"'You've hit it,' he said, and paused. 'No place like Home!

I'm glad enough to have seen all that show yonder.' He waved a hand. 'But I wouldn't be one of these kings, not if you paid me. . . . Look here, we'll cross to-morrow, eh? Of course, if you prefer to stay behind--'

"'I'm not going to stay behind,' said I, throwing away my cigarette.

"'Capital! We'll wind up with a dinner at the Savoy--'

"'Cold roast beef and mixed pickles,' I put in.

"He chuckled. 'Clever fellow, that Caffyn--made my mouth water, he did. We'll wind up at the Savoy, and talk over another trip that we'll take together, one of these days. For I shall miss your company, Doctor.'

"'No, you won't,' said I, lighting a fresh cigarette.

"He stared at me for a moment as if slightly hurt in his feelings. Then: 'Don't contradict,' he said sharply, and laughed as I stared in my turn. 'Expression of yours,' he said.

'Sounds rude; but all depends _how_ you say it. I reckon I've caught up the accent--eh?--by the quick way you looked up. . . .

I hadn't much school and never went to College: but I've studied you, Doctor, and I'll improve.'

"'Well, then,' said I, nettled and less inclined to spare him,'

I'm sorry to contradict you, Mr. Farrell, but you are never going to miss my company--_never, until your life's end_.'

"'What d'ye mean?' he blurted: and I suppose there was something in my look that made him edge off an inch or two on the rustic seat.

"'Simply this,' I answered. 'Ten or a dozen weeks ago you made yourself the instrument to destroy something twenty times more valuable than yourself. I am not speaking of what you killed in me, nor of the years of application, the records, measurements, a.n.a.lyses which you hoofed into nothing with no more thought than a splay c.o.o.n's for an ant-heap. Nor will I trouble you with any tale of the personal hopes I had built on them, for you to murder. The G.o.ds suffer men of your calibre to exist, and they must know why. But I tell you this, though you may find it even harder to understand. Science has her altars, and her priests.

I was one, serving an altar which you defiled. And by G.o.d, Peter Farrell, upholsterer, the priest will pursue!'

"He drew back to the end of the seat and fairly wilted.

His terror had no more dignity than a sheep's. He cast an eye about for help. There was none. 'You're mad!' he quavered.

'If we were in England now--What is it you're threatening?'

"'Nothing that you could take hold of, to swear information against me,' I answered, 'even if you were in England now--now that April's here. Or is it May? I shall probably end by killing you; but I have tested my forbearance, and now know that it will happen at my own time, place, and convenient opportunity. That's a threat, eh? Well, there's no hurry about it, and you couldn't do anything with it, even at home in merry England. You couldn't put up a case that you go in bodily fear of me--as you're beginning to do--when I can call Caffyn ('Clever fellow, Caffyn!') to witness that only last night you desired no end to our acquaintance. Besides, my acquaintance is all I propose to inflict on you, just yet.'

"He jumped up, and faced me. He was thoroughly scared, and no less thoroughly puzzled. To do him justice, he had pluck enough, too, to be pretty angry.

"'I don't know what you mean!' he broke out. 'I don't know what you're driving at, mad or not. . . . The moment we crossed one another I hated you--Yes, d.a.m.n you, first impressions are truest after all! Later, I was weak enough, thinking I'd injured you, to--to--' He broke down feebly. 'What sort of devil are you?'

he demanded, mopping his forehead. 'You can't hurt me, I say.

What is it you threaten?'

"'Only this,' said I. 'You have been a married man for a number of years, and therefore can probably appreciate better than I what it means. But you know my feeling for you, as I know yours towards me. . . . Well, I propose to be your companion in this world and until death do us part. . . . You may dodge, but I shall be faithful; you may slip, run, elude, but I shall quest.

But your shadow I am going to be, Mr. Farrell; and ever, when you have hit a place in the sun, it shall be to start and find me--a faithful hound at your side. I have put the fear on you, I see. Waking or sleeping you shall never put that fear off.

. . . And now,' said I, rising and tapping another cigarette on my case, 'let me steer you back to the railway-station.

You will prefer to dine alone to-night and think out your plans.

I shall be thinking out mine at the _Amba.s.sadeurs_.'"

"So that's how it happened, Roddy. You might post me 100 pounds to the Grand Hotel, Biarritz: for I'm running short. The hunt is up, and he's breaking for South."

"J. F."

NIGHT THE ELEVENTH.

SCIENCE OF THE CHASE.

I'm an imperfect Christian: but I read Jack's long letter three times over, and at each reading I liked it the less. Before posting an answer I handed the thing to Jimmy; who spent a morning over it, helping himself--a sure sign of a troubled spirit--to tobacco indifferently from his own jar and mine. When nothing troubled him-- that is to say, as a rule--he invariably used mine. I left him ruminating; went out, did some business, and met him again at our usual luncheon-table at the Bath Club.

"I believe," said Jimmy reflectively at luncheon, "that my way with Farrell was the better, after all. . . . You'll admit that it did the trick, and without causing any offence to anybody. Well, if you ask me how to deal with the Professor, I'll be equally practical.

Starve him off."

"No good," said I. "If I cut off supply, he'll only come back, demand his money and be off on the trail again. Indeed, he may turn up in these rooms to-morrow: for it's ten to one, on my reckoning, that Farrell will pretty soon break back for home."

"All the easier, then," said Jimmy. "Save you the trouble of writing a letter. When he comes for his money, tell him you're freezing on to it."

"But, man alive! it's Jack's money. You wouldn't have me thieve, would you? . . . As for the letter, I've written it; in fact you may say that I've written two, or, rather, a.s.sisted at their composition.

Here is one of them, in copy. It explains the other, which is a half-sheet of instructions now in my lawyer's possession. I shall have to write a third presently, explaining to Jack--"

"I don't like letter-writing," interrupted Jimmy, "and I shun solicitors. Which is antic.i.p.atory vengeance: as soon as I'm called, and in practice, they'll be active enough in shunning me. Otty, you need a nurse. What the devil do you want with consulting solicitors, when you can have my advice, legal or illegal, gratis?"

"Listen to this," said I:--

"Thistleton Chambers,"

"29a Ess.e.x Street, Strand, W.C.,"

"May 12th, 1907."

"Dear Sir,--Our client, Sir Roderick Otway, Bart., has to-day transferred to our account the sum of six thousand, five hundred pounds sterling, representing a sum received by him from you, to be administered on conditions which, after reconsidering them, he finds himself unable to accept.

"Sir Roderick instructs us that you will draw on us at your convenience for any sum or sums under this cover. This, of course, pending notification of your wish that we should transfer the account elsewhere.

"Acting on our client's further instructions, we hereby enclose in registered envelope circular notes value 100 pounds sterling. Kindly acknowledge receipt and oblige."

"Yours faithfully,"

"B. Norgate,"

"for Wiseman and Norgate,"

"Solicitors."

"To"

"J. Foe, Esq., DSc.,"

"Grand Hotel,"

"Biarritz."

Jimmy looked me straight, and asked, "Is that letter posted?"

"It is," I answered. "I told Norgate that, as a matter of honour, Jack's letter ought to be answered promptly. That's why I lost no time this morning. Not being quite certain of the earliest post to France, he made sure by sending off the office-boy straight to St. Martin's-le-Grand."

"Then no taxi will avail us," groaned Jimmy, "and I must call for a liqueur brandy instead. . . . Oh, Otty--you must forgive the old feud: but why _did_ your parents send you to Cambridge? Mine sent me to a place where I had at least to sweat up forty pages or so of a fellow called Plato. Not being able to translate him, I got him more or less by heart. Here's the argument, then. . . . Supposing a friend makes a deposit with you, that's a debt, eh? Of course it is.

But suppose it's a deposit of arms, or of money to buy arms, and he comes to you and asks for it when he's not in his right senses, and you know he's not, and he'll--like as not--play the devil with that deposit, if you restore it. What then?"

"If I thought that Farrell was in danger," I mused; "that's to say, in any immediate danger--"

"Rats!" said Jimmy contemptuously. "Farrell's a third party.

Why drag in a third party? The Professor's _your_ friend; and he's made a deposit with you: and you don't need to think of anyone but him. For he's _mad_. . . . Now, come along to the smoking-room, where I've ordered them to take the coffee, and where I'll give you ten minutes to pull up your socks and do a bit of thinking."