“Come to your bed. It is late,” said Stalletti.
He spoke in Greek. The thing that was crouching in the darkness came shuffling forth, blinking at the light. It was more than a head taller than the bearded man, and, save for the ragged pair of breeches it wore about its waist, it was unclothed.
“Go to your room. I will bring milk and food for you.”
Stalletti, standing at a distance from his creation, cracked his whip, and the big man with the blank face went trotting through the door across the landing into the room with one bed. Stalletti pulled the door tight and locked it; then he went down the stairs, through the laboratory, and out by a small door to the grounds at the back of the house. He still carried his whip and swung the lash as he walked, humming a little tune. He passed through a fringe of fir-trees and, stopping under a spreading oak, whistled. Something dropped from the bough above almost at his feet, and sat crouching, its knuckles on the ground.
“Room—milk—sleep,” he said to the figure, and cracked his whip when the listening shape moved too slowly. At the snap of it the strange thing that had dropped from the tree broke into a jog-trot, disappearing through the laboratory door, and Stalletti followed at his leisure.
He went upstairs a little later, carrying two huge bowls of milk and two plates of meat on a tray. When he had fed his creatures and locked them in their dens, he went back to his workroom, dismissing slaves and detectives from his mind, utterly absorbed in his present studies.
XVII
Mr. Havelock was reading a letter for the third time that morning. Twice he had consulted his managing clerk, and he was reading it for the third time when Dick Martin was shown in.
“I hope I didn’t get you out of bed too early, Mr. Martin, and I have to apologize for bringing you into this matter which ended, so far as you were concerned, when you returned. I had this letter this morning; I’d like you to read it.”
The letter was in writing which was, by now, familiar to Dick. It bore the address of a Cairo hotel.
Dear Havelock (it began),
I had your cable about Dr. Cody, and I am writing at once to tell you that I certainly know this man and I have had correspondence with him, so why he should deny all acquaintance with me, I can’t understand, unless it is the natural reticence of a man who may not want other people to know his business. Cody wrote to me a long time ago, asking me for a loan. It was for a very considerable sum—£18,000—and I had no inclination to advance this amount to a total stranger. He told me he had got into a very bad state, and that he wished to clear out of England, to get away from a man who had threatened to kill him. I forget the whole story now, but it struck me at the time that the man was sincere. I wish you would send me £25,000 in French notes. Register the parcel as usual, and address me at the Hotel de Paris, Damascus. I hope to go on to Bagdad, and thence into Southern Russia, where I believe there is a big property to be bought for a song.
The letter was signed “Pierce.”
“Do you usually send him money when he asks for it?”
“Invariably,” said the other, in a tone of surprise.
“And you are sending him this large sum?”
Mr. Havelock bit his lip.
“I don’t know. I’m rather troubled about the matter. My managing clerk, in whose judgment I have complete faith, advises me to cable his lordship asking him to appoint another agent. The responsibility is too big, and after yesterday’s horrible experience, I am almost inclined to wash my hands of the matter. It would, of course, mean a heavy loss to us, because the management of the Selford estates brings us in nearly five thousand pounds a year.”
Dick was staggered at the figure.
“It must be an enormously wealthy estate,” he said.
“It is,” agreed Havelock. “And, unfortunately for me, it is increasing in value every day. It will soon become unwieldy.”
“Did Lord Selford leave anything in the nature of a treasure?” asked Dick, as he remembered a question he had intended asking.
Havelock shook his head.
“No, beyond the cash at the bank, which was a large sum—fifty thousand pounds or so—there were no fluid assets. But he left a number of undeveloped coal lands in Yorkshire and Northumberland, which have since proved very valuable; in addition to which he had several large properties in Australia and South Africa, which have also enhanced in value to an enormous extent. You are thinking about the door with the seven locks?” he smiled. “Believe me, there is nothing there so far as I know, and I have seen every document, private and general, which the late Lord Selford left. That little cell is as much a mystery to me as it is to you. It could be cleared up in twenty-four hours if I had his lordship’s permission to force the door. But I have never asked for it, because I have never seen the necessity for it.” Then he smiled. “I have been hearing stories about you, Mr. Martin. They tell me that you can pick a lock as skilfully as any cracksman.”
“Most locks,” said Dick promptly, “but none of the seven. I realize my limitations. Now, I could open that safe”—he pointed to a little black safe standing in the corner of the room—“as easily as I could open your office door. I won’t say I could do it
