“Good morning, Manfred.” Newton removed his cigar and nodded genially. “Were you at the dance last night?”
“I was there, but I didn’t come in,” said Manfred, seating himself. “You did not turn up till late, they tell me?”
“It was of all occurrences the most unfortunate,” said Dr. Oberzohn, and Newton laughed.
“I’ve lost his laboratory secretary and he hasn’t forgiven me,” he said almost jovially. “The girl he took on yesterday. Rather a stunner in the way of looks. She didn’t wish to go back to the country where she came from, so my sister offered to put her up for the night in Chester Square. I’m blessed if she didn’t lose herself at the dance, and we haven’t seen her since!”
“It was a terrible thing,” said Oberzohn sadly. “I regard her as in my charge. For her safety I am responsible. You, I trust, Mr. Newton—”
“I don’t think I should have another uneasy moment if I were you, doctor,” said Manfred easily. “The young lady is back at Heavytree Farm. I thought that would surprise you. And she is still there: that will surprise you more, if you have not already heard by telephone that your Old Guard failed dismally to—er—bring her back to work. I presume that was their object?”
“My old guard, Mr. Manfred?” Oberzohn shook his head in bewilderment. “This is beyond my comprehension.”
“Is your sister well?” asked Manfred blandly.
Newton shrugged his shoulders.
“She is naturally upset. And who wouldn’t be? Joan is a very tenderhearted girl.”
“She has been that way for years,” said Manfred offensively. “May I smoke?”
“Will you have one of my cigarettes?” Manfred’s grave eyes fixed the doctor in a stare that held the older man against his will.
“I have had just one too many of your cigarettes,” he said. His words came like a cold wind. “I do not want any more, Herr Doktor, or there will be vacancies in your family circle. Who knows that, long before you compound your wonderful elixir, you may be called to normal immortality?”
The yellow face of Oberzohn had turned to a dull red.
“You seem to know so much about me, Mr. Manfred, as myself,” he said in a husky whisper.
Manfred nodded.
“More. For whilst you are racing against time to avoid the end of a life which does not seem especially worthy of preservation, and whilst you know not what day or hour that end may come, I can tell you to the minute.” The finger of his gloved hand pointed the threat.
All trace of a smile had vanished from Monty Newton’s face. His eyes did not leave the caller’s.
“Perhaps you shall tell me.” Oberzohn found a difficulty in speaking. Rage possessed him, and only his iron will choked down the flames from view.
“The day that injury comes to Mirabelle Leicester, that day you go out—you and those who are with you!”
“Look here, Manfred, there’s a law in this country—” began Monty Newton hotly.
“I am the law.” The words rang like a knell of fate. “In this matter I am judge, jury, hangman. Old or young, I will not spare,” he said evenly.
“Are you immortal too?” sneered Monty.
Only for a second did Manfred’s eyes leave the old man’s face.
“The law is immortal,” he said. “If you dream that, by some cleverly concerted coup, you can sweep me from your path before I grow dangerous, be sure that your sweep is clean.”
“You haven’t asked me to come here to listen to this stuff, have you?” asked Newton, and though his words were bold, his manner aggressive, there were shadows on his face which were not there when Manfred had come into the room—shadows under his eyes and in his cheeks where plumpness had been.
“I’ve come here to tell you to let up on Miss Leicester. You’re after something that you cannot get, and nobody is in a position to give you. I don’t know what it is—I will make you a present of that piece of information. But it’s big—bigger than any prize you’ve ever gone after in your wicked lives. And to get that, you’re prepared to sacrifice innocent lives with the recklessness of spendthrifts who think there is no bottom to their purse. The end is near!”
He rose slowly and stood by the table, towering over the stiff-backed doctor.
“I cannot say what action the police will take over this providential snakebite, Oberzohn, but I’ll make you this offer: I and my friends will stand out of the game and leave Meadows to get you in his own way. You think that means you’ll go scot-free? But it doesn’t. These police are like bulldogs: once they’ve got a grip of you, they’ll never let go.”
“What is the price you ask for this interesting service?” Newton was puffing steadily at his cigar, his hands clasped behind him, his feet apart, a picture of comfort and well-being.
“Leave Miss Leicester alone. Find a new way of getting the money you need so badly.”
Newton laughed.
“My dear fellow, that’s a stupid thing to say. Neither Oberzohn nor I are exactly poor.”
“You’re bankrupt, both of you,” said Manfred quietly. “You are in the position of gamblers when the cards have run against you for a long time. You have no reserve, and your expenses are enormous. Find another way, Newton—and tell your sister”—he paused by the door, looking down into the white lining of his silk hat—“I’d like to see her at Curzon Street tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.”
“Is that an order?” asked Newton sarcastically.
Manfred nodded.
“Then let me tell you,” roared the man, white with passion, “that I take no orders for her or for me. Got swollen heads since you’ve had your pardon, haven’t you? You look out for me, Manfred. I’m not exactly harmless.”
He felt the pressure of the doctor’s foot upon his and curbed his temper.
“All right,” he growled, “but don’t expect to see Joan.”
He added a coarse jest, and Manfred raised his eyes slowly and met his.
“You will be hanged by the State or murdered by Oberzohn—I am not
