He had made no reference to the providential appearance of Jim Steele, nor did he speak of this until they had said good night to the girl and had passed down the stairs into the hall again.
“Rather a coincidence, your being here, Mr. Steele,” he said. “What were you doing? Studying dactylology?”
“Something like that,” said Jim coolly.
Mr. Digby Groat searched for a cigarette in his pocket and lit it.
“I should have thought that your work was so arduous that you would not have time for early morning strolls in Grosvenor Square.”
“Would you really?” said Jim, and then suddenly Digby laughed.
“You’re a queer devil,” he said. “Come along and see my laboratory.”
Jim was anxious to see the laboratory, and the invitation saved him from the necessity of making further reference to the terrifying cry which Eunice had heard.
They turned down a long passage through the padded door and came to a large annexe, the walls of which were of white glazed brick. There was no window, the light in the daytime being admitted through a glass roof. Now, however, these were covered by blue blinds and the room owed its illumination to two powerful lights which hung above a small table. It was not an ordinary table; its legs were of thin iron, terminating in rubber-tyred castors. The top was of white enamelled iron, with curious little screw holds occurring at intervals.
It was not the table so much as the occupant which interested Jim. Fastened down by two iron bands, one of which was about its neck and one about the lower portion of its body, its four paws fastened by thin cords, was a dog, a rough-haired terrier who turned its eyes upon Jim with an expression of pleading so human that Jim could almost feel the message that the poor little thing was sending.
“Your dog, eh?” said Jim.
Digby looked at him.
“Yes,” he said. “Why?”
“Haven’t you finished taking the glass out of his paw?”
“Not quite,” said the other coolly.
“By the way, you don’t keep him very clean,” Jim said.
Digby turned.
“What the devil are you hinting at?” he asked.
“I am merely suggesting that this is not your dog, but a poor stray terrier which you picked up in the street half an hour ago and enticed into this house.”
“Well?”
“I’ll save you further trouble by saying that I saw you pick it up.”
Digby’s eyes narrowed.
“Oh, you did, did you?” he said softly. “So you were spying on me?”
“Not exactly spying on you,” said Jim calmly, “but merely satisfying my idle curiosity.”
His hand fell on the dog and he stroked its ears gently.
Digby laughed.
“Well, if you know that, I might as well tell you that I am going to evacuate the sensory nerve. I’ve always been curious to—”
Jim looked round.
“Where is your anaesthetic?” he asked gently, and he was most dangerous when his voice sank to that soft note.
“Anaesthetic? Good Lord,” scoffed the other, “you don’t suppose I’m going to waste money on chloroform for a dog, do you?”
His fingers rested near the poor brute’s head and the dog, straining forward, licked the torturer’s hand.
“Filthy little beast!” said Digby, picking up a towel.
He took a thick rubber band, slipped it over the dog’s mouth and nose.
“Now lick,” he laughed; “I think that will stop his yelping. You’re a bit chickenhearted, aren’t you, Mr. Steele? You don’t realize that medical science advances by its experiments on animals.”
“I realize the value of vivisection under certain conditions,” said Jim quietly, “but all decent doctors who experiment on animals relieve them of their pain before they use the knife; and all doctors, whether they are decent or otherwise, receive a certificate of permission from the Board of Trade before they begin their experiments. Where is your certificate?”
Digby’s face darkened.
“Look here, don’t you come here trying to bully me,” he blustered. “I brought you here just to show you my laboratory—”
“And if you hadn’t brought me in,” interrupted Jim, “I should jolly well have walked in, because I wasn’t satisfied with your explanation. Oh, yes, I know, you’re going to tell me that the dog was only frightened and the yell she heard was when you put that infernal clamp on his neck. Now, I’ll tell you something, Mr. Digby Groat, I’ll give you three minutes to get the clamp off that dog.”
Digby’s yellow face was puckered with rage.
“And if I don’t?” he breathed.
“I’ll put you where the dog is,” said Jim. “And please don’t persuade yourself that I couldn’t do it.”
There was a moment’s silence.
“Take the clamps off that dog,” said Jim.
Digby looked at him.
For a moment they gazed at one another and there was a look of malignity in the eyes that dropped before Jim’s. Another minute and the dog was free.
Jim lifted the shivering little animal in his arms and rubbed its bony head, and Digby watched him glowering, his teeth showing in his rage.
“I’ll remember this,” he snarled. “By God, you shall rue the day you ever interfered with me!”
Jim’s steady eyes met the man’s.
“I have never feared a threat in my life,” he said quietly. “I’m not likely to be scared now. I admit that vivisection is necessary under proper conditions, but men like you who torture harmless animals from a sheer lust of cruelty, are bringing discredit upon the noblest of professions. You hurt in order to satisfy your own curiosity. You have not the slightest intention of using the knowledge you gain for the benefit of suffering humanity. When I came into this laboratory,” he said—he was standing at the door as he spoke—“there were two brutes here. I am leaving the bigger one behind.”
He slammed the padded door and walked out into the passage, leaving a man whose vanity was hurt beyond forgiveness.
Then to his surprise Groat heard Jim’s footsteps returning and his visitor came in.
“Did you close your front
