He opened the door of the dressing-table and drew out a number of wigs. They were wigs such as only Fasieur can supply—perfectly modelled and all of one shade of hair, though differently arranged.
He tossed them on to the table impatiently, groping for something which he knew should be there, and was there unless a thief skilled in the use of skeleton keys, and having, moreover, some knowledge of the office, had taken it. He stopped his search suddenly and examined a pad of paper which lay on the table.
It was a pad which he kept handy for note-taking—to jot down memoranda. On the white face of the paper was a large brown thumb-mark, and though Colonel Black knew little of the science of anthropology, he was sufficiently well acquainted with the sign to know that it was the mark of a thumb which ought never to have been in this secret office of his.
Then it was Willie! Willie Jakobs, the befriended, the pensioned, and the scorned, who had removed a certain green bottle, the duplicate of which was in his pocket at that moment.
Black did not lose his nerve. He went to a drawer in the desk of his outer office and took out a Browning pistol. It was loaded. He balanced it in his right hand, looked at it reflectively, then put it back again. He hated firearms; they made a great deal of unnecessary noise, and they left behind them too sure an indication of the identity of their user. Men have been traced by bullets.
There were other ways. He lifted from the drawer a long thin knife. It was an Italian stiletto of the sixteenth century—the sort of toy a man might use in these prosaic days for opening his letters. And indeed this was the ostensible reason why Black kept the weapon at hand.
He drew it from its ornate leather sheath and tested its temper, felt its edge and gingerly fingered its point; then he put the stiletto in its case in his overcoat pocket, switched out the light and went out. This was not a case which demanded the employment of the little bottle. There was too little of the precious stuff left, and he had need of it for other purposes.
There were two or three places where he might find the man. A little public-house off Regent Street was one. He drove there, stopping the cab a few paces from the spot. He strode into the bar, where men of Jakobs’ kind were to be found, but it was empty. The man he sought was not there.
He made a tour of other likely places with no better success. Willie would be at home. He had moved to lodgings on the south side of the Thames.
It was coming from a little public-house off the New Kent Road that Black found his man. Willie had been spending the evening brooding over his grievance, and was on his way home to prepare for his big adventure when Black clapped him on the shoulder.
“Hullo, Willie,” he said.
The man turned round with a start.
“Keep your hands off me,” he said hastily, stumbling against the wall.
“Now, don’t be silly,” said Black. “Let’s talk this matter out reasonably. You’re a reasonable man, aren’t you? I’ve got a cab waiting round the corner.”
“You don’t get me into no cabs,” said Jakobs. “I’ve had enough of you, Black. You’ve turned round on me. You cast me out like a dog. Is that the way to treat a pal?”
“You’ve made a mistake, my friend,” said Black smoothly. “We’re all liable to make mistakes. I’ve made many, and I dare say you’ve made a few. Now, let’s talk business.”
Willie said nothing. He was still suspicious. Once he thought he saw the other’s hand steal to his breast-pocket. He guessed the motive of the action. This, then, was where the bottle was.
Black was an adept in the art of cajolery. He knew the weak places of all the men who had been associated with him. Very slowly he led the other aimlessly, so it seemed, from one street to another until they reached a little cul-de-sac. Stables occupied one side of the tiny street and artisan houses the other. One street-lamp halfway down showed a dim light.
Willie hesitated. “There’s no thoroughfare,” he said.
“Oh yes, there is,” said Black confidently. “I know this neighbourhood rather well. Now, there’s one thing I want to ask you, Willie. I’m sure you are feeling more friendly towards me now, aren’t you?”
His hand rested almost affectionately on the other’s shoulder.
“You didn’t play the game,” persisted the other.
“Let bygones be bygones,” said Black. “What I want to know is, Willie, why did you take the bottle?”
He asked the question in a matter-of-fact tone. He did not raise his voice or give the query unusual emphasis.
The other man was taken off his guard.
“Well, I felt sore,” he said.
“And I suppose,” said Black, with gentle reproach, “you’re waiting to hand that bottle to our friend Fellowe?”
“I haven’t handed it to anybody yet,” said Willie, “but to tell you the truth—”
He said no more. The big man’s hand suddenly closed round his throat with a grip like steel. Willie struggled, but he was like a child in the grasp of the other.
“You dog,” breathed Black.
He shook the helpless man violently. Then with his disengaged hand he whipped the telltale phial from the other’s pocket and pushed him against the wall.
“And I’ll teach you that that’s nothing to what you’ll get if you ever come across me again.”
Jakobs dropped, white and ghastly, against the wall.
“You’ve got the bottle, Black,” he said, “but I know everything that you’ve done with it.”
“You do, do
