“Nothing,” said Essley testily. “Nothing—look here, constable, do not report this.” He slipped a pound into the man’s hand. “I do not wish this matter to get into the papers.”
The constable handed the money back.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said, “I couldn’t take this even if I was willing.” He looked round quickly and lowered his voice. “I’ve got a gentleman from the Yard with me,” he said, “one of the assistant commissioners.”
Essley followed the direction of the policeman’s eyes. In the shadow of the wall a man was standing.
“He was the chap who saw you first,” said the policeman, young and criminally loquacious.
Obeying some impulse he could not define, Essley walked towards the man in the shadow.
“I owe you a debt of gratitude,” he said. “I can only hope that you will add to your kindness by letting the matter drop—I should hate to see the thing referred to in the newspapers.”
“I suppose you would,” said the unknown. He was in evening dress, and the red glow of his cigar rather concealed than defined his face. “But this is a matter, Dr. Essley, where you must allow us full discretion.”
“How do you know my name?” asked the doctor suspiciously.
The other smiled in the darkness and turned away.
“One moment!”
Essley took a stride forward and peered into the other’s face.
“I seem to recognize your voice,” he said.
“That is possible,” said the other, and pushed him gently, but firmly, away.
Essley gasped. He himself was no weakling, but this man had an arm like steel.
“I think you had better go, sir,” said the police-constable anxiously. He desired neither to offend an obviously influential member of the public nor his superior—that mysterious commissioner who appeared and disappeared in the various divisions and who left behind him innumerable casualties amongst the different members of the force.
“I’ll go,” said the doctor, “but I should like to know this gentleman’s name.”
“That cannot possibly interest you,” said the stranger, and Essley shrugged his shoulders.
With that he had to be content. He drove home to Forest Hill, thinking, thinking.
Who were these three—what object had they?
Who was the man who had stood in the shadows? Was it possible that his assailants were acting in collusion with the police?
He was no nearer the solution when he reached his home. He unlocked the door and let himself in. There was nobody in the house but himself and the old woman upstairs.
His comings and goings were so erratic that he had organized a system which allowed him the most perfect freedom of movement.
There must be an end to Dr. Essley, he decided. Essley must disappear from London. He need not warn Black—Black would know.
He would settle the business of the ironmaster and his daughter, and then—there would be a finish.
He unlocked his study, entered and switched on the lights.
There was a letter on his writing-table, a letter enclosed in a thin grey envelope. He picked it up and examined it. It had been delivered by hand, and bore his name written in a firm hand.
He looked at the writing-table and started back.
The letter had been written in the room and blotted on the pad!
There was no doubt at all about it. The blotting-paper had been placed there fresh that day, and the reverse of the bold handwriting on the envelope was plain to see.
He looked at the envelope again.
It could not have been a patient: he never admitted patients—he had none worth mentioning. The practice was a blind. Besides, the door had been locked, and he alone had the key. He tore the envelope open and took out the contents. It was a half-sheet of notepaper. The three lines of writing ran—
“You escaped tonight, and have only seven days to prepare yourself for the fate which awaits you.
He sank into his chair, crushed by the knowledge.
They were the Just Men—and he had escaped them.
The Just Men! He buried his face in his hands and tried to think. Seven days they gave him. Much could be done in seven days. The terror of death was upon him, he who had without qualm or remorse sent so many on the long journey. But this was he—himself! He clutched at his throat and glared round the room. Essley the poisoner—the expert; a specialist in death—the man who had revived the lost art of the Medicis and had hoodwinked the law. Seven days! Well, he would settle the business of the ironmaster. That was necessary to Black.
He began to make feverish preparations for the future. There were no papers to destroy. He went into the surgery and emptied three bottles down the sink. The fourth he would want. The fourth had been useful to Black: a little green bottle with a glass stopper. He slipped it into his pocket.
He let the tap run to wash away all trace of the drug he had spilt. The bottles he smashed and threw into a waste-bin.
He went upstairs to his room, but he could not sleep. He locked his door and put a chair against it. With a revolver in his hand, he searched the cupboard and beneath the bed. He placed the revolver under his pillow and tried to sleep.
Next morning found him haggard and ill, but none the less he made his toilet with customary care.
Punctually at noon he presented himself at Hampstead and was shown into the drawing-room.
The girl was alone when he entered. He noted with approval that she was very beautiful.
That May Sandford did not like him he knew by instinct. He saw the cloud come to her pretty face as he came into her presence, and was amused in his cold way.
“My father is out,” she said.
“That is good,” said Essley, “for now we can talk.”
He seated himself without invitation.
“I think it is only right to tell you, Dr. Essley, that my father’s fears regarding me are quite groundless.”
At that moment the ironmaster came in and shook hands warmly with the doctor.
“Well, how
