“Can you direct me to the Passeo de la Gran Capitan?” he asked in bad Spanish.
“I am going that way,” said Manfred courteously; “if the señor would condescend to accompany me—”
“I shall be grateful,” said the other.
They chatted a little on divers subjects—the weather, the delightful character of the mosque-cathedral.
“You must come along and see Essley,” said the tourist suddenly. He spoke in perfect Spanish.
“Tell me about him,” said Manfred. “Between you and Gonsalez, my dear Poiccart, you have piqued my curiosity.”
“This is an important matter,” said the other earnestly. “Essley is a doctor in a suburb of London. I have had him under observation for some months. He has a small practice—quite a little one—and he attends a few cases. Apparently he does no serious work in his suburb, and his history is a strange one. He was a student at University College, London, and soon after getting his degree left with a youth named Henley for Australia. Henley had been a hopeless failure and had been badly ploughed in his exams, but the two were fast friends, which may account for their going away together to try their luck in a new country. Neither of them had a relation in the world, except Henley, who had a rich uncle settled somewhere in Canada, and whom he had never seen. Arrived in Melbourne, the two started off up country with some idea of making for the new gold diggings, which were in full swing at that time. I don’t know where the diggings were; at any rate, it was three months before Essley arrived—alone, his companion having died on the road!”
“He does not seem to have started practising,” Poiccart went on, “for three or four years. We can trace his wanderings from mining camp to mining camp, where he dug a little, gambled a lot, and was generally known as Dr. S.—probably an abbreviation of Essley. Not until he reached Western Australia did he attempt to establish himself as a doctor. He had some sort of a practice, not a very high-class one, it is true, but certainly lucrative. He disappeared from Coolgardie in 1900; he did not reappear in England until 1908.”
They had reached the Passeo by now. The streets were better filled than they had been when Manfred had followed the beggar.
“I’ve some rooms here,” he said. “Come in and we will have some tea.”
He occupied a flat over a jeweller’s in the Calle Moreria. It was a well-furnished apartment, “and especially blessed in the matter of light,” explained Manfred as he inserted the key. He put a silver kettle on the electric stove.
“The table is laid for two?” questioned Poiccart.
“I have visitors,” said Manfred with a little smile. “Sometimes the begging profession becomes an intolerable burden to our Leon and he enters Cordova by rail, a most respectable member of society, full of a desire for the luxury of life—and stories. Go on with yours, Poiccart; I am interested.”
The “tourist” seated himself in a deep armchair. “Where was I?” he asked. “Oh, yes. Dr. Essley disappeared from Coolgardie, and after an obliteration of eight years reappeared in London.”
“In any exceptional circumstances?”
“No, very ordinarily. He seems to have been taken up by the newest kind of Napoleon.”
“A Colonel Black?” asked Manfred, raising his eyebrows.
Poiccart nodded.
“That same meteor,” he said. “At any rate, Essley, thanks to what practice he could steal from other practitioners in his own suburb—somewhere in the neighbourhood of Forest Hill—and what practice Napoleon’s recommendation gives him, seems to be fairly well off. He first attracted my attention—”
There came a tap at the door, and Manfred raised his finger warningly. He crossed the room and opened the door. The concierge stood outside, cap in hand; behind him and a little way down the stairs was a stranger—obviously an Englishman.
“A señor to see your excellency,” said the concierge.
“My house is at your disposal,” said Manfred, addressing the stranger in Spanish.
“I am afraid I do not speak good Spanish,” said the man on the stairs.
“Will you come up?” asked Manfred, in English.
The other mounted the stairs slowly.
He was a man of fifty. His hair was grey and long. His eyebrows were shaggy, and his under-jaw stuck out and gave his face an appearance which was slightly repulsive. He wore a black coat and carried a big, soft wideawake in his gloved hand.
He peered round the room from one to the other.
“My name,” he said, “is Essley.”
He pronounced the word, lingering upon the double “ss” till it sounded like a long hiss.
“Essley,” he repeated as though he derived some satisfaction from the repetition—“Dr. Essley.”
Manfred motioned him to a chair, but he shook his head.
“I’ll stand,” he said harshly. “When I have business, I stand.” He looked suspiciously at Poiccart. “I have private business,” he said pointedly.
“My friend has my complete confidence,” said Manfred.
He nodded grudgingly. “I understand,” he said, “that you are a scientist and a man of considerable knowledge of Spain.”
Manfred shrugged his shoulders. In his present role he enjoyed some reputation as a quasi-scientific litterateur, and under the name of “de la Monte” had published a book on Modern Crime.
“Knowing this,” said the man, “I came to Cordova, having other business also—but that will keep.”
He looked round for a chair and Manfred offered one, into which he sat, keeping his back to the window.
“Mr. de la Monte,” said the doctor, leaning forward with his hands on his knees and speaking very deliberately, “you have some knowledge of crime.”
“I have written a book on the subject,” said Manfred, “which is not necessarily the same thing.”
“I had that fear,” said the other bluntly. “I was also afraid that you might not speak English. Now I want to ask you a plain question and I want a plain answer.”
“So far as I can
