“You are a weird man, doctor,” said the ironmaster with a smile, as he greeted his visitor. “Do you visit most of your patients by night?”
“My aristocratic patients,” said the other coolly.
“A bad job about poor Fanks,” said the other. “He and I were only dining together a few weeks ago. Did he tell you that he met a man who knew you in Australia?”
A shadow of annoyance passed over the other’s face.
“Let us talk about your daughter,” he said brusquely. “What is the matter with her?”
The ironmaster smiled sheepishly.
“Nothing, I fear; yet you know, Essley, she is my only child, and I sometimes imagine that she is looking ill. My doctor in Newcastle tells me that there is nothing wrong with her.”
“I see,” said Essley. “Where is she?”
“She is at the theatre,” confessed the father. “You must think I am an awful fool to bring you up to town to discuss the health of a girl who is at the theatre, but something upset her pretty badly last night, and I was today glad to see her take enough interest in life to visit a musical comedy.”
“Most fathers are fools,” said the other. “I will wait till she comes in.” He strolled to the window and looked out.
“Why have you quarrelled with Black?” he asked suddenly.
The older man frowned.
“Business,” he said shortly. “He is pushing me into a corner. I helped him four years ago—”
“He helped you, too,” interrupted the doctor.
“But not so much as I helped him,” said the other obstinately. “I gave him his chance. He floated my company and I profited, but he profited more. The business has now grown to such vast proportions that it will not pay me to come in. Nothing will alter my determination.”
“I see.” Essley whistled a little tune as he walked again to the window.
Such men as this must be broken, he thought. Broken! And there was only one way: that daughter of his. He could do nothing tonight, that was evident—nothing.
“I do not think I will wait for your daughter,” he said. “Perhaps I will call in tomorrow evening.”
“I am so sorry—”
But the doctor silenced him.
“There is no need to be sorry,” he said with acerbity; “you will find my visit charged in my bill.”
The ironmaster laughed as he saw him to the door.
“You are almost as good a financier as your friend,” he said.
“Almost,” said the doctor dryly.
His waiting taxi dropped him at Charing Cross, and he went straight to the nearest call-office and rang up a Temperance Hotel at Bloomsbury.
He had reasons for wishing to meet a Mr. Weld who knew him in Australia.
He had no difficulty in getting the message through. Mr. Weld was in the hotel. He waited whilst the attendant found him. By and by a voice spoke:
“I am Weld—do you want me?”
“Yes; my name is Cole. I knew you in Australia. I have a message for you from a mutual friend. Can you see me tonight?”
“Yes; where?”
Dr. Essley had decided the place of meeting.
“Outside the main entrance of the British Museum,” he said. “There are few people about at this time of night, and I am less likely to miss you.”
There was a pause at the other end of the wire.
“Very good,” said the voice, “in a quarter of an hour?”
“That will suit me admirably—goodbye.”
He hung up the receiver. Leaving his satchel at the cloakroom at Charing Cross Station, he set out to walk to Great Russell Street. He would take no cab. There should be no evidence of that description. Black would not like it. He smiled at the thought. Great Russell Street was deserted, save for a constant stream of taxicabs passing and repassing and an occasional pedestrian. He found his man waiting; rather tall and slight, with an intellectual, refined face.
“Dr. Essley?” he asked, coming forward as the other halted.
“That is my—”
Essley stopped.
“My name is Cole,” he said harshly. “What made you think I was Essley?”
“Your voice,” said the other calmly. “After all, it does not matter what you call yourself; I want to see you.”
“And I you,” said Essley.
They walked along side by side until they came to a side street.
“What do you want of me?” asked the doctor.
The other laughed.
“I wanted to see you. You are not a bit like the Essley I knew. He was slighter and had not your colouring, and I was always under the impression that the Essley who went up into the bush died.”
“It is possible,” said Essley in an absent way. He wanted to gain time. The street was empty. A little way down there was a gateway in which a man might lie unobserved until a policeman came.
In his pocket he had an impregnated feather carefully wrapped up in lint and oiled silk. He drew it from his pocket furtively and with his hands behind him he stripped it of its covering.
“… in fact, Dr. Essley,” the man was saying, “I am under the impression that you are an impostor.”
Essley faced him.
“You think too much,” he said in a low voice, “and after all, I do not recognize—turn your face to the light.”
The young man obeyed. It was a moment. Quick as thought the doctor raised the feather …
A hand of steel gripped his wrist. As if from the ground, two other men had appeared. Something soft was thrust into his face; a sickly aroma overpowered him. He struggled madly, but the odds were too many, and then a shrill police-whistle sounded and he dropped to the ground …
He awoke to find a policeman bending over him. Instinctively he put his hand to his head.
“Hurt, sir?” asked the man.
“No.”
He struggled to his feet and stood unsteadily.
“Did you capture the men?”
“No, sir, they got away. We just spotted them as they downed you, but, bless your heart, they seemed to be swallowed up by the earth.”
He looked around for the feather: it had disappeared. With some reluctance he gave his name and address to the constable, who called a taxicab.
“You’re
