“So am I, but we must work on assumptions. Let us suppose Medina is responsible. He may only be trying to find out the extent of his powers, and selects you as the most difficult subject to be found. You may be sure he knows all about your record. He may be only a vain man experimenting.”
“In which case,” I said, “I propose to punch his head.”
“In which case, as you justly observe, you will give yourself the pleasure of punching his head. But suppose that he has got a far deeper purpose, something really dark and damnable. If by his hypnotic power he could make a tool of you, consider what an asset he would have found. A man of your ability and force. I have always said, you remember, that you had a fine natural talent for crime.”
“I tell you, Sandy, that’s nonsense. It’s impossible that there’s anything wrong—badly wrong—with Medina.”
“Improbable, but not impossible. We’re taking no chances. And if he were a scoundrel, think what a power he might be with all his talents and charm and popularity.”
Sandy flung himself into a chair and appeared to be meditating. Once or twice he broke silence.
“I wonder what Dr. Newhover meant by talking of a salmon river in Norway. Why not golf at North Berwick?”
And again:
“You say there was a scent like peat in the room? Peat! You are certain?”
Finally he got up. “Tomorrow,” he said, “I think I will have a look round the house in Gospel Oak. Gospel Oak, by the way, is a funny name, isn’t it? You say it has electric light. I will visit it as a man from the corporation to see about the meter. Oh, that can easily be managed. Macgillivray will pass the word for me.”
The mention of Macgillivray brought me to attention. “Look here,” I said, “I’m simply wasting my time. I got in touch with Medina in order to ask his help, and now I’ve been landed in a set of preposterous experiences which have nothing to do with my job. I must see Macgillivray tomorrow about getting alongside his Shropshire squire. For the present there can be nothing doing with Medina.”
“Shropshire squire be hanged! You’re an old ass, Dick. For the present there’s everything doing with Medina. You wanted his help. Why? Because he was the next stage in the clue to that nonsensical rhyme. Well, you’ve discovered that there may be odd things about him. You can’t get his help, but you may get something more. You may get the secret itself. Instead of having to burrow into his memory, as you did with Greenslade, you may find it sticking out of his life.”
“Do you really believe that?” I asked in some bewilderment.
“I believe nothing as yet. But it is far the most promising line. He thinks that from what happened last night plus what happened two hours ago you are under his influence, an acolyte, possibly a tool. It may be all quite straight, or it may be most damnably crooked. You have got to find out. You must keep close to him, and foster his illusions, and play up to him for all you’re worth. He is bound to show his hand. You needn’t take any steps on your own account. He’ll give you the lead all right.”
I can’t say I liked the prospect, for I have no love for playacting, but I am bound to admit that Sandy talked sense. I asked him about himself, for I counted on his backing more than I could say.
“I propose to resume my travels,” he said. “I wish to pursue my studies in the Bibliothèque Nationale of France.”
“But I thought you were with me in this show.”
“So I am. I go abroad on your business, as I shall explain to you some day. Also I want to see the man whom we used to call Ram Dass. I believe him to be in Munich at this moment. The day after tomorrow you will read in The Times that Colonel the Master of Clanroyden has gone abroad for an indefinite time on private business.”
“How long will you be away?” I groaned.
“A week perhaps, or a fortnight—or more. And when I come back it may not be as Sandy Arbuthnot.”
VII
Some Experiences of a Disciple
I didn’t see Sandy again, for he took the night train for Paris next evening, and I had to go down to Oxford that day to appear as a witness in a running-down case. But I found a note for me at the Club when I got back the following morning. It contained nothing except these words: “Coverts drawn blank, no third person in house.” I had not really hoped for anything from Sandy’s expedition to Palmyra Square, and thought no more about it.
He didn’t return in a week, nor yet in a fortnight, and, realising that I had only a little more than two months to do my job in, I grew very impatient. But my time was pretty well filled with Medina, as you shall hear.
While I was reading Sandy’s note Turpin turned up, and begged me to come for a drive in his new Delage and talk to him. The Marquis de la Tour du Pin was, if possible, more pallid than before, his eyelids heavier, and his gentleness more silken. He drove me miles into the country, away through Windsor Forest, and as we raced at sixty miles an hour he uncovered his soul. He was going mad, it seemed; was, indeed, already mad, and only a slender and doubtless ill-founded confidence in me prevented him shooting himself. He was convinced that Adela Victor was dead, and that no trace of her would ever be found. “These policemen of yours—bah!” he moaned. “Only in England can people vanish.” He concluded, however, that he would stay alive till he had avenged her, for he believed that a good God would some day deliver
