well as if Sir William Dagmar had informed
me, I knew that before me lay the key to the mystery, which it was my
self-constituted task to solve. In order to make assurance doubly sure,
I passed through the gates, and with the cautious cunning of an Indian,
I approached the house. The path was wide and gravelled, but somewhat
overgrown with weeds. It often bifurcated to surround a grove of
shrubs, or shade trees. The whole garden wore a rank, uncared-for look.
The plantations were thick with undergrowth. In certain beds the
unpruned rose-bushes had become giants, and had grown into thickets,
while in others grasses choked all memory of cultivation. The place was
in fact a wilderness. The cover was so excellent, that I was able to
insinuate myself within twenty paces of the building, without risk of
discovery. Striking aside from the road at that point, I sneaked into a
grove of laurels, that commanded a view of two sides of the house.
There I cast myself down upon the ground, and although perfectly
defended from the keenest observation myself, by peering through the
weeds and tree trunks, I could watch both path and house, as well as
any spy could wish to do. The building was three storied, but of no
great size. Its front was ornamented with a doric porch; otherwise it
was plain, square, and unpretentious. I judged it to contain a dozen
large rooms at most. Its windows were all shut, and covered with
impenetrable green blinds, though the lattices stood open, perhaps for
purposes of sanitation. At the rear I could see a line of straggling
stone, slate roofed sheds, which seemed to have been recently erected,
for their cemented walls had a fresh, unweathered look. I wondered what
they contained, for they were too large and numerous to be assigned as
stores for ordinary domestic uses. "Morgues perhaps!" I thought, and
shuddered. "By chance the dead patient, of whom the woman and my master
had conversed, was even now lying in one of them!"

The idea gave me the creeps, for I have a horror of death. I tried to
forget the sheds, and resolutely watched the house. A soundless hour
went by, and I was feeling hungry, but I did not think of departing. My
Waterbury told me it was half-past two o'clock. At three, I began to
wonder at the silence of the place. At four, I was suspecting the place
to be deserted. The shadows were lengthening to the day's close, and I
was chewing my handkerchief to assuage my famished appetite when of a
sudden I heard a curious noise. It was hoarse, guttural, chattering,
and it seemed to issue from the sheds, which I had fancied to be
morgues. I listened with every sense on strain. The noise increased,
and subsided at intervals, sometimes it became a perfect babel, and
harsh animal-like cries quivered through the din. My curiosity became a
plague, but I no longer doubted that the place was tenanted, and I
dared not explore. The queer sounds I have attempted to describe,
lasted about twenty minutes, and then all was still again. I did not
know what to think. Were wild animals confined in those sheds? I was
still wondering when I heard footfalls on the gravel path, rapidly
approaching the house from the lane. A moment later I saw Sir William
Venner striding through the twilight. His face was quite
expressionless. He marched up to the porch, and disappeared. As I heard
neither knock nor sound of bell, I concluded that he had entered with a
latch-key. More than ever determined to remain, I fought my appetite as
best I could for the next three hours. By then it was quite dark, and
the glow of lamps appeared through the green blinds, covering the
windows of the house. Feeling wretchedly stiff and cramped, and cold to
my bones, I stood up and rubbed my limbs. When the circulation was
restored, I crept out of the covert, where I had lain so long and
stealthily approached the line of sheds. Their back walls were of blank
stone, and showed me nothing; moreover, although of different size and
height, all were attached together, and also to the house. I skirted
the rear, and turned the corner. Still no window, but before me
stretched an asphalted court-yard. Peering round the second corner, I
saw into the hospital's kitchen, through the open back door. It was
lighted up, and a comfortable fire burned in a large stove, before
which stood a covered spit. A wrinkled old woman sat before a table
kneading some pastry with her fingers. An old, grey-bearded man sat in
a distant corner, his knees crossed, his arms folded. He was smoking a
pipe, and the light glistened on his bald pate. It made rather a pretty
picture, that kitchen, with its Darby and Joan interior. I considered
it a while, and then glanced along the face of the mysterious sheds,
only once more to be baffled. It consisted of a blank wall, pierced
only with an occasional padlocked door.

Thoroughly disgusted I returned to the front of the house, and took up
a position hard by the trunk of a fine old elm tree, that grew at the
first branch of the path. There I waited for another hour, but at last
my patience was rewarded. The door suddenly opened, a man came out, and
approached me with a quick firm tread. It was too dark to see his face,
but I guessed him to be Sir Charles Venner. He passed me so closely,
that by stretching out my hand I could have brushed his cloak. He had
not taken another ten steps, however, before the house door was again
thrown open, and another man issued at a run. "Venner!" he shouted,
"Venner!"

The voice was Dr. Fulton's.

"What is it?" demanded Sir Charles, from behind me, coming to an abrupt
halt.

"One moment, Venner, where are you?"

"Here!"

Sir Charles Venner returned towards the house, and the two men met at
the very angle of the path, within six feet of my nose. I hugged the
tree-trunk, and waited, hardly daring to breathe.

"Could you strain a point, Venner, and operate to-morrow night?" asked
Dr. Fulton in a pleading voice.

"No, old chap, I can't. You know my rule. I must give myself three days
between each, for the sake of my nerve."

"Just for once!"

"Impossible, Fulton. I wonder that you ask me. I have myself to
consider as well as the cause. We may succeed or we may not. But I am
hanged if I deliberately risk destroying my own health for anything or
anyone. I consider that I do quite enough for the cause as it is."

"You do, Venner, you do; but just for once do oblige Marion. She begged
me to ask you. You see, the fact is, Cavanagh is cranky."

"Damn Cavanagh!"

"With all my heart, but then you see, there is Marion. What should we
do without her?"

"That is all very well. But what should we do without me!"

"The poor girl is half out of her mind worrying about Cavanagh. He has
not even had the grace to come here all day, though he promised."

"He is an infernal young cad!"

"I think so too, but it does not mend matters. The girl is crazily in
love with him, and she thinks he will kill himself, if we can't do
something for him soon."

"Puppy!" The tone was bitterly contemptuous. Sir Charles seemed to
hesitate. "Look here, Fulton," he proceeded, "I am sorry for Marion, of
course; nevertheless, I cannot help her. Tell her I am out of sorts, or
make any other excuse you like. I shall not operate until Tuesday
evening. Good-night to you!"

"One second, Venner, She begged me, if you refused her first request,
to ask leave for Cavanagh to be present at the operation. You'll have
no objection to that I suppose!"

"Oh! curse the fellow," exclaimed Sir Charles very irritably. "He
becomes the bane of my existence. If we admit him to the room, we are
bound to have a scene. He will either faint or do something equally
idiotic. You know very well that the least interruption may play the
devil with my knife."

"She has pledged his good behaviour, Venner. Besides, I'll promise to
look after him. Come, come, old chap, don't send me back to her quite
empty-handed."

"The consequences must be upon your own head then."

"Thank you, Venner, you are a good fellow! Good-night!"

"I am, on the contrary, a soft-hearted fool. Good-night!"

They parted, and I heaved a sigh of relief.

When the silence had resumed itself, I stole through the plantation to
the gate, whence, after carefully fixing the locale of the hospital in
my mind, I made a speedy return to civilization, and an hour later I
was discussing a hearty meal in a private room at Jack Straw's Castle.




IV

THE OPERATION


Tuesday arrived before I knew quite what to do. On that particular
morning the postman handed me, amongst a sheaf of bills and circulars,
a letter sealed with a peculiar signet, addressed like the others to my
master. As it wanted an hour to Sir William's waking time, I had plenty
of leisure to investigate its contents. It puzzles me how any people
can be foolish enough to imagine that a mere dab of wax, however
cunningly impressed, can confer security upon their correspondence. In
two minutes the seal was lying safe and uninjured upon my pantry table,
and the detached envelope rested confidingly across the mouth of a bowl
of boiling water. The letter ran as follows: "My dear Dagmar,--Whoever
the rascal really is who imposed upon Cavanagh and myself on a recent
memorable evening, he lied in declaring himself an emissary of the
police. I have just succeeded in establishing this fact, and take the
earliest opportunity of reassuring you, while allowing detailed
explanations to await until we meet. I have no longer any doubt but
that our adversary is a blackmailer, and I feel sure that before long
one or other of us will be approached. I sincerely trust that the
fellow will turn out, as you suspected, to be your scapegrace nephew.
In that case you, of course, must deal with him, but in any other event
I am convinced that our best course will be to prosecute. This will
notify you that I intend to propose such a resolution at our next
conclave.--Yours sincerely, Charles Venner.

"P.S.--If you can, see Cavanagh to-day. I have been weak enough to
permit him to witness the operation. It is possible that you may
dissuade him.--C.V."

I carefully resealed the letter, and pressed the envelope with a heated
flat-iron in order to remove all traces of my manipulations. All the
time I was in a whirl of thought. For three days I had been wondering
how I might get a footing inside the hospital and witness the operation
which Mr. Cavanagh had extorted a privilege to see. After reading Sir
Charles Venner's letter I was more anxious than ever to do so, but the
more determined I became the less hopeful seemed my prospects. If Mr.
Cavanagh had been a bigger man I believe I should have resorted to some
desperate expedient to get him out of the way, so that I might take his
place. Unhappily for me, however, he lacked full two inches of my
stature, and I dared not attempt to impersonate him under the brilliant
light which must necessarily pervade a surgeon's operating-room. I
solved the problem that was troubling me, while preparing my master's
breakfast, and when I proceeded to his room and handed him his letters,
I knew exactly what to do. Sir William Dagmar had a scapegrace
nephew--well, his scapegraceship should be my scapegoat. It is true
that part of Dr. Venner's letter put the idea into my mind. I do not
pretend to pose as a superhumanly clever person, but I am not without
talent, and my genius is in my power to twist every accident to my own
advantage.

It was my master's custom to dispose of his correspondence while I
prepared his bath after awaking him. As I re-entered his bed-chamber to
announce his bath ready, I found him standing before the fireplace in
his dressing-gown, watching the transmutation of Sir Charles Venner's
missive into ashes in the grate.

"Your pardon, sir," I murmured softly. "About a fortnight ago you
commanded me to immediately inform you if any stranger should venture
to question me concerning your affairs."

He swung round on the instant and faced me, his lids narrowed over his
eyes, and his lips compressed in a hard straight line.

"Well!" he grated. "Well!"

"This morning, sir, about two hours ago, a man came here and asked to
see you----"

"His name?" he interrupted harshly.

"He would not give his name, sir, and for that reason I took the
liberty of refusing to admit him."

"You did well, Brown. What had he to say?"

"He left a message for you, sir. He asked me to tell you that Mr.
Sefton Dagmar wished you to meet him alone on the railway station at
Newhaven, at nine o'clock to-night precisely." Butts had told me that
Sefton Dagmar lived at Newhaven. One of my greatest natural endowments
is an almost perfect memory.

My master's eyes glistened and his cheeks flushed. "Oh, indeed!" he
muttered. "Anything else, Brown?"

"Y--yes, sir!" I lowered my eyes and tried to look abashed.
"I--I--scarcely like to tell you, sir," I stammered; "the messenger
was--most--im--most impertinent, sir."

"Never mind, Brown; tell me exactly what he said."

"He declared, sir, that if you did not keep the appointment, you'd have
leisure to repent your foolishness in gaol!"

"What!" he thundered, and threatened me with his clenched hands. His
face went purple, then pale as death, but his eyes glowed like coals.

"I'm sure I beg your pardon, sir," I muttered, stepping back quickly
and affecting to be terrified. "You--you made me tell you, sir."

With a great and manifest effort my master recovered his composure. He
even contrived to smile. "I--I--you must forgive me, Brown," he
muttered. "I--I could not for a moment conceive that--that my nephew
would dare to send me such a message. Mr. Sefton Dagmar is my nephew,
Brown, and I am sorry to say that----"

I raised my hand and quickly interrupted him. "Please, don't say any
more, sir," I cried in tones of deep respect. "I am your servant, sir,
and I hope I know my place. When you know me better, sir, you will find
that I am not one of the prying sort, who is always trying to hear more
than he should. It's likely that in your anger now you'd be telling me
something that you'd afterwards regret, and if you'll forgive me for
speaking plainly, sir, I like you too much, and I'm too happy in your
service to want to risk losing your confidence and my place together!
Such a thing has happened to me before, sir, and without my seeking
either."

Sir William Dagmar was the most surprised looking man in the world at
that moment. He seemed to have forgotten everything, but the enigma
before him, and he stared at me as if he wished to read into my soul.

"Have you no curiosity?" he demanded at last.

"None that I can't control, sir," I replied respectfully.

"Well, I'll be damned!" he muttered. "You are either a superlatively
finished hypocrite or a philosopher of sorts. Which is it, Brown?"

I looked into his eyes and sighed. "It's as you please, sir, and I
won't pretend not to understand you," I answered mournfully. "But if I
did act the hypocrite a bit in anticipating the occasion to speak as I
did just now, where's the harm, sir? You are a rich gentleman, Sir
William, and you have no idea of what a cursed thing it is for a poor
fellow like me to go about looking for employment, and eating up my
little bit of savings, sir. Last time I was out of a place it cost me
six pounds for board, not to speak of the agent's fee; and I have been
hoping that I was settled here for life, sir."

"You may yet be, if you choose, Brown. I am perfectly satisfied with
you; and, upon my soul, I believe you are reliable."

"Just so, sir; but you won't continue to believe that long if you trust
me with more than a servant should be trusted. It's not in human
nature, sir!"

"You mule!" he cried with a gesture of impatience. "But have your way,
have your way! Now return to the subject. What more have you to tell
me?"

"Very little, sir, except that the man tried to pump me, but I gave him
not a whit of satisfaction. Oh, I beg pardon, sir. The postman came up
while he was talking. I'd have shut the door on him before, only I saw
the postman coming."

"Yes, yes."

"Well, sir, the man saw that letter, and he offered me five pounds for
it--cash down, sir."

"Ah! What reply did you give him?"

"I shut the door in his face, sir."

My master nodded. "What sort of a man did he appear to you, Brown. Not
exactly a gentleman, I suppose?"

"No, indeed, sir. A low creature and poorly dressed. I was ashamed for
the postman to catch us talking, sir."

"Would you recognize him again?"

"Among a thousand; he had a scar across his left cheek and half his
left ear gone, sir."

My master nodded, and, turning, walked thoughtfully into the adjoining
bath-room. We did not converse upon the matter again, but all that day
the poison I had instilled into his mind was working, working. I
perceived its effects when he returned to the house somewhat late in
the afternoon, doubtless after having paid a visit to Mr. Cavanagh, for
he did not go abroad during the forenoon. He looked worried and
distrait as I admitted him, and passing me without a word, he went
straight up to his bedroom. Ten minutes later his bell rang. I hurried
up to find him standing in the hall, clad for the street, a heavy
fur-lined overcoat across his arm and a bag in one hand.

"I'll not be home until to-morrow morning," he said curtly, "so you
need not wait up for me, Brown; but, please, on no account leave the
house."

"Very good, sir."

"Above all, admit no caller. You understand?"

"Yes, sir. Shall I call a cab for you, sir?"

"No." He pointed to the door, I opened it, and he went out. A cab was
waiting for him beside the pavement. The clock struck five as I shut
the door. At six o'clock I entered my little stronghold in Bruton
Street. At eight I descended the stairs, in all things my master's
double. In all things I declare advisedly, for warned by experience I
wore upon the thumb of my left hand just such a little finger-stall of
violet velvet as Sir William Dagmar used in order to conceal his
deformity whenever he went abroad. This was secured around my wrist
with an elastic band, and I took the precaution to stiffen its interior
with a thin ferrule, so that no involuntary working of the thumb joint
might betray me. For precaution's sake I carried a revolver, mastering
by an effort of will my natural repugnance for such gruesome
implements. I proceeded to the Heath by three different hansoms, and a
fourth conveyed me to my point of destination, a secluded little tree
sheltered spot at an angle of a lane about a hundred yards from the
gate of the Kingsmere Hospital for Consumptives. There I alighted, and
bidding the driver to await me, I hurried towards the hospital. The
gate upon the occasion of my first visit stood open; now it was shut,
but latched, not locked. I passed through and sought the house. It was
my opinion, from what I had observed, that all welcome visitors to that
building possessed master keys to the front door, and were accustomed
to enter unceremoniously. Unwilling to attract unnecessary attention to
myself, since I had no latch-key, I decided upon a rear attack. I
therefore passed down the side of the house and, flanking the sheds,
approached the kitchen door. It was shut, the window blinds were
closely drawn, but a light gleamed through the crevices. I rapped
gently on the panels once, twice, thrice, at short intervals. Upon the
third summons I heard the sound of cautiously drawn bolts, and the door
opened about four inches on a chain. A wrinkled grey-bearded face
peered out at me. "_Qui va la?_ Who is dare?" demanded a cracked voice,
its foreign accent in the English fairly rasping the evidently
unfamiliar words.

"It is I, my friend, Sir William Dagmar," I replied very softly in
French.

The old man immediately released the chain and threw the door wide.

"Enter, Monsieur," he said politely.

I did not require a second invitation, but before attending to me the
old man refastened the door. He then turned and looked at me
inquiringly. His expression was a curious combination of cunning and
intelligence. I saw at once that he was astonished at the manner of my
coming, and that he considered that he was entitled to an explanation.
"I wish to see Mademoiselle Le Mar, privately and quickly," I muttered
in his ear.

"But, Monsieur," he began.

I took a sovereign from my pocket and allowed him to perceive it. He
stopped dead in his speech and a greedy look came into his eyes.

"Contrive to let her know that I am here," I said quietly.

He nodded and hobbled out of the kitchen, making so little noise,
however, in his exit that I guessed he wore rubber-soled boots. Mine
were shod with felt. My object in sending for Marion Le Mar was to
obtain a guide over the house, a very important desideratum, since I
had never been inside its walls until that moment. I was kept waiting
about ten minutes, when the old fellow suddenly reappeared.

"Monsieur! She comes," he muttered, and stretched out a skinny paw for
the money.

I let it drop into his hand, and turned at a sound to behold standing
in the open doorway the woman I had seen in my master's company last
Sunday on the Heath. I had thought her beautiful on that occasion,
although her head and all the upper portion of her face were hidden
with a veil. Now I caught my breath, and for an instant dreamed I
looked upon a spirit from some other world. Her forehead was broad and
low; her head, exquisitely shaped, was covered with a glory of gleaming
gold which admirably contrasted with the dark and level pencilling of
her brows, and the russet flashing of her wonderful red-brown eyes. The
one weak spot in my composition is that I am the slave of female beauty
wherever found, and yet until that moment I had been wise enough to
worship the sex collectively. But standing in the doorway I recognized
my fate, and I bowed my head before her.

She advanced and offered me her hand. Only then I perceived that she
wore a uniform, a nurse's uniform; but that stiff apparel which makes
most women appear unlovely could not deny the expression of her charms.

"Monsieur," she whispered, "you sent for me."

"Yes, my child," I answered in still lower tones. I pressed her hand,
then let it fall, though I grieved to release it. "Where is Cavanagh?"

"Upstairs in the operating room with Dr. Fulton. I must be quick, for
they are almost ready to begin. Sir Charles has just arrived."

"Ah! so Cavanagh still persists. I had hoped to find it otherwise."

"Alas! Monsieur. I have begged him to go, but he had determined to see
all."

"In that case, for your sake, my child, I shall bear him company."

"What--you!"

"Yes, Marion! You have work to do, and he may need my care!"

She gazed at me a moment with a look of passionate gratitude, then of a
sudden, stooping low, she caught and kissed my hand. It tingled for
days afterwards.

"Heaven bless you, Monsieur!" she cried, her whole face radiant. "Come,
then, and we shall go to them. Sir Charles will be enchanted, for he
hates that George should be present, since we have no one to spare who
might attend him if the poor boy should feel ill or swoon. If that
should happen, Monsieur, you will take him away at once; is it not so?"

"Immediately, my child."

It seemed that there no longer existed any reason why we should
converse in whispers, and we did not. Indeed, my beautiful conductress
filled the journey with gay chatter and musical ripples of laughter.
Evidently, thought I, she must love Cavanagh already to distraction,
when the small courtesy I have proposed can inspire her with such happy
spirits. Absurd as it may appear, I began to feel jealous of Cavanagh
already, although Marion had never seen me in my proper person, and was
no doubt unaware of my existence. She led me down a spacious hall
carpeted with oil cloth, and up a staircase that was not carpeted at
all, to the floor above. We passed down a corridor and stopped at the
third closed door, from beneath which exuded a long narrow bar of
brilliant white light. Her manner while ascending the stairs had
gradually calmed, but she was still excited, and she opened the door
with a burst of informing words pouring from her lips. Never shall I
forget that moment. I glanced in with a face that I flatter myself was
expressionless to the perfection of indifference, and I took care to
make my lip curl in Sir William Dagmar's characteristic aspect of
querulous cynicism. But in truth my every sense was awake and
poignantly acquisitive. The apartment was large, full thirty feet
square. It contained two operating benches placed within easy distance.
The upper slab of one was absent; upon the other lay a squat, bulky
figure, strapped into position and covered with a sheet. Above each
table depended from the ceiling a perfect swarm of incandescent lamps,
each furnished with a powerful reflector which caught and cast the rays
of light upon the bench beneath. Tables stood about the walls of the
room, at regular intervals, covered with all manner of basins,
batteries, knives, forceps, scissors, and other surgical instruments.
There was no other furniture except a solitary chair perched near the
door, upon which Mr. Cavanagh was seated. Sir Charles Venner and Dr.
Fulton, clad in clean white aprons and overalls, with their sleeves
rolled up and secured with bands above their bare elbows, stood beside
one of the tables steeping some ugly looking knives in a basin of
steaming fluid. At the end of the occupied operating bench stood two
full blood African negroes. Their appearance was not remarkable, and in
the glance I flashed upon them I could discover no point in which they
differed from any other negroes I had seen, except that like the
surgeons they were both attired in white. Mr. Cavanagh got to his feet
as we entered. His countenance was pale and tense. I perceived that he
was nervous, but he had evidently wound himself up to the highest pitch
of determination of which his nature was capable, and I thought it
probable, whatever the others expected, that he would comport himself
like a man. Marion addressed her announcement to the surgeons, but her
eyes were bent upon her lover, and to him in truth she spoke. She
lauded what she called my devotion to the skies, and to my surprise the
others appeared to accept me at her valuation.

Sir Charles Venner nodded commendingly. Dr. Fulton said, "It is
confoundedly good of you, Dagmar," and Mr. Cavanagh gave me a look of
earnest gratitude.

I dismissed the subject with a shoulder shrug, and asked Dr. Fulton to
assign me a position. He directed me to stand near Cavanagh until all
was ready. I obeyed, and for a space of some minutes I watched Marion,
who flitted about the place arranging certain instruments upon the
several tables, and wringing dripping sponges dry with antiseptic
towels.

When Sir Charles had completed his preparations, he turned to the
nearest negro. "Beudant," he said, "you may light the asbestos." He
spoke in French.

The fellow bowed and hurried to the fireplace. I saw a great flame
rise, which flushed the negro's glistening forehead with a crimson glow.

"Jussieu," said Sir Charles, "it is time!"

The second negro bowed and glided from the room, followed by Dr.
Fulton. Sir Charles dipped his hands into a basin of fluid offered him
by Marion, and wiped his fingers with a towel. Two minutes later a bell
tinkled, "Beudant," said the surgeon.

The negro bowed again like a slave to a lamp, and noiselessly departed.
Very soon I heard the dull tramp of slippered feet on the corridor
without. The door opened, and the negroes re-entered the room bearing
between them a long slab, on which rested the inert figure of a young
man. He seemed about twenty-two years of age. His face was extremely
pale. His eyes were closed and his mouth was propped wide open with a
curious spring wedge. He was nude to the waist, but thence downwards
wrapped in an eiderdown shawl. His chest was narrow and his body
hideously emaciated. As his chest moved up and down under his deep
laboured breathing the ribs projected horribly, leaving dark hollows
between. He was strapped securely to the slab and in such a thorough
fashion that he could scarcely have moved a muscle howsoever much he
had been minded. But he was evidently unconscious, doubtless in an
anaesthetised sleep. This curious procession was followed by Dr. Fulton
and a tall elderly gentleman similarly apparelled to the surgeons. I
had never set eyes on him before. He had an eager, enthusiastic face.
His nose was very long; he had high cheek-bones and prominent grey eyes
full of a strange fanatical light. I put him down at one glance as a
devotee of science. Afterwards I discovered that his name was Vernet,
that he was a Frenchman, and resident house-surgeon to the hospital,
which in fact he owned.

He was the last to enter, and he closed and locked the door behind him.
The negroes advanced to the bench, and having deposited the slab with
its senseless burden, they moved over to the other operating table.
Already the room had become oppressively hot, and I noticed beads of
perspiration stand out on Sir Charles Venner's forehead as he bent to
examine his patient with a stethoscope. Dr. Fulton beckoned Cavanagh
and myself to approach, and by signs he directed us to stand at the
feet of the young man upon whom Sir Charles was about to operate. We
were thus quite out of the way of those who had work to do, but we
could see everything, and I desired no better vantage post. Dr. Fulton
stood behind the patient's head at the other end of the slab, holding
in one hand a large rubber face mask, in the other a large stoppered
phial, connected by a tube with the mask. Sir Charles Venner stood
beside the patient between the two operating benches; and beside him
was Dr. Vernet. Marion faced them from across the patient's body. She
held in one hand a sponge, in the other a basin.

Sir Charles Venner lost no time in proceeding to business, nor did he
give us the least warning of his intention. Casting his stethoscope
aside, he seized a small thin-bladed knife and applied its edge with a
free sweeping stroke, as an accomplished artist might draw a freehand
with a pencil, diagonally across the patient's third and fourth ribs,
within an inch of the breast bone. A thin streak of blood followed the
cut as quickly as thunder follows lightning. Marion instantly applied
her sponge to the wound, and the red line disappeared. The surgeon,
without pausing, made another swift incision at right angles to the
first along the third rib, and followed this with a third, parallel to
the first, some six inches apart. Marion pursued his cuts with her
sponge, dipping it each time into her basin, which doubtless contained
some powerful astringent drug, for the wounds once touched ceased to
bleed. Sir Charles Venner made some further rapid cuts, and with
inimitable dexterity he presently raised the flap of flesh and muscle
so detached by his knife from the patient's ribs, back across the
chest, and secured it there with a dart attached by a string to a
bandage passed about the subject's loins. With the speed of magic he
applied half a dozen tiny silver spring clips to the dripping flesh, in
order to secure the ruptured blood vessels. Dr. Vernet then handed him
a tiny razor bladed saw, with which, to my horror, he immediately
attacked the bared heaving ribs. The ghastly sight sickened me so much
that I closed my eyes, and for some minutes I fought like a tiger with
the weakness that threatened to undo me. The world was rocking,
rocking, ay, and beginning to swing. I should in the end probably have
fainted, but that my companion, Mr. Cavanagh, observing my condition of
a sudden pressed his handkerchief to my nostrils. I inhaled an
intoxicating, subtle, but most powerful reviving essence. Afterwards I
learned that Marion had supplied him with several capsules of nitrate
of amyl, of which he had himself already consumed more than one. I felt
the blood rush to my head and swell out my cheeks and scalp and skin.
The effect was magical. My weakness passed like a black dream, and with
restored courage I opened my eyes. There was now a gaping cavity in the
patient's breast, through which I could see at work the mysterious
machinery of life. The inner flap of the exposed lung had been uplifted
and secured aside with a ligature. Below panted and pulsed a crimson
and purple-coloured shapeless thing. It fascinated and at the same time
terrified me. With a frightful effort I tore my eyes away and looked at
Sir Charles. He was screwing a sharp-edged, curved hollow tube to the
end of a long and curiously fashioned syringe. This syringe was
furnished here and there with golden taps and tubes and tiny force
pumps. One tube stretched beyond the operator and ran to the other
operating table. I followed it with my eyes and saw that it terminated
in a long, thick, hollow needle which reposed in the hands of the negro
Beudant. The other negro, Jussieu, knife in hand, bent over an object
lying on the slab before him--the squat, bulky figure which had excited
my curiosity upon my entering the chamber, and which then had been
covered with a sheet. But the sheet had now vanished, and before and
exposed to my view lay an enormous ape, a chimpanzee I fancy, which was
strapped to the bench exactly in the same fashion and attitude as Sir
Charles Venner's patient. The ape's huge hairy breast was disfigured
with a square, bloody opening, but I saw that he was alive, for he
breathed. The negro Jussieu had evidently performed an operation on all
fours with that executed by Sir Charles Venner! The idea almost stunned
me. Jussieu was then a great surgeon, although a negro. Next instant I
considered the ape, and a panic horror almost overwhelmed me. George
Cavanagh was again my saviour. There came a sound of rushing waters to
my ears, and the room began to whirl and sway. On the very threshold of
oblivion once again the thin and penetrating flavour of the nitrate of
amyl restored to me my faculties. I buried my teeth in my lower lip and
cursed myself for a pitiful poltroon. I looked up to meet Marion's
eyes. She smiled at me so tender an encouragement that I turned cold
with shame; that she, a delicate woman, could bear unmoved a sight that
stole my manhood, fired my heart with more of rage than wonder, though
I wondered too. I fiercely resolved not to be weak again.

Until that moment the silence had been absolute, but of a sudden Sir
Charles spoke. "Wait for the systole, Vernet!"

I glanced down and saw Dr. Vernet insert his right hand into the hole
in the patient's breast. He was armed with a large, cup-shaped clasp.
He fumbled for a moment, and then, nodding his head, he withdrew his
hand.

Sir Charles threw Cavanagh a quick scornful glance. "Attend, if you
wish to understand," he commanded. "I'll try to be explicit!"

I looked for the first time at Cavanagh. He held a kerchief tightly to
his face, but his eyes, which I alone could see, were simply lurid.

"Go on!" he muttered in a muffled voice.

Sir Charles inserted the edged tube attached to the syringe with both
hands into the patient's breast.

"This is the right ventricle," he began, speaking in quick, disjointed
sentences. "Its function is to force the venous blood through the
pulmonary veins to the right auricle; thence to be distributed over the
body. I am now--about to--insert--a needle into the right ventricle
through the pericardium and walls. How is the pulse, Fulton?"

"Right, sir."

"Are you ready, Beudant, Jussieu?"

"At the word, sir," replied the negroes.

"Good!" exclaimed Sir Charles. "I am too!" He withdrew one hand from
the ghastly cavity and seized the syringe pump, which he began to
compress. "I am now forcing into our subject's right ventricle the
solution of my invention, which is destined to slay the tubercle
bacilli. In two seconds the lungs will be suffused with the fluid, and
in two minutes we shall have worked the miracle of absolutely
destroying every bacillus contained therein. But we shall also have
killed the patient's blood. See, it is already decomposing. Mark how
white the lung grows. To work, Jussieu!" he cried. "To work!"

"Ready, sir!" cried back the negro. I could not see what he did, but I
saw the tube connecting Sir Charles Venner's patient with the opposite
table suddenly rigidify as though a rod had been slipped down its
hollow interior.

"We are now correcting the solution's destructive action on our
subject's blood by forcing into his heart a fresh supply of living
arterial blood taken from the left auricle of the ape lying yonder,"
explained Sir Charles. "Vernet is meanwhile extracting our subject's
own decomposed and now useless blood, which is really blood no longer,
from the greater artery in his right leg. You see, Cavanagh, we have
established a perfect system of drainage. We are supplying good blood
and removing bad."

"My God!" cried Cavanagh. "It is white!"

His exclamation referred to Dr. Vernet's work. The French surgeon had
made a deep incision in the patient's right thigh, from which gushed a
steady fountain of yellow fluid.

"Shout when it colours, Vernet!" commanded Sir Charles.

I looked on, speechless with amazement, I had no longer the least
inclination to faint. Indeed, my whole soul was so steeped in wonder,
that I forgot I lived. I was merely a rapt acquisitive spirit being
initiated into the fundamental mysteries of nature by a great, indeed,
a giant intellect. Sir Charles Venner appeared to me then something
like a god. His left hand was plunged into the patient's breast,
perhaps grasping the heart, that seat of life. His right compressed and
controlled the movements of the syringe. His face gleamed like marble
in the brilliant white light of the reflectors. It was pale, composed,
expressionless, yet full of watchful intelligence and power. He stood
upon his feet as steady as a rock. Every moment he uttered some sharp,
pregnant direction to one or other of his assistants, which was at once
implicitly obeyed. "No greater man has ever lived!" thought I then, and
I have not altered my opinion since.

In about three minutes, though the period seemed longer to my
electrified imagination, I saw a red light flash into the milky
fountain that flowed under Dr. Vernet's guidance.

"Enough!" he cried.

"Good!" exclaimed Sir Charles.

The fountain stopped flowing on instant, for Dr. Vernet had squeezed
the artery between a pair of forceps, and with deft fingers he began to
bind it with a ligature of golden wire. I glanced from him to Sir
Charles. He was now bending closely above the cavity in the subject's
breast; the syringe had disappeared. He seemed to be sewing something
in the hollow, but I could distinguish nothing for blood. Marion's
sponge plied backwards and forwards with the regularity of a machine.

"What are you doing now?" cried a voice beside me, so harsh and
strained that I hardly recognized it.

"Sewing up the punctured ventricle," replied Sir Charles with a sort of
chuckle. "Some of your friends would be a bit surprised, eh, Cavanagh,
if you told them that you saw a doctor patch a man's heart with thread
and needle, as a sempstress might a rent gown!"

Cavanagh uttered a hollow groan, and I turned just in time to catch
him. He had swooned! I carried him to the other end of the room, where
I laid him down upon the floor and hurriedly unfastened his collar and
cravat. I was hot with rage, for I wished to witness the end of the
operation; but I dared not leave him because of Marion. Even as I knelt
to chafe his wrists, I heard Sir Charles address her sharply: "Now
then, Marion, attend to me. The young fool is all right. Dagmar will
look after him."

I managed to awaken Cavanagh at last with a capsule I found clutched in
his hand, but several precious minutes had been wasted, and we returned
to the table only in time to see Sir Charles sewing up with golden wire
the flap of muscle which had been the door of his more important work.

The operation was over. The negroes were already starting to remove the
carcase of the dead ape, whose life blood had been stolen to try and
prolong the existence of its fellow creature, man! The other surgeons
were grouped about the still living subject, but Sir Charles Venner was
no longer in command. Dr. Fulton now held supreme authority. He
occupied Venner's former post, and with one hand he fingered the
subject's now unfastened wrists, while in the other he grasped a small
hypodermic syringe. For some moments a deathly hush obtained, that was
but intensified by the slow and stertorous breathing of the patient on
the slab.

Dr. Fulton's expression was strained and passionately anxious. It
formed a curious contrast to Sir Charles Venner's stolid immobility.
The others watched him, not the patient. That is to say, all but
Marion. She had slipped an arm about George Cavanagh, and she was
tenderly supporting him, oblivious of everything else.

"Well?" asked Sir Charles at last.

I gasped with relief to hear his voice.

"Weaker; curse it!" replied Dr. Fulton.

"Inject?"

"No; last of all. The battery, quick, the glass stool!"

Sir Charles and Dr. Vernet darted off. Sir Charles returned with a
glass bench, which he placed upon the floor at Fulton's feet, and upon
which Fulton immediately stepped. Dr. Vernet stopped beside a distant
table and began to pull out something that looked like a cylinder from
the side of a huge wooden box. We heard the rapidly intermittent
clicking sound of the working battery at once.

"Stop!" shouted Fulton.

I saw the patient's legs twitch and draw up half way to his stomach,
and his arms spasmodically jerk.

This was repeated a dozen times in as many seconds, but gradually the
motions ceased.

"Awaken him!" commanded Dr. Fulton.

Sir Charles applied a small phial to the patient's nostrils. After a
while the poor fellow turned his head aside as though unconsciously
trying to escape a torture. But the phial followed him remorselessly,
and presently he moaned. Sir Charles at once removed the spring wedge
from his mouth. His teeth clicked, shut, and he uttered a heartrending
gurgling groan.

"More battery!" shouted Fulton. "Softly, softly!"

The patient's muscles jerked again, but less violently than before. He
tossed and turned his head, trying vainly to escape the phial; thus for
a moment, then of a sudden his eyes opened and he gazed about him.

"Stop battery!" cried Dr. Fulton. "Marion, come here!"

The girl left her lover and hurried forward. She stooped over the
patient and looked into his eyes. "Ah, my poor fellow!" she murmured
soothingly in English, "you are awake at last, I see. It is all over
now--all over--nothing more to fear now. Soon you will be well and
strong. Stronger than you have ever been in your life before--for you
are cured."

He looked up at her with a dull, vacant stare, then uttered a little
gasp of pain, for Dr. Fulton had plunged the hypodermic needle in his
arm.

The injection's effect was miraculous. Within three minutes his face
flushed crimson, his dull eyes brightened, and he actually attempted to
sit up. Marion, however, gently pressed him back, but she allowed his
head to rest upon her arm.

"I--I--feel fine!" he gasped.

"Hush!" said Marion; "you must not talk. You must be very good and keep
still, for that is the only way you can get better."

Sir Charles Venner pressed a glass into her hand.

"Try and drink this," she proceeded. "It is not medicine, only a little
brandy and water. Ah! that's right. You'll do splendidly now. There, my
boy, shut your eyes, and try to sleep. You'll soon sleep, and you'll
wake well and strong."

The poor lad obeyed her, and he seemed to sleep immediately, but
Marion's prophecy was not fulfilled. He never opened his eyes again.

For a long hour we watched him, the hearts of us all racked with
anxiety. Every few minutes Dr. Fulton injected some drug into his arm,
and by degrees the full force of the battery was applied. But all in
vain.

"He is dead!" said Dr. Fulton at last, stepping dejectedly from the
glass stool. "Turn off the battery, Vernet, please."

"Our nineteenth failure!" observed Sir Charles Venner, folding his arms
and looking down at the corpse with a face of stone. "And they have all
died of shock. Nothing else."

Mr. Cavanagh started forward. "How can you be sure of that?" he
demanded. "How do you know that your accursed solution did not poison
him?" The young man's face was the hue of ivory, but his big eyes were
ablaze with passion.

Sir Charles Venner gave a wintry smile. "We have proved it beyond
doubt," he replied. "We have tested the blood a hundred times."

"Bah!" retorted Cavanagh with a savage sneer. "A fig for your tests.
But even if they are reliable, how do you know that he did not bleed to
death from the wound you made in his heart?"

"Test again, autopsy. Would you care to see? Look here!" He caught up a
knife and approached the corpse. "I'm willing, Cavanagh, to bet you a
thousand pounds that not one drop of blood has passed my puncture in
the ventricle!"

"Done!"

"Venner," cried Dr. Fulton, "Venner, you are betting on a certainty."

"Then I'll pay the stake I win to any charity you like to name." Sir
Charles Venner bent over the body, but even as he poised the knife to
cut, Mr. Cavanagh cried out in strangled tones: "Stop! I--I withdraw."

Venner looked up with a cold sneering laugh. "Then pay!" said he.

"No--no! I--I--can't afford it." Mr. Cavanagh put his right hand into
his breast pocket. His countenance was perfectly livid. He stepped back
a pace and looked at Marion.

"George!" she cried, "what ails you, dear?" She was trembling like a
leaf in the wind.

"Life!" he answered, and uttered a laugh that still echoes in my ears.

Next instant he produced a revolver and before our eyes put the muzzle
to his mouth. There followed a click, a sharp report, and he fell at
our feet a corpse.

There are periods of crisis in human happenings when a cycle of years
may be compressed into a few minutes of ordinary time, and such a
period was that which succeeded the tragedy I have described. I felt my
soul grow cold and hard and more old than all my previous life had made
it. I stood like a frozen image gazing at the artist's clay, waiting in
an agony of expectation for Marion to scream. But she made no cry, and
after a long, most dreadful pause, something impelled me to look at
her. She was swaying to a fall and already insensible. I took her in my
arms and bore her senseless body from the awful room. At the door,
however, I was obliged to halt, for the threshold was occupied with the
two negroes and the wrinkled old woman I had seen in the kitchen the
first night I had visited the hospital. They were transfixed with
horror, and I had to force a passage for my burden. In doing so,
involuntarily I turned. Dr. Fulton was kneeling beside Mr. Cavanagh
examining his wound. Sir Charles Venner stood at a little distance
puffing calmly at a cigarette. I shuddered and passed on. Where I would
have gone, Providence alone knows. But the old woman followed me,
crying out in a cracked voice in French: "But, M'sieur, why not come
this way, to Mademoiselle's own room."

She led me to a prettily furnished little chamber at the very end of
the corridor. I laid Marion very gently down upon the bed, and turned
to the old woman, who was already fussing at my side with salts and sal
volatile.

"Don't touch her!" I commanded sternly. "Let her sleep as long as God
wills. She will awake too soon in any case to the misery this night has
brought her."

"As Monsieur pleases!" replied the beldame, and with a look of ghoulish
delight she hurried off, doubtless to gloat over the corpses in the
operating room.

Left alone, I leaned over the unconscious girl, and softly pressed my
lips upon her beautiful, but clay cold brow. An angel could not have
been the worse for that caress, for in my heart there was no thought
save of pitiful and tender reverence.

A moment later I was traversing the passage, on my way to the
staircase. Someone called to me as I passed the chamber of death, but I
paid no heed, and I descended the steps as quickly as I could. The hall
door stood before me. The latch yielded to my touch. Issuing forth I
banged it shut, and ran out into the night as though I were pursued
with furies. On alighting from my cab at the Marble Arch I glanced at
my watch. To my astonishment it pointed barely to midnight. I thought
it must have stopped, but the public-houses were still open.

A second cab took me to Bruton Street, whence having changed my attire,
I drove to my master's house. As I entered I noted upon the floor at my
feet a paste-board visiting card, which had evidently been slipped
beneath the door by a disappointed caller. I picked it up and held it
to the light, uttering, as I read, a long, low whistle of surprise. It
was inscribed with three printed words: "Mr. Sefton Dagmar."




V

THE CAMPAIGN OPENS


That paste-board gave me a shock; it sent a chill, creepy feeling down
my spine. It smelt dangerous. I read the name again: "Mr. Sefton
Dagmar!" So, while my master was away journeying down to Newhaven to
keep the appointment, I had fabricated, with his nephew; by a snarl of
chance, his nephew had called at his house in London. Perhaps they had
passed each other on the road.

I turned over the card and received a second shock. Across it was
scrawled in pencil:--"Will call to-morrow morning at 10. Urgent."

"Curse the luck!" I muttered. "Uncle and nephew will meet and my master
will learn that, in spite of his injunction not to leave the house, I
disobeyed him. Subsequent discoveries will infallibly re-excite his
first and easily smothered distrust of myself!" It seemed to be more
than ever important that the secret of the identity of my master's
impersonator should be preserved and that not the remotest breath of
suspicion should attach to me. Otherwise it would be impossible to
improve my fortunes without assuming the naked and hideous character of
a blackmailer, the very idea of which was bitterly repugnant to my
disposition. I hurried into Sir William Dagmar's library, lit the gas
and caught up a time-table. It informed me that the first passenger
train from Newhaven would arrive in London on the following morning at
10.15. I made a hasty calculation. It would take Sir William fifteen
minutes to drive from the station, and the train might be a little
late, trains often are. If Mr. Sefton Dagmar therefore might be relied
on to be punctual, I should have at least half an hour wherein to
smoothe out the snarl of fate arranged for my undoing. Much might be
done in half an hour! Relieved by the reflection, I put out the light
and went upstairs to bed. I was very tired, but I cannot truthfully
declare that I slept. Whenever my eyes closed I saw horrid visions. Mr.
Cavanagh lying on the floor with his skull shattered and blood oozing
from the hole in his head; or a white faced man stretched upon a marble
slab with a dreadful bloody cavity in his chest; sometimes a hairy
chested ape similarly situated! God defend me from such another night!
At dawn I arose from my bed of torture and lay for an hour in a plunge
bath filled with hot water. A subsequent ice cold shower and a careful
toilet restored to my appearance its pristine freshness, but there were
many grey hairs about my temples which I had never seen before. I am
not a lover of wine, but I dared not face the day without support, and
I derived the stimulus I needed from a bottle of my master's champagne.
Afterwards I felt better, but I also felt that I should never be able
to smile light-heartedly again. The hours that followed I devoted to
thoughts of Marion Le Mar. I admitted to myself that I loved her, and
deep down in my heart I knew that for her sake and at her bidding I
would sacrifice, if need arose, anything, even my life. It was a
strange conviction that, to be entertained by a man like me--a man
whose motto had ever been--"First person paramount." And yet I speedily
recognized that it was as much a part of me as my hand, and might only
as easily be combated or parted with. I had no hope of winning her,
however, no hope at all, hardly even a wish. She seemed set as far
beyond my reach as the stars, and her contemplation inspired me with a
realization of my unworthiness and her divinity which was neither
humiliating nor discomforting. "For," thought I, "the stars shine upon
us all, the noble and the base alike, and who shall say that they
discriminate between the ardent looks of worshippers?"

The bell rang and I opened the door for Mr. Sefton Dagmar. In one
second I comprehended why Sir William disliked his nephew. My master,
for all his faults, was a deep-natured man of large mental mould.
Before me stood his absolute antithesis. I saw a small, shallow,
smiling, cunning face, that betrayed to the keen observer every emotion
of the mind. The features were regular, even handsome, yet puny, and
the soul that looked out of his eyes was facile, treacherous and
sycophantic. He wore a slight yellow moustache, and his eyebrows were
white. He looked too young. I judged him to be twenty-five. He was tall
and very slight; he wore a pale brown overcoat and a suit beneath of
tasteless checked tweed.

"Mr. Sefton Dagmar?" I asked with deference.

He nodded, looking me swiftly up and down. "Uncle in?" he airily
demanded.

"No, sir; but I expect him shortly. Will you step inside?"

"Might as well," he drawled, but he entered with alacrity, and I led
the way to the ante-chamber.

"Where is my uncle?" he enquired, as I removed his overcoat.

"I do not know, sir?"

"He got my card, I suppose?"

"Not yet, sir. He has been away."

"All night?"

"Yes sir."

He whistled then faced me with a cunning smile. "You are new," he
began. "Where is Butts?"

"He left a month ago."

"What is your name?"

"Brown, sir?"

He nodded, eyeing me as a cat might a mouse. "You look a good sort," he
declared presently. "How do you get on with my uncle, Brown?"

I affected to hesitate. "Fairly well, thank you, sir," I replied
stammering a little.

"That means damned poorly," he retorted, nodding his head again. "Oh! I
know him, Brown; I know him, you need'nt tell me. Why Brown, I'm his
only living relative, his sole heir, and how do you think he treats me?"

"I'm sure I don't know, sir?"

"He allows me a paltry three hundred a year, on the condition that I
live in Newhaven with a beastly solicitor fellow to whom he made me
sign articles!"

"That seems very hard, sir."

"Hard, Brown," he cried, his eyes agleam, "Hard! you call it hard! Why
the old monster is a millionaire, and as I told you before I am his
only living relative!"

I put on an expression of shocked sympathy. "It is almost incredible!"
I gasped.

He gave me a grateful look. "It is true, though!" he declared, "true as
gospel. And the only excuse he could rake up for doing it was that I
outran the constable a bit at Oxford. He's the meanest old skin-flint
in the United Kingdom!"

"I wish I could help you, sir," I murmured in my most reverential
manner. "It seems very hard and really wrong, sir, that a nice handsome
young gentleman like you, if you'll pardon me for speaking so, sir, to
your face, should be tied up in a little village like Newhaven when you
might be enjoying yourself and seeing life in London and Paris, sir!"

"As I ought to be," he cried hotly, evidently stirred to anger at my
picture of his misfortune. "It's a cursed shame, Brown, a cursed shame!"

"It is indeed, sir. I only wish I could help you, sir."

He gave me a thoughtful look. "You never know," he muttered, "the mouse
helped the lion!"

I nearly laughed in his face, but controlling the impulse I said
instead--"And with the best of good will, sir!"

"You're a damned good fellow, Brown!" he cried with energy. "And when I
am Sir Sefton Dagmar I shall not forget you." His voice sank into a low
confidential key. "By the way, Brown, there is a small service you
might render me."

"Anything," I answered eagerly, "I'd do anything for _you_, sir!"

He grinned with pleasure, the callow youth. "It's nothing much," he
muttered. "Only I want you to tell me exactly how your master is--the
state of his health, I mean. I can never get any satisfaction out of
him, and I have a lot of friends who want to know." He sighed and
frowned.

_Post obit_ bond-holders--was my reflection.

"I don't think he will live very long, sir," I whispered, looking
nervously about me. "At night he coughs something dreadful, sir, and he
just lives on medicines."

Mr. Sefton Dagmar's face looked for a moment like that of a happy
cherub.

"Do you really think so, Brown?" he cried excitedly.

"I'm sure of it, sir."

"Well, see here, Brown, when he dies, I'll make you my man, if you
like!"

"Will you really, sir?" I tried to look extravagantly delighted.

"Yes--and I'll give you twice as much screw as you get now, whatever he
gives you. But for that I'll expect you to do some things for me in the
meanwhile." He looked me keenly in the eyes.

"Anything at all, sir," I protested.

"Very good. I want you to drop me a line every week to tell me how he
is, and if he takes any sudden turn for the worse you may send me a
telegram."

"Certainly, sir. Is that all?"

"No!" He glanced anxiously towards the door. "No one can hear us, can
they?"

"There's no one in the house, sir, but you and me."

"That's famous; well, Brown, see here, I'm heavily in debt and some of
the beggars are pressing me into a corner. That's why I came up to
town."

"Yes, sir!"

"And--and--" his face changed colour, "there is a woman too!" he
stammered, "an actress!"

"There's always a woman, I should think, where a handsome young
gentleman like you, sir, is concerned," I murmured with a sympathetic
smile.

His vanity was tickled, but the conceited grin my words had called to
his lips quickly faded into a look of anxiety. The matter was
manifestly serious.

"They are the devil, Brown," he solemnly assured me. "This one has got
me into a dickens own mess, she's as pretty as a picture, Brown, but a
perfect brute all the same!"

"Breach of promise, sir?"

He nodded, with a lugubrious frown. "I've been served with a writ," he
muttered, "and there's nothing for it but to make a clean breast to the
governor!"

"Can I help you in any way, sir?"

"I thought you might have something to suggest as to how I should
broach it to him, Brown. When is he in the best humour--morning,
afternoon or evening?"

"If you'd take my advice, sir," I replied, "you'll not tell your uncle
at all, sir. He can't last long, and I should think that, as you are a
lawyer, you ought to be able to stave off the proceedings for a month
or so. If you were to confess, he'd be bound to be terribly annoyed,
and the odds are he'd do you some injury in his will. He knows he is
dying, sir."

Mr. Sefton Dagmar turned quite pale. "I never thought of that!" he
cried. "By Jove, so he might. He might cut me off with a shilling. The
entail is barred long enough ago."

I was dying to get him out of the house, if only for half an hour. I
had hit upon the tail end of a plan.

"It would never do to run such a risk!" I assured him. "And if you'll
allow me to guide you, sir, you'll run away at once. He will be here in
a minute, and the odds are that he'll come in bad tempered."

"I'll go!" he replied. "But, Brown, I'd like to see him, just to be
sure how he is looking."

"Then come back in an hour or two. But be sure, sir, and say nothing
about your having been here before. He's a terribly suspicious man, and
if he thought that you and I had been conferring, he would dismiss me
straight off the reel!"

"Never fear, Brown. I wouldn't have you sacked for the world. You'll be
too useful to me here."

"I really believe I shall, sir."

In another moment he had gone, and I watched him walking up the street,
through a slit in the blind, until he had disappeared. It was exactly
twenty minutes past ten. I hurried to my master's study and, quick as
thought, turned the whole place topsy turvy. I ransacked his private
drawers and scattered their contents broadcast, I even overturned his
heap of reference books. I heard the latch turn in the front door as I
descended the stairs.

"Oh, it is you at last, sir. Thank God!" I cried as Sir William Dagmar
appeared.

He was looking like a ghost, white and utterly wearied out, and his
chin was sunk upon his chest; but my words startled him, and he turned
on me with compressed lips, in sudden energy.

"What is the matter, Brown?" he demanded.

"Oh, if you please, sir, I have had a terrible night!" (I poured out
the words in a perfect stream.) "Just as I was going to bed, sir, it
was about eight o'clock, sir, for I was uncommon tired, the bell rang.
I went down to open the door and there you were standing, at least I
thought it was you, sir. He looked exactly like you, and he spoke like
you, sir, and he called me 'Brown,' sir----"

"Great God!" exclaimed my master, and he fell to trembling like a leaf.
"What is that you say, but wait! wait!----"

He staggered into the dining room and clutched a decanter of spirit,
which he held up with a shaking hand to his lips. He took a deep
draught, and then broke into a frightful fit of coughing. I tended upon
him as gently as a woman, and half led, half carried him to a sofa,
where I forced him to lie down. But his anxiety was in flames, and as
soon as he could he sat up and commanded me to proceed.

"What did this--this double of me say and do?" he gasped. "Tell me
quickly!"

"He went straight up stairs, sir. He was there about half an hour, and
then your study bell rang. He was standing by your desk with your
time-table in his hand, sir. He said to me--'I suppose, Brown, you
thought I had gone to Newhaven!'

"'Yes, sir,' said I, and he laughed like anything, just as though he
was very much amused about something, and all the while I thought he
was you, sir. The only thing was, sir, that he wore a different
overcoat, and I kept wondering what you had done with your fur coat,
sir. He was searching the time-table, and presently, sir, he looked
over at me and he said--'Why, Brown, if I'd gone to Newhaven, I
couldn't have got back until ten fifteen to-morrow morning.'

"'Indeed, sir!' says I. And at that he simply roared out laughing.
'Brown,' he cries, 'you'll be the death of me!' I was very much
astonished, sir, and I thought that you'd taken leave of your senses,
sir, but after you--that is to say--_he_--after he'd got over his
laughing--he looks me in the face and says--says he--'Brown, you fool,
'can't you see I'm not your master! Here look at my thumbs!' And sure
enough, sir, he had both his thumbs quite complete, sir, and then I
knew he couldn't be you, sir! I was that dumbfounded for a bit, sir,
that I was ready to sink through the floor, and all I could do was just
gape at his hands. Then of a sudden he whips one of them into his
pocket, sir, and he pulled out a pistol, which he clapped to my head.
'Listen to me, Brown!' says he, very quiet like, but in a terrible
voice, sir, 'Listen to me, Brown!' says he. 'Your master is in Newhaven
by now, and he can't get back till the morning. When he comes tell him
from me, that his double will find out to-night all he wants to know,
and that he'll hear from me within a week. Tell him, too, that he
needn't bother suspecting young Sefton, I could have got the young ass
to help me if I'd wanted, but he was too great a fool, and I scorn to
have him blamed. Tell Sir William I'm playing a lone hand, and that it
rests with him to keep it a lone hand. And now, Brown, you just stay
here for the next half hour, while I go through the house, and don't
you budge, or as sure as death I'll plug a bullet through your brains!'

"With that, sir, he dragged me into a corner, and put my face to the
wall--and--and--I stayed there, sir!"

"What!" thundered my master. "How long?"

I began to whimper. "I--I--take shame to admit I played the coward,
sir," I blubbed out.

"But if--if you'd heard him--speak, sir--and seen the look in his
eyes--sir--you--you--may be----'"

"Enough!" he interjected very sharply. "I'm not blaming you, my man,
I'm asking for information. How long did you stay in the corner where
he put you?"

"A long while, sir."

"How soon did he leave the house?"

"I don't know, sir. I seemed to hear noises for hours and hours,
sir--and--and--" here I broke down with a really artistic sob. "It's
turned me quite grey, sir--all about the temples--and I was brown as
brown--last evening, sir!"

Sir William got to his feet and placed a hand upon my shoulder.

"There, there, Brown, compose yourself!" he said in kinder tones. "I
can see that you have had a great fright, and you were right to run no
risks. But tell me did you send for the police after you discovered
that the man had gone?"

"I--no, sir," I stammered. "You told me on no account to leave the
house!"

"Brown!" he cried indignantly.

"Well, sir--I--I--I--simply daren't venture outside the house, sir!" I
blurted out.

My master frowned and shook his head. "Just as well, perhaps!" he
muttered to himself. He added in a louder key. "Well, my man, you have
given me much to think over, and I have trouble enough upon my hands
already."

"Trouble, sir!" I repeated.

"A dear friend of mine is dead. You know him, Brown, Mr. George
Cavanagh. He shot himself last night in his studio!"

It was on the tip of my tongue to scream out--"in his studio!" I was so
surprised, but I restrained myself just in time and cried instead:--

"Good heavens! sir, how awful! Why did he do it, sir?"

Sir William shrugged his shoulders. "They say that it was in a fit of
despair, because the great picture he was painting was accidentally
destroyed by fire. But you may read for yourself, Brown, the morning
papers are full of it!"

The papers! I had never even thought to look at one. I had been so
preoccupied. My master went on speaking. "I'll go upstairs, Brown, and
have a bath," he said, "after which I shall attend the inquest!"

"But your double, sir!" I cried. "Ought not we to tell the police at
once about him, sir?"

He shook his head. "No, no, Brown. Better not, better not. He is
probably some friend of mine who has been playing a practical joke at
my expense. Keep what has happened to yourself, Brown. I do not wish to
be laughed at!"

"Very good, sir," I muttered dubiously. "But all the same I don't think
he was joking, sir. I'll be bound you'll find he has robbed you. The
study is just upside down! I have not tried to put it in order, sir, so
that you might see it as he left it!"

Sir William gave me a wan smile. "I keep no valuables in the house,
Brown," he replied, "except my manuscripts, and they are worthless to
anyone but myself."

Without another word he left the room, and I also hurried out in order
to prepare his bath. I did not venture to converse with him again, for
he had fallen into one of his impenetrable silent moods which
inevitably stirred him to wrath against any interrupter. As soon as I
had dressed him he left the house, still steeped in speechless thought.
He looked ten years older than he had the previous day, and I felt
really sorry to remember the additional cup of fear and horror he would
be called upon to drink when he and the others had ascertained the full
extent and import of my most recent impersonation.

After he had gone, I snatched open the first paper that came to my
hand. It was the _Morning Mail_. I discovered the black scare headline
in a second. Yes, sure enough it related how Mr. Cavanagh's valet had
found his master lying on the studio floor a little after midnight,
stone dead, with a revolver clutched in his right hand. The man had not
heard the shot, but he had been awakened by some noise, and he had
thought his master had called out to him. He admitted that he was a
heavy sleeper, and he did not remember hearing Mr. Cavanagh enter the
house. The artist's great picture upon which he had been working for a
year, and which was almost finished, was half destroyed by fire, and it
looked as though by accident, for a naked gas jet burned perilously
close to the easel. The bullet which had killed Mr. Cavanagh had been
found by the police embedded in the plaster of a distant wall, near the
ceiling. The writer of the article had ingeniously concluded that the
artist on entering his studio and observing the fruit of his ardent
labours destroyed beyond repair, had, in the first sharp flush of his
despair, committed suicide!

As for me, when I scanned the page and considered one by one the
circumstantial dove-tailing details of that ghastly history--I confess
that for a moment I doubted my senses' evidence. A little reflection,
however, brought me to a realization of the truth, and a greater
respect than ever for a certain eminent surgeon--to wit--Sir Charles
Venner. I saw in everything I read, his calm, cold-blooded scheming. On
my last glimpse he had been languidly smoking a cigarette, which he
must have lighted before the breath had quite departed from poor
Cavanagh's mutilated corpse. Perhaps nay, undoubtedly, he had even then
been planning how to act, and so arrange matters that no scandal might
be associated with the name of his accursed hospital.

As clearly as though I had been present I saw him ordering that
dreadful funeral; saw him take Cavanagh's latch-key from his chain; saw
him direct one of the negroes to prepare a conveyance; saw him lead the
negroes carrying the body to a waiting vehicle--and that silent cortege
move across the Heath to St. John's Wood. I saw him then open Mr.
Cavanagh's door and noiselessly motion the negroes to bear the corpse
within. I watched him dispose the body on the floor with scientific
calculation as to the proper direction of the bullet, and then climbing
upon a chair or perhaps on the negroes' shoulders force the bullet
through the curtain into the plaster. Perhaps that noise had awakened
Cavanagh's drowsy headed servant! I saw him approach the easel and set
fire to the great picture, so as to supply the world with a motive for
the suicide--and finally I saw him steal away with his ebony attendants
from the house--three dark malignant spirits, veritable caterers of
death!

Somehow I shuddered to think of Sir Charles Venner. I felt him to be a
foeman more worthy of my steel than all his fellows, and I half wished,
half feared to cross swords with him. It is true that already I had
twice managed to out-wit him, and he had not dreamed in either case of
doubting my assumed identity. But I could not claim much credit in the
latter bout, nor feel much satisfaction, since throughout that awful
evening Sir Charles had been too occupied to do more than throw a hasty
glance in my direction. What would happen, I wondered, in a real fair
battle of wits, each of us forewarned of the encounter? I had profound
faith in my powers and resources, but I dared not forecast that issue!
Twice we had met, and twice I had succeeded. Would we strive again, and
who would win on the third and fatal meeting?

Such were the questions I asked myself unceasingly; but I could answer
none of them.

It was not until almost four o'clock in the afternoon that my master
returned home, and he was accompanied by Sir Charles Venner and Dr.
Fulton. I was at once called into the study and put through a rigid
cross-examination, by all three, regarding my pretended visitor of the
previous evening. But I had expected such an ordeal, and I came through
with colours flying. I was much concerned, however, to perceive that
Sir William Dagmar looked very ill. He coughed incessantly and so
haggard and careworn was his visage that I believed he would presently
collapse. My prognostications were justified by the event. Soon after I
had been dismissed the bell rang violently, and I hurried upstairs to
see the two surgeons carrying my master's unconscious body to the
bedroom. I undressed him there and put him to bed; whereupon they
carefully examined him, and held a long and anxious consultation over
his condition. An hour passed before he recovered from his swoon, but
even when he awoke it was not to his proper senses, for he immediately
began to babble a stream of meaningless nonsense. The surgeons looking
very grave agreed to administer an opiate, and they injected some fluid
hypodermically into his arm.

Sir Charles then informed me that they feared a serious attack of
meningitis, and he promised to send a trained nurse within an hour to
look after the sick man. He left at once, but Dr. Fulton remained until
my master went to sleep. The nurse arrived half an hour later, and I
prepared one of the spare bed-rooms for her use. She was an angular
hard-featured woman named Hargreaves, but she had a soft voice and
pleasing manners, and she seemed to know her business. Mr. Sefton
Dagmar arrived at about seven o'clock. As soon as he heard that his
uncle was ill and likely to die, he went half crazy with joy and
insisted upon staying in the house. I did not wish him to at all, but
there was nothing for me to do except put up with the infliction, and
prepare another bed-room. However, he sent me out soon after dinner to
despatch a telegram to Newhaven for his baggage, and for that little
involuntary service that he did me, I became reconciled to his
presence. The fact was, I needed an excuse to quit the house upon
business of my own. Ever since my master had swooned I had been
thinking very hard, and it seemed to me that if I wished to improve my
fortunes, I must strike at once before all the geese, whom I expected
to lay me golden eggs, should die. Having sent Mr. Sefton Dagmar's
wire, I took a cab to Cheapside and sought out a cheap stationer's
shop. I bought some common note paper and envelopes, and begging the
loan of a pen, I scratched in straggling print the following epistle to
Sir Charles Venner:--

"Sir--If you will inquire at the Colonnade Hotel for Mr. Seth Halford
to-morrow evening at nine o'clock, you will be shown to a room, where
you will find Dagmar the second. Kindly bring money and come alone!"

I posted this letter at the G.P.O., and returned to Curzon Street. In
the morning Sir William Dagmar was in a high fever and raving
deliriously. As I had a houseful to provide for, and am not a lover of
trouble, I went early abroad and arranged with a restaurateur to supply
all our meals. I then drove in a cab to a post office in the Old Kent
Road and sent myself a telegram from my dying mother, which arrived at
noon. Sir Charles Venner visited his patient at one, and after he had
gone I showed my telegram to Mr. Sefton Dagmar and Nurse Hargreaves,
both of whom urged me to attend the summons, assuring me that I was not
needed at the house. I tearfully allowed their protestations to
prevail, and betook myself to my little stronghold in Bruton Street.
There arrived, I spent the rest of that day making myself up to
represent the old actor whom I had impersonated on the occasion when I
had shadowed my master to the Kingsmere Hospital for Consumptives. For
a purpose, to be afterwards explained, I furnished my pockets with a
small assortment of wigs, beards and moustaches. When darkness fell I
issued forth and rode in a cab to the Colonnade Hotel. The clerk stared
at me rather haughtily when I asked for a room in so swell a place, but
I satisfied his scruples with half a sovereign, which tip no doubt
induced him to believe me an eccentric millionaire. I told him that I
expected a visitor, my friend, Sir Charles Venner, the great surgeon,
at nine o'clock, and desired him to be shown up at once to my bedroom.
After that he was all obsequiousness. I dined at the hotel, and to
fortify myself for the fray I drank a small bottle of sparkling
burgundy. At a quarter to nine I repaired to my room, which was
situated near the first angle of the building on turning from the
staircase, on the second floor. It was furnished in the ordinary style
very plainly and simply. I quickly stripped the dressing-table of its
contents and placed it in the middle floor. I set a chair on either
side of the table, and I sat down upon the one that faced the
door--which I had left unlatched--I then put on a pair of goggles and
waited.

Sir Charles Venner was praiseworthily punctual. Big Ben was still
chiming the hour when I heard his tap on the panel.

"Come in!" I cried.

The handle turned and he entered, just pausing on the threshold to tip
the waiter who had brought him up.

"My dear old chap!" I exclaimed for the waiter's benefit, "this is good
of you, as ever, punctual to the tick!"

He closed the door carefully behind him, and advanced towards the
table, pulling off his gloves as he did so. I, on the contrary, had
been careful to keep my hands thickly gloved, for I wanted those keen
eyes of his to have as few recognizing details as possible to remember,
and hands are tell tale things, as I had proved sufficiently already.

"I suppose I may be seated!" he began in steady tones.

I nodded, eating him with my gaze. His countenance was perfectly
impassive, but his eyes returned my stare with penetrating interest.

He sat down and calmly crossed his knees. "My time is limited," he
declared. "Kindly proceed to business. You sent for me and I am here!"

I bowed my head. "True, Sir Charles," I replied in an assumed voice. "I
do not propose to detain you long. The Kingsmere Hospital for
Consumptives doubtless claims your care, so I shall be as brief as
possible!"

I watched him sharply, but he did not turn a hair nor move a muscle.
"Go on!" was all he said.

"Shall we avoid details?" I enquired.

"Unnecessary details, sir. But tell me all you know!"

"Not very much!" I said gently. "Unlawful secret society! We'll call
that number one, and bracket with it George Cavanagh's death by
suicide." A look of relief crossed his face at the word suicide. I
smiled and proceeded. "Number two: Vivisection is unlawful--I
fancy--and you might be convicted of murder on my showing. It would be
for a jury to determine, for all the great surgeon that you are. I
think that is enough Sir Charles!"

"Bah!" said he, and a curious gleam came into his eyes. "You can
scandalize and perhaps destroy my practice, that is all. I admit you
have me in a chain, but take care not to strain the bond too far. I do
not depend upon my practice for a living, and in the cause of science I
shall dare to face scandal, if you press me!"

"I am glad to hear that you have a private fortune," I answered
quietly. "I have the less compunction in asking you to contribute to
another man's support. The world's wealth is distributed very unevenly,
Sir Charles. Do you not agree with me?"

For the first time a shade of annoyance crossed his face. "I must
decline to discuss abstractions with a blackmailer," he replied in
irritated tones. "What is your name, and what is your price?"

"My name for the present is Seth Halford, Sir Charles. I shall not deny
that it is liable to frequent change--" I smiled--"but I defy you to
detect its transmutations, sir, or follow its vicarious possessor to
his lair. As for my price, I have no object in withholding that--It is
ten thousand pounds!"

"And is it not subject, like your name, to change?"

"Not by so much as one farthing, Sir Charles."

He nodded and got languidly to his feet. "I came here prepared to
sacrifice five hundred," he said quietly. "Two in cash, the balance
to-morrow. I am not sure that I am not pleased to save the money."

"Will you save it?" I asked.

"Unless you hedge immediately in your outrageously extravagant demand."

"Unhappily, Sir Charles, that is utterly impossible."

"Then I shall save it!"

"How?"

"By calling in the police and arresting you for attempted blackmail."

I broke into a soft rippling laugh. "So--" I muttered, "you only value
your neck at five hundred pounds! Such fine and delicate vertebrae they
are too!"

The irony brought some colour to his cheek. "My neck is in no danger,"
he retorted angrily. "What can you prove against us you fool, except
that I performed a wonderful operation in the cause of science, in the
ardent hope of saving a man's life, and in the sure trust of
benefitting the whole human race?"

"But the man died, doctor, and he was one of nineteen! The coroner will
shortly have a harvest, nineteen autopsies, Sir Charles! Think of them!
Nineteen autopsies!"

"You fool," he repeated in tones of repressed passion, "if there were
even ninety--what of it? But enough of this! choose between five
hundred pounds and the lock-up. Choose quickly!"

He turned as he spoke and strode to the door. His hand was already on
the latch. In another second the door would have been thrown wide.
Perhaps there was a policeman in the passage, I thought it unlikely but
still--possible! At all events it was time for me to cease trifling
with my adversary.

"You appear, Sir Charles Venner, to have forgotten the matter of
Cavanagh's death!" I hissed out. "He killed himself at the hospital,
and his body was discovered at the studio!"

"That can be explained!" he retorted; but his hand fell softly from the
latch. "We have plenty of witnesses who saw his suicide."

"Suicide!" I sneered. "What _of rule three, you one of seven
murderers_!"

Sir Charles Venner re-crossed the room and quietly resumed his chair.
His face was still as expressionless as a mask, but all the lustre had
departed from his eyes.

"What do you know of rule three?" he asked in lifeless tones after a
long intense pause.

I knew so little that it seemed necessary to lie. "Enough to hang you,"
I murmured, smiling pleasantly. "I should tell you perhaps, my dear Sir
Charles, that I have impersonated Sir William Dagmar more often than I
have fingers and toes--during the past twelve months. Ha! you start!" I
laughed wickedly. "Did you really permit yourself to dream that you
have guessed the full extent of my depredations on your order--from
your one or two chance and predestined discoveries. Oh! oh! Ha! ha!
This is really too good!"

He bit his lips and eyed me sternly. "I shall need better proof than
your word," he said.

I nodded, got to my feet and strode to the door. I threw it open and
with an elaborate bow pointed to the passage.

"You shall have it," I cried, "but only in the police court!"

"Bluff!" he sneered. "Bluff!" He did not move from his chair.

"Oh!" said I, "you choose to pay yourself a compliment! So you think I
would follow your example of a moment since? But you are wrong!" I
walked to the electric bell and pressed the button.

Sir Charles Venner's impassivity disappeared like magic. His face
turned scarlet and he sprang instantly afoot.

"Curse you!" he grated out, "what would you do?"

"Sir, our interview is at an end. My servant will show you to the
street!"

"The sum you ask is utterly beyond our means!"

I shrugged my shoulders.

"Five thousand!" he hissed.

I yawned.

"Seven then, though it will ruin us!" he cried distractedly.

I took out a cigarette and struck a light. He watched me expel five
puffs of vapour from my mouth, but I did not so much as glance at him.
Then a servant appeared in the doorway.

"You rang, sir?" he enquired.

"Yes!" I looked at the fellow approvingly. He was a much stouter man
and perhaps an inch taller than I, and he had large feet. He was
attired in the hotel uniform. He wore a dragoon's moustache, and he
looked like an old soldier. "I wish you to be good enough to show my
dear friend, Sir Charles Venner, to the street." I turned to Sir
Charles and immediately perceived that my adversary had become my
victim.

"When and where shall we meet again?" he muttered hoarsely.

"Ten?" said I. He was grey, grey to his lips. His eyes shone like stars.

"Yes, ten!" he replied.

"I'll drop you a line!" I said with a smile. "But how careless of me, I
almost forget my hospital subscription list. How much may I put you
down for? You know the cause is a deserving one. Shall we say two
hundred pounds?"

"Oh, I suppose so," he said.

"Cash, old chap? Or will you send me a cheque?" I frowned as our eyes
met, and he read my meaning.

"I brought the money with me," he replied. "I may as well hand it over
to you now. I shall thereby save a postage stamp!" He threw a bundle of
notes upon the table.

I smiled again and looking steadily into his eyes held out one hand.
"Well, good night to you, old boy--sleep well--and be good till we meet
again!"

I fancy Sir Charles Venner had never been submitted to a more
intolerable piece of degradation. To be commanded to shake hands with
one's blackmailer! His eyes were simply murderous, but he obeyed. It
was only a form of course, for our fingers barely touched, but his
involuntary shiver of repulsion was communicated to my frame even in
that swift contact, and I had enough fine feeling in me to appreciate
his passionate disgust. To be candid, I liked him all the better
because of it, for although there is not a spark of pride in my
composition, a constitutional weakness obliges me to respect pride in
other people.

Five minutes after he had gone, I left my room and strolled to the head
of the stairs. As I had expected, a gentleman was seated upon the
lounge that faced the door of the elevator, I could not see his face
for it was concealed behind a newspaper. But I marked one incongruous
circumstance in his apparel. He wore evening dress, and ordinary street
boots of black leather. I am afraid I was so vulgar as to permit myself
the indulgence of a wink. I passed him and leisurely descended the
first flight of stairs. Of a sudden I stopped, and turning about ran
upstairs again at the top of my speed, taking three steps at a time. My
gentleman had already begun to descend the stairs. I passed him without
a glance, swearing in a low but audible key at my forgetfulness. In
another moment I was back in my room pressing the electric button.
"So!" thought I, "they have employed a detective to shadow me. Well, we
shall see!"

Presently a knock sounded on the door, and the waiter entered, who had
shown Sir Charles out.

"Shut it," I said. He obeyed.

"What is your name?" I demanded.

"Martin, sir."

"Well, look here, Martin," said I, "my old friend Sir Charles Venner
has just bet me a hundred pounds that I cannot succeed in getting out
of this hotel in some disguise, without his suspecting me, during the
next half hour. Now he is waiting in the vestibule, is he not?"

The waiter grinned. "No, sir, just inside the coffee room door; I was
wondering what he wanted. He gave me half a crown, sir."

"Half a crown!" I sneered. "Look here Martin----" I took Sir Charles'
own roll from my pocket and selected two brand new five pound notes.
"Now Sir Charles thinks himself very smart, and he fancies he can see
through a disguise in a second. But I reckon a bit on my smartness too,
for when I was a young man before I made a fortune out of mining I was
on the stage. With your help, my man, I'll do Sir Charles up, do him
brown--and these notes will be yours for helping me!"

Martin's eyes almost burst out of their sockets. "All right, sir!" he
cried excitedly. "What do you want me to do?"

"Exchange clothes with me for ten minutes. Here are the notes, my
man--I'll pay you beforehand. All I'll have to do to win my bet is to
slip out of the house and return. Hurry up, Martin!"

But Martin had already begun to slip off his coat. The bank notes were
tightly clutched between his teeth, so he could not reply, but I was
rather glad of that. I induced him to remove even his boots, and in
five minutes I was to all appearances a hotel waiter. A false moustache
gave me a general look of Martin, but a glance in the mirror showed me
a bad fault, the long hair of my previous character, the old
Shakesperean actor, fell upon my collar, while Martin's hair was
cropped closely to his head. But I dared not exchange the wig I was
wearing for another in Martin's presence, for fear of exciting his
distrust, neither dared I remove my false bushy grey eyebrows.

Difficulties, however, are made to be surmounted. Whispering a word of
warning in Martin's ear, I opened the door, and in a loud voice
commanded him to procure me a cab. Martin cried out--"Very good, sir!"
and I slipped into the passage, banging the door behind me. My trick
was successful, the corridor was deserted. In two seconds I had pulled
off my wig and substituted another, also I tore off my false eyebrows
and stuffed them into my pocket, that is to say, into Martin's pocket.
I then strode down the corridor and turned the corner with the brisk
step and manner of a waiter going on an urgent message. My gentleman
spy was again seated on the lounge that faced the elevator, and once
more intrenched behind a newspaper.

He threw at me one quick glance over the edge of the journal, and his
face vanished. I had just time to photograph his features on my
mind--no more. Running down the stairs I reached the vestibule, which
to my delight was thronged with guests. A moment later, having given
the coffee room a wide berth, I passed through the open hall door and
gained the street. A gentleman was standing on the footpath paying off
a cab from which he had just alighted. I sprang into the vehicle and
drove to Piccadilly Circus. A second took me to Marble Arch, and a
third to Bruton Street. Feeling assured that I had not been followed, I
slipped upstairs and into my room.

An hour later, Brown, Sir William Dagmar's discreet valet, stepped out
of an omnibus before the General Post Office, letter in hand addressed
to Sir Charles Venner. The letter, which was subscribed in printed
characters, contained these words:--"To-morrow afternoon, at 4.30,
inquire at Bolingbroke Hotel, Piccadilly, for Dr. Rudolf Garschagen.
Bank of England notes alone acceptable. Dagmar II."

I slept that night at Bruton Street.




VI

A BATTLE OF WITS


At ten o'clock on the next morning, as I approached my master's house
in Curzon Street, I saw Sir Charles Venner's brougham waiting before
the door. I thought it highly probable that Sir Charles would require
me to give an account of my absence from duty, whether he suspected me
or not, for he was in the position of a man obliged by circumstances to
suspect everyone, even his nearest and dearest friend. Nerving myself
for the encounter, I assumed a dejected and lugubrious expression, and
slowly mounting the steps, I inserted my latch-key in the lock. The
hall was deserted, but I heard a mutter of voices in the ante-room, and
thither I betook myself at once. "Best get it over quickly," was my
thought.

The door was ajar, and peering through I perceived Mr. Sefton Dagmar
and Sir Charles Venner in earnest converse. Mr. Dagmar's hat was lying
upon the table. Sir Charles carried his in his hand. I rapped softly
upon the panel and entered.

"Ah, Brown!" exclaimed the younger man. "Back, I see."

"Good morning, sir," I muttered, and turning to Sir Charles I anxiously
enquired after my master.

"Your master is much worse!" he replied, looking at me very keenly. "I
expect the crisis to-night!"

"He will recover, sir, I hope. You will surely save him, Sir Charles!"

"I don't know!"

Mr. Sefton Dagmar took up his hat and left the room, throwing me a wink
as he passed. "I think it's up to me to take a constitutional," he
observed, by way of excusing his departure. "Au revoir, Sir Charles!"

"Au revoir!" returned the surgeon. His eyes had never left my face. He
waited until we heard the street door close, then he said quietly: "And
how is your mother, Brown?"

"She is dead, sir!" I spoke the words in a low, dull tone, but without
attempting any exhibition of emotion. I knew better than to play such a
game with the man before me.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he observed. "You'll want to attend her
funeral, I suppose. When is she to be buried?"

"This afternoon, sir," I answered looking at the floor.

He drew in a long, sharp inspiration, which said plainer than words: "I
thought so!"

I understood that he suspected me. I raised my eyes to his, however,
with a worried melancholy expression, and I said in a hesitating way.
"It's very good of you, sir, to sympathize with me--I'm
sure--I--I--I--feel almost emboldened to take a liberty. I'm, I'm in
great trouble, sir?"

"Well, Brown?" His eyes were gleaming like drawn swords.

"It's this way, sir," I muttered. "My mother's illness has run
away--with my little bit of savings, sir--and--and--the undertaker
wants spot cash for the coffin, sir. He won't trust me, and I don't
know what to do, seeing master is so ill. It'd be all right, if he was
well, for I haven't drawn my last month's wages, sir."

"I see, you wish me to lend you some money."

I hung my head in real artistic shame. "I'd never dare--ask--you, sir!"
I muttered brokenly, "but since you've said it yourself, sir, I--I--" I
paused as if unable to proceed.

"How much do you need?"

"Five pounds would do, sir. Master owes me eight, and I could make it
over to you, if you'd only be so good. You see, sir, I'd hate"--I
choked--"a--a--pauper funeral, sir."

"Naturally, my man," his voice was much kinder. "But there will be no
need for that. I shall lend you the money with pleasure. Let me see,
it's ten now, I shall return to see your master again at twelve and
bring the money with me. I have only a few shillings about me at this
moment!"

"Thank you, sir," I stammered. "I'll never forget it of you, sir!" At
that juncture I allowed a tear to roll down my cheek, as I raised my
face to look at him, but I brushed it hastily away, as though ashamed.

He did not appear to notice anything, however, and without another word
he left the house. I considered that I had allayed his suspicions, but
I dared not make too sure, for that man possessed a more admirable
control of feature than any other I had ever known. I determined,
therefore, to be careful and remit no precaution, however small or
troublesome, in order to secure myself. To that end I took an early
opportunity of confiding my trouble to Nurse Hargreaves, and I almost
made her weep by the touching manner in which I described my mother's
death.

Sir Charles returned punctually at twelve o'clock and he put five
sovereigns into my hand as I admitted him. He was also kind enough to
tell me that I might leave the house at once, in order to conduct my
mother's funeral arrangements. I took him at his word. My first thought
as I stepped into the street was this:--"Am I to be shadowed? And if
so, how shall I discover the spy?" The pavement was dotted with
pedestrians who all appeared to be minding their own business. I walked
briskly towards Piccadilly. Before long I knew that I was followed, I
cannot explain how I knew, for although I seized every opportunity I
could to look back, I could not locate my shadower; but I felt that I
was shadowed, felt it in my bones. I was thrilled, exhilarated!
Difficulties and dangers always delight me, and always call, as with a
trumpet blast, my best faculties to action. I considered what to do. I
might easily have shaken off my pursuer had I wished, but to even
display such a desire would inevitably convert Sir Charles Venner's
suspicions into convictions. It was my ambition, on the other hand, to
destroy his suspicions altogether. An inspiration came to me at
Piccadilly Circus. I smothered a cry of delight, and entered an Oxford
Street omnibus. The end seat was vacant. I took it, and gazed
watchfully behind me. To even a trained observer like myself, it was no
easy task to pick out of the great moving throng that followed my
conveyance the man whose business was wrapped up in my own. But I did
not despair, and set steadily to work. At Oxford Circus I was sure that
he had not entered my 'bus. There I alighted and took another to London
Bridge. In which of the omnibuses and cabs trailing behind me was he
then seated? Nearest of all was a Bank 'bus; I did not believe it
contained him. Beyond that an empty hansom rolled along, then a
fourwheeler, then a greengrocer's cart, with a smart looking pony
between the shafts. I thought he might be in the fourwheeler, but no,
it turned down Museum Street. This brought the greengrocer's cart
nearer to the empty hansom, and gave me a chance to examine some of the
passengers on a Chancery Lane 'bus beyond. At Red Lion Street we pulled
up, and the Bank 'bus passed us with a good start, also the empty
hansom. I had now a good view of the Chancery Lane 'bus over the
greengrocer's cart, and of another 'bus behind that, bound for Gray's
Inn Road. We soon passed Chancery Lane, and so lost one more 'bus. The
pony drawing the greengrocer's cart was now almost touching our steps
with his nose. Not a soul of those who alighted from the Chancery Lane
'bus came our way. I examined the Gray's Inn Road 'bus, but it
contained only three women and a boy. Two hansoms now joined the
procession, but the first carried an eye-glassed snob, and the other an
officer in uniform. I was beginning to feel very puzzled when it
suddenly occurred to me to prospect the greengrocer's c

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