A BID FOR FORTUNE OR; DR. NIKOLA'S VENDETTA

PRO­LO­GUE

The ma­­na­ger of the new Im­pe­rial Res­tau­rant on the Tha­mes Em­bankment went in­to his lu­xu­rious pri­va­te offi­ce and shut the do­or. Ha­ving do­­ne so, he first scra­tched his chin re­fle­c­ti­ve­ly, and then to­ok a le­tter from the drawer in whi­ch it had re­po­­sed for mo­re than two mon­ths and pe­ru­­sed it ca­re­fu­lly. Thou­gh he was not awa­re of it, this was the thi­r­tie­th ti­me he had re­ad it sin­ce bre­akfast that mor­­ning. And yet he was not a whit ne­a­rer un­der­s­tan­ding it than he had be­en at the be­gin­­ning. He tu­r­­ned it over and scru­ti­­ni­zed the ba­ck, whe­re not a sign of wri­t­ing was to be se­en; he held it up to the win­dow, as if he mi­ght ho­pe to dis­cover so­me­thing from the wa­ter-ma­rk; but the­re was no­thing in ei­ther of the­­se pla­ces of a na­tu­re ca­l­cu­la­ted to set his trou­bled mind at rest. Then he to­ok a ma­g­­ni­fi­cent re­pe­a­ter wa­tch from his wais­tco­at po­cket and glan­ced at the dia­l; the han­ds sto­od at ha­l­f-past se­ven. He im­me­dia­te­ly threw the le­tter on the ta­ble, and as he did so his an­xie­ty found re­lief in wor­ds.

“It’s re­a­lly the most ex­tra­or­di­­na­ry affa­ir I ever had to do wi­th,” he re­ma­rke­d. “And as I’ve be­en in the bu­­si­­ness just thre­e-an­d-thi­r­ty ye­ars at ele­ven a.m. next Mon­day mor­­nin­g, I ou­ght to know so­me­thing about it. I on­ly ho­pe I’ve do­­ne ri­ght, tha­t’s a­ll.”

As he spo­ke, the chief bo­o­kke­e­per, who had the tre­ble ad­van­ta­ge of being ta­ll, pre­tty, and just ei­ght-an­d-twen­ty ye­ars of age, en­te­red the ro­om. She no­ti­ced the open le­tter and the lo­ok upon her chie­f’s fa­ce, and her cu­rio­si­ty was pro­por­tio­na­te­ly ex­ci­te­d.

“You se­em wo­­rrie­d, Mr. McPher­­son,” she said ten­der­ly, as she put down the pa­pers she had brou­ght in for his ­­si­g­­na­tu­re.

“You ha­ve just hit it, Miss O’­­Su­lli­van,” he an­swe­re­d, pushing them fa­r­ther on to the ta­ble. “I am wo­­rried about many thin­gs, but pa­r­ti­cu­larly about this le­tter.”

He han­ded the epis­tle to her, and she, being de­si­rous of im­pres­sing him wi­th her bu­si­ness ca­pa­bi­li­ties, re­ad it wi­th os­ten­ta­tious ca­re. But it was no­ti­ce­a­ble that when she re­a­ched the sig­na­tu­re she too tur­ned ba­ck to the be­gin­nin­g, and then de­li­be­ra­te­ly re­ad it over again. The ma­na­ger ro­se, cros­sed to the man­tel­pie­ce, and rang for the he­ad wai­ter. Ha­ving re­lie­ved his fe­e­lin­gs in this way, he se­a­ted hi­m­self again at his writ­in­g-ta­ble, put on his glas­ses, and sta­red at his com­pa­nion, whi­le wait­ing for her to s­pe­ak.

“It’s very fun­ny,” she sai­d. “Very fun­ny in­de­e­d!”

“It’s the most ex­tra­or­di­­na­ry co­m­mu­­ni­ca­tion I ha­ve ever re­cei­ve­d,” he re­plied wi­th con­vi­c­tion. “You see it is wri­tten from Cuya­ba, Bra­zil. The da­te is three mon­ths ago to a day. Now I ha­ve taken the trou­ble to find out whe­re and what Cuya­ba is.”

He ma­de this con­fes­sion wi­th an air of cons­cious pri­de, and ha­ving do­ne so, laid hi­m­self ba­ck in his chai­r, stu­ck his thumbs in­to the ar­mho­les of his wais­tco­a­t, and lo­o­ked at his fa­ir su­bor­di­na­te for appro­val. Nor was he des­ti­ned to be di­sa­ppoin­te­d. He was a ba­che­lor in pos­ses­sion of a snug in­co­me, and she, be­si­des being pre­tty, was a la­dy wi­th a ke­en eye to the mai­n chan­ce.

“And whe­re is Cuya­ba?” she aske­d hum­bly.

“Cuya­ba,” he re­plie­d, ro­lling his ton­gue wi­th con­­si­de­ra­ble re­lish round his un­con­s­cious mis­pro­­nun­cia­tion of the na­me, “is a town al­most on the wes­tern or Bo­li­vian bor­der of Bra­zil. It is of mo­de­ra­te si­ze, is si­tua­ted on the banks of the ri­ver Cuya­ba, and is con­­si­de­ra­bly con­­ne­c­ted wi­th the fa­mous Bra­zi­li­an Dia­mon­d Fie­l­ds.”

“And do­es the wri­ter of this le­tter li­ve the­re?”

“I can­­not say. He wri­tes from the­re—that is enou­gh for us.”

“And he or­ders din­­ner for fou­r—he­re, in a pri­va­te ro­om over­lo­o­king the ri­ver, three mon­ths ahe­a­d—pun­c­tua­lly at ei­ght o’clo­ck, gi­ves you a list of the thin­gs he wan­ts, and even arran­ges the de­co­ra­tion of the ta­ble. Says he has ne­ver se­en ei­ther of his three frien­ds be­fo­re; that one of them hails from (he­re she con­­su­l­ted the le­tter again) Han­g-chow, ano­ther from Blo­e­mfon­tein, whi­le the third re­­si­des, at pre­­sen­t, in En­glan­d. Ea­ch one is to pre­­sent an or­di­­na­ry vi­­si­t­ing card wi­th a red dot on it to the por­ter in the ha­ll, and to be shown to the ro­om at on­ce. I don’t un­der­s­tand it at a­ll.”

The ma­na­ger pau­sed for a mo­men­t, and then said de­li­be­ra­te­ly,—”Han­g-chow is in Chi­na, Blo­e­mfon­tein is in Sou­th A­fri­ca.”

“What a won­der­ful man you are, to be su­re, Mr. McPher­­son! I ne­ver can think how you ma­na­ge to ca­rry so mu­ch in you­r he­a­d.”

The­re spo­ke the true wo­man. And it was a mo­ve in the ri­ght di­rec­tion, for the ma­na­ger was sus­cep­ti­ble to her gen­tle in­fluen­ce, as she had oc­ca­sion to k­now.

At this junc­tu­re the he­ad wai­ter appe­a­red upon the sce­ne, and to­ok up a po­si­tion just in­si­de the do­orway, as if he we­re afraid of inju­ring the car­pet by co­min­g far­ther.

“Is No. 22 re­a­dy, Wi­llia­ms?”

“Qui­te re­a­dy, sir. The wi­­ne is on the ice, and co­ok te­lls me he’ll be re­a­dy to dish pun­c­tual to the mo­ment.”

“The le­tter says, ‘no ele­c­tric li­ght; can­dles wi­th red sha­des.’ Ha­ve you put on tho­­se sha­des I got this mor­­nin­g?”

“Just se­en it do­­ne this very mi­­nu­te, ­­sir.”

“And let me se­e, the­re was one other thing.” He to­ok the le­tter from the chief bo­o­kke­e­per’s hand and glan­ced at it. “A­h, yes, a por­ce­lain sau­cer, and a sma­ll jug of new mi­lk upon the man­te­l­pie­ce. An ex­tra­or­di­­na­ry re­ques­t, but has it be­en atten­de­d to?”

“I put it the­re my­­se­l­f, ­­sir.”

“Who wai­t?”

“Jo­­nes, Edmun­ds, Bro­o­ks, an­d To­mkins.”

“Very go­o­d. Then I think that wi­ll do. Stay! You had be­tter te­ll the ha­ll por­ter to lo­ok out for three gen­tle­men pre­­sen­t­ing plain vi­­si­t­ing ca­r­ds wi­th a li­ttle red spot on them. Let Bro­o­ks wait in the ha­ll, and when they arri­ve te­ll him to show them strai­ght up to the ro­om.”

“It sha­ll be do­­ne, ­­sir.”

The he­ad wai­ter left the ro­o­m, and the ma­na­ger stre­tched hi­m­self in his chai­r, yaw­ned by way of showing his im­por­tan­ce, and then sai­d ­so­lem­n­ly,—

“I don’t be­lie­ve they’ll any of them turn up; but if they do, this Dr. Ni­ko­la, who­e­ver he may be, won’t be able to find fault wi­th my a­­rran­ge­men­ts.”

Then, le­a­ving the dus­ty hi­gh ro­ad of Bu­si­ness, he and his com­pa­nion wan­de­red in the sha­dy bri­dle-pa­ths of Lo­ve—to the end that when the chief bo­o­kke­e­per re­tur­ned to her own de­part­ment she had for­go­tten the stran­ge din­ner par­ty about to take pla­ce ups­tair­s, and was bu­si­ly en­ga­ged upon a cal­cu­la­tion as to how she would lo­ok in whi­te sa­tin and oran­ge blos­so­ms, an­d, that se­ttle­d, fe­ll to won­de­ring whe­ther it was true, as Miss Joyce, a su­bor­di­na­te, had be­en he­ard to de­cla­re, that the ma­na­ger had on­ce shown hi­m­self par­tial to a cer­tain wi­dow wi­th re­pu­ted sa­vin­gs and a sha­re in an ex­ten­si­ve egg and dai­ry bu­si­ness.

At ten mi­nu­tes to ei­ght pre­ci­se­ly a han­som drew up at the steps of the ho­tel. As so­on as it sto­ppe­d, an un­der­si­zed gen­tle­man, wi­th a cle­an sha­ven coun­te­nan­ce, a ca­no­ni­cal cor­po­ra­tion, and bow le­gs, dres­sed in a de­ci­de­dly cle­ri­cal gar­b, ali­ghte­d. He paid and dis­char­ged his ca­bman, and then to­ok from his ti­cket po­cket an or­di­na­ry whi­te vi­sit­ing car­d, whi­ch he pre­sen­ted to the gol­d-la­ced in­di­vi­dual who had ope­ned the apron. The la­tter, ha­ving no­ted the red spo­t, ca­lled a wai­ter, and the re­ve­rend gen­tle­man was im­me­dia­te­ly es­cor­te­d ups­tairs.

Har­dly had the atten­dant ti­me to re­turn to his sta­tion in the ha­ll, be­fo­re a se­cond cab ma­de its appe­a­ran­ce, clo­se­ly fo­llowed by a thir­d. Out of the se­cond jum­ped a ta­ll, ac­ti­ve, we­ll-built man of about thir­ty ye­ars of age. He was dres­sed in eve­ning dress of the la­test fashion, and to con­ce­al it from the vul­gar ga­ze, wo­re a lar­ge In­ver­ness ca­pe of he­a­vy tex­tu­re. He al­so in his turn han­ded a whi­te card to the por­ter, an­d, ha­ving do­ne so, pro­ce­e­ded in­to the ha­ll, fo­llowed by the oc­cu­pant of the last ca­b, who had clo­se­ly co­pied his exam­ple. This in­di­vi­dual was al­so in eve­ning dress, but it was of a di­ffe­rent stamp. It was ol­d-fashio­ned and had se­en mu­ch use. The we­a­rer, to­o, was ta­ller than the or­di­na­ry run of men, whi­le it was no­ti­ce­a­ble that his hair was snow-whi­te, and that his fa­ce was de­e­ply pi­tted wi­th sma­ll­pox. Af­ter dis­po­sing of their ha­ts and co­a­ts in an an­te-ro­o­m, they re­a­ched ro­om No. 22, whe­re they found the gen­tle­man in cle­ri­cal cos­tu­me pa­cing im­pa­tien­tly up an­d down.

Left alo­ne, the ta­llest of the trio, who for want of a be­tter ti­tle we may ca­ll the Best Dres­sed Man, to­ok out his wa­tch, and ha­ving glan­ced at it, lo­o­ked at his com­pa­nions. “Gen­tle­men,” he sai­d, wi­th a sli­ght Ame­ri­can ac­cen­t, “it is three mi­nu­tes to ei­ght o’clo­ck. My na­me is E­as­to­ver!”

“I’m glad to he­ar it, for I’m most un­co­m­mon­ly hun­gry,” said the next ta­lles­t, whom I ha­ve alre­a­dy des­cri­bed as being so ma­rked by di­­se­a­­se. “My na­me is Pren­der­gas­t!”

“We on­ly wait for our friend and hos­t,” re­ma­rked the cle­ri­cal gen­tle­man, as if he felt he ou­ght to take a sha­re in the con­ver­­sa­tion, and then, as an af­ter­thou­ght, he con­ti­­nue­d, “My na­me is Ba­x­ter!”

They sho­ok han­ds all round wi­th ma­rked cor­dia­li­ty, se­a­ted the­m­sel­ves again, and to­ok it in tur­ns to exa­mi­ne the clo­ck.

“Ha­ve you ever had the ple­a­­su­re of me­e­t­ing our host be­fo­re?” asked Mr. Ba­x­ter of Mr. Pren­der­gast.

“Ne­ver,” re­plied that gen­tle­man, wi­th a shake of his he­a­d. “Perhaps Mr. Eas­to­ver has be­en mo­re for­tu­­na­te?”

“Not I,” was the brief rejoin­der. “I’ve had to do wi­th him off and on for lon­ger than I ca­re to re­ckon, but I’ve ne­ver set eyes on him up to da­te.”

“And whe­re may he ha­ve be­en the first ti­me you he­ard fro­m hi­m?”

“In Nashvi­lle, Ten­­nes­­se­e,” said Eas­to­ver. “A­f­ter tha­t, Ta­hu­pa­pa, New Ze­a­lan­d; af­ter tha­t, Pa­pe­e­te, in the So­cie­ty Is­lan­ds; then Pekin, Chi­­na. An­d you?”

“First ti­me, Brus­­se­l­s; se­con­d, Mon­te Vi­de­o; thi­r­d, Man­da­lay, and then the Gold Co­as­t, Afri­ca. It’s your tu­r­n, Mr. Ba­x­ter.”

The cler­gyman glan­ced at the ti­me­pie­ce. It was exac­tly ei­ght o’clo­ck. “First ti­me, Ca­bu­l, Afgha­nis­tan; se­con­d, Nij­ni No­vgo­ro­d, Ru­s­sia; thir­d, Wil­can­nia, Darling Ri­ver, Aus­tra­lia; four­th, Val­pa­rai­so, Chi­li; fif­th, Na­ga­saki, Ja­pan.”

“He is evi­den­tly a gre­at tra­ve­ller and a most mys­te­rious per­­son.”

“He is mo­re than tha­t,” said Eas­to­ver wi­th con­vi­c­tion; “he is la­te for din­­ner!”

Pren­der­gast lo­o­ked at his wa­tch.

“That clo­ck is two mi­­nu­tes fast. Ha­rk, the­re go­es Big Ben! Ei­ght e­xa­c­tly.”

As he spo­ke the do­or was thrown open and a voi­ce an­noun­ced “Dr. ­Ni­ko­la.”

The three men sprang to their fe­et si­mul­ta­ne­ous­ly, wi­th ex­cla­ma­tions of as­to­nishmen­t, as the man they had be­en dis­cus­sing ma­de his a­ppe­a­ran­ce.

It would take mo­re ti­me than I can spa­re the su­bject to gi­ve you an ade­qua­te and in­clu­si­ve des­crip­tion of the per­son who en­te­red the ro­om at that mo­ment. In sta­tu­re he was sli­ghtly abo­ve the or­di­na­ry, his shoul­ders we­re bro­a­d, his limbs per­fec­tly sha­ped and plain­ly mus­cu­la­r, but very slim. His he­a­d, whi­ch was mag­ni­fi­cen­tly set upon his shoul­der­s, was ador­ned wi­th a pro­fu­sion of glossy bla­ck hai­r; his fa­ce was des­ti­tu­te of be­ard or mous­ta­che, and was of oval sha­pe and han­d­so­me moul­din­g; whi­le his skin was of a da­rk oli­ve hue, a co­lour whi­ch har­mo­ni­zed we­ll wi­th his pier­cing bla­ck eyes and pe­arly te­e­th. His han­ds and fe­et we­re sma­ll, and the gre­a­test dan­dy must ha­ve admi­tted that he was irre­pro­a­cha­bly dres­se­d, wi­th a ne­at­ness that bor­de­red on the pu­ri­ta­ni­cal. In age he mi­ght ha­ve be­en anything from ei­ght-an­d-twen­ty to for­ty; in re­a­li­ty he was thir­ty-thre­e. He ad­van­ced in­to the ro­om and wa­lked wi­th ou­t-s­tre­tched hand di­rec­tly across to whe­re Eas­to­ver was stan­ding by the fi­re­pla­ce.

“Mr. Eas­to­ver, I fe­el cer­tain,” he sai­d, fi­xing his gli­tte­ring eyes upon the man he ad­dres­­se­d, and allowing a cu­rious smi­le to play upon his fa­ce.

“That is my na­me, Dr. Ni­ko­la,” the other an­swe­red wi­th evi­dent su­r­pri­­se. “But how on ea­r­th can you dis­t­in­guish me from your other gues­ts?”

“Ah! it would su­r­pri­­se you if you knew. And Mr. Pren­der­gas­t, and Mr. Ba­x­ter. This is de­li­ghtfu­l; I ho­pe I am not la­te. We had a co­lli­­sion in the Chan­­nel this mor­­nin­g, and I was al­most afraid I mi­ght not be up to ti­me. Din­­ner se­e­ms re­a­dy; sha­ll we sit down to it?” They se­a­ted the­m­­se­l­ves, and the me­al co­m­men­ce­d. The Im­pe­rial Res­tau­rant has ea­r­­ned an en­via­ble re­pu­ta­tion for doing thin­gs we­ll, and the din­­ner that ni­ght did not in any way de­tract from its lus­tre. Bu­t, de­li­ghtful as it all was, it was no­ti­ce­a­ble that the three gues­ts paid mo­re atten­tion to their host than to his ex­ce­llent me­nu. As they had said be­fo­re his arri­va­l, they had all had de­a­lin­gs wi­th him for se­ve­ral ye­ar­s, but what tho­se de­a­lin­gs we­re they we­re ca­re­ful not to des­cri­be. It was mo­re than pos­si­ble that they har­dly li­ked to re­mem­ber the­m the­m­sel­ves.

When co­ffee had be­en ser­ved and the ser­van­ts had wi­thdrawn, Dr. Ni­ko­la ro­se from the ta­ble, and went across to the mas­si­ve si­de­bo­ar­d. On it sto­od a basket of very cu­rious sha­pe and workman­ship. This he ope­ne­d, and as he did so, to the as­to­nishment of his gues­ts, an enor­mous ca­t, as bla­ck as his mas­ter’s co­a­t, le­a­ped out on to the flo­or. The re­a­son for the sau­cer and jug of mi­lk be­ca­me e­vi­dent.

Se­at­ing hi­m­self at the ta­ble again, the host fo­llowed the exam­ple of his gues­ts and lit a ci­ga­r, blowing a cloud of smo­ke lu­xu­rious­ly throu­gh his de­li­ca­te­ly chi­se­lled nos­trils. His eyes wan­de­red round the cor­ni­ce of the ro­o­m, to­ok in the pic­tu­res and de­co­ra­tion­s, and then ca­me down to me­et the fa­ces of his com­pa­nions. As they did so, the bla­ck ca­t, ha­ving fi­nished its me­a­l, sprang on to his shoul­der to crou­ch the­re, wa­tching the three men throu­gh the cur­ling smo­ke drift wi­th its gre­en blinkin­g, fien­dish eyes. Dr. Ni­ko­la smi­led as he no­ti­ced the effect the ani­mal had upon his gues­ts.

“Now sha­ll we get to bu­­si­­ness?” he sai­d briskly.

The others al­most si­mul­ta­ne­ous­ly kno­cked the ashes off their ci­gars and brou­ght the­m­sel­ves to atten­tion. Dr. Ni­ko­la’s dain­ty, lan­guid man­ner se­e­med to drop from him li­ke a clo­ak, his eyes bri­ghte­ne­d, and his voi­ce, when he spo­ke, was cle­an cut as chi­se­lle­d ­sil­ver.

“You are dou­btless an­xious to be in­for­med why I su­m­mo­­ned you from all pa­r­ts of the globe to me­et me he­re to-­­ni­ght? And it is very na­tu­ral you should be. But then, from what you know of me, you should not be su­r­pri­­sed at anything I do.”

His voi­ce dro­pped ba­ck in­to its old to­ne of gen­tle lan­gu­or. He drew in a gre­at bre­a­th of smo­ke and then sent it slowly out from his lips again. His eyes we­re half clo­se­d, and he drum­med wi­th one fin­ger on the ta­ble edge. The cat lo­o­ked throu­gh the smo­ke at the three men, and it se­e­med to them that he grew every mo­ment lar­ger and mo­re fe­ro­cious. Pre­sen­tly his ow­ner to­ok him from his per­ch, and se­at­ing him on his knee fe­ll to stro­king his fu­r, from he­ad to tai­l, wi­th his long slim fin­gers. It was as if he we­re drawing ins­pi­ra­tion for so­me de­a­dly mis­chief from the un­can­ny be­ast.

“To pre­fa­ce what I ha­ve to say to you, let me te­ll you that this is by far the most im­por­tant bu­­si­­ness for whi­ch I ha­ve ever re­qui­red your help. (Three slow stro­kes down the cen­tre of the ba­ck, and one round ea­ch ear.) When it first ca­me in­to my mind I was at a loss who to trust in the ma­tter. I thou­ght of Ven­don, but I found Ven­don was de­a­d. I thou­ght of Brown­low, but Brown­low was no lon­ger fa­i­thful. (Two stro­kes down the ba­ck and two on the thro­at.) Then bit by bit I re­me­m­be­red you. I was in Bra­zil at the ti­me. So I sent for you. You ca­me. So far so go­o­d.”

He ro­se, and cros­sed over to the fi­re­pla­ce. As he went the cat crawled ba­ck to its ori­gi­nal po­si­tion on his shoul­der. Then his voi­ce chan­ged on­ce mo­re to its for­mer bu­si­ness-li­ke to­ne.

“I am not going to te­ll you very mu­ch about it. But from what I do te­ll you, you wi­ll be able to ga­ther a gre­at de­al and ima­gi­­ne the rest. To be­gin wi­th, the­re is a man li­ving in this world to-day who has do­­ne me a gre­at and las­t­ing inju­ry. What that inju­ry is is no con­cern of yours. You would not un­der­s­tand if I told you. So we’ll le­a­ve that out of the ques­tion. He is im­men­­se­ly ri­ch. His che­que for £300,000 would be ho­­nou­red by his bank at any mi­­nu­te. Obvious­ly he is a power. He has had re­a­­son to know that I am pi­tt­ing my wi­ts against his, and he fla­tters hi­m­­self that so far he has got the be­tter of me. That is be­cau­­se I am drawing him on. I am ma­tu­ring a plan whi­ch wi­ll make him a po­or and a very mi­­se­ra­ble man at one and the sa­me ti­me. If that sche­me su­c­ce­e­ds, and I am sa­tis­fied wi­th the way you three men ha­ve per­for­med the pa­r­ts I sha­ll ca­ll on you to play in it, I sha­ll pay to ea­ch of you the sum of £10,000. If it do­es­n’t su­c­ce­e­d, then you wi­ll ea­ch re­cei­ve a thou­­sand and your ex­pen­­ses. Do you fo­llow me?”

It was evi­dent from their fa­ces that they hung upon his every wor­d.

“Bu­t, re­me­m­ber, I de­mand from you your who­le and en­ti­re la­bour. Whi­le you are ser­ving me you are mi­­ne bo­dy and soul. I know you are trus­twor­thy. I ha­ve had go­od pro­of that you are—pa­r­don the ex­pres­­sion—un­s­cru­pu­lous, and I fla­tter my­­self you are si­lent. What is mo­re, I sha­ll te­ll you no­thing beyond what is ne­ces­­sa­ry for the ca­­rrying out of my sche­me, so that you could not be­tray me if you wou­l­d. Now for my plan­s!”

He sat down again and to­ok a pa­per from his po­cket. Ha­ving pe­ru­sed it, he tur­ned to E­as­to­ver.

“You wi­ll le­a­ve at on­ce—that is to say, by the bo­at on We­d­­nes­day—for Syd­­ney. You wi­ll bo­ok your pas­­sa­ge to-mo­­rrow mor­­nin­g, first thin­g, and join her in Plymou­th. You wi­ll me­et me to-mo­­rrow eve­­ning at an ad­dress I wi­ll send you, and re­cei­ve your fi­­nal in­s­tru­c­tions. Go­o­d-­­ni­ght.”

Se­eing that he was ex­pec­ted to go, Eas­to­ver ro­se, sho­ok han­ds, and left the ro­om wi­thout a wor­d. He was too as­to­nished to he­si­ta­te or to say anything.

Ni­ko­la to­ok ano­ther le­tter from his po­cket and tur­ned to Pren­der­gast. “You wi­ll go down to Do­ver to-­ni­ght, cross to Pa­ris to-mo­rrow mor­nin­g, and le­a­ve this le­tter per­so­na­lly at the ad­dress you wi­ll find wri­tten on it. On Thur­s­day, at hal­f-past two pre­ci­se­ly, you wi­ll de­li­ver me an an­swer in the por­ch at Cha­ring Cross. You wi­ll find su­ffi­cient mo­ney in that en­ve­lo­pe to pay all your ex­pen­ses. Now go!”

“At ha­l­f-past two you sha­ll ha­ve your an­swer. Go­o­d-­­ni­ght.”

“Go­o­d-­­ni­ght.”

When Pren­der­gast had left the ro­o­m, Dr. Ni­ko­la lit ano­ther ci­gar and tur­ned his atten­tions to Mr. Bax­ter.

“Six mon­ths ago, Mr. Ba­x­ter, I found for you a si­tua­tion as tu­tor to the young Ma­r­quis of Be­ckenham. You sti­ll hold it, I ­­su­ppo­­se?”

“I do.”

“Is the fa­ther we­ll dis­po­­sed towa­r­ds you?”

“In every way. I ha­ve do­­ne my best to in­gra­tia­te my­­self wi­th him. That was one of you­r in­s­tru­c­tions.”

“Yes, yes! But I was not cer­tain that you would su­c­ce­e­d. If the old man is anything li­ke what he was when I last met him he must sti­ll be a di­ffi­cult per­­son to de­al wi­th. Do­es the boy li­ke you?”

“I ho­pe ­­so.”

“Ha­ve you brou­ght me his pho­to­gra­ph as I di­re­c­te­d?”

“I ha­ve. He­re it is.”

Bax­ter to­ok a pho­to­gra­ph from his po­cket and han­ded it across the ta­ble.

“Go­o­d. You ha­ve do­­ne very we­ll, Mr. Ba­x­ter. I am ple­a­­sed wi­th you. To-mo­­rrow mor­­ning you wi­ll go ba­ck to Yorkshi­re——”

“I beg your pa­r­don, Bou­r­­ne­mou­th. His Gra­ce owns a hou­­se ne­ar Bou­r­­ne­mou­th, whi­ch he oc­cu­pies du­ring the su­m­mer mon­ths.”

“Very we­ll—then to-mo­­rrow mor­­ning you wi­ll go ba­ck to Bou­r­­ne­mou­th and con­ti­­nue to in­gra­tia­te you­r­­self wi­th fa­ther and son. You wi­ll al­­so be­gin to im­plant in the boy’s mind a de­­si­re for tra­vel. Don’t let him be­co­me awa­re that his de­­si­re has its sou­r­ce in you—but do not fa­il to fos­ter it all you can. I wi­ll co­m­mu­­ni­ca­te wi­th you fu­r­ther in a day or two. Now go.”

Bax­ter in his turn left the ro­om. The do­or clo­se­d. Dr. Ni­ko­la pi­cked up the pho­to­gra­ph and stu­di­e­d it.

“The li­ke­­ness is un­mis­taka­ble—or it ou­ght to be. My frien­d, my very de­ar frien­d, We­the­re­ll, my toils are clo­­sing on you. My arran­ge­men­ts are per­fec­t­ing the­m­­se­l­ves admi­ra­bly. Pre­­sen­tly, when all is co­m­ple­te, I sha­ll press the le­ver, the ma­chi­­nery wi­ll be set in mo­tion, and you wi­ll find you­r­­self being slowly but su­re­ly ground in­to powder. Then you wi­ll hand over what I wan­t, and be so­­rry you thou­ght fit to bau­lk Dr. ­­Ni­ko­la!”

He rang the be­ll and or­de­red his bi­ll. This du­ty dis­char­ge­d, he pla­ced the cat ba­ck in its pri­son, shut the li­d, des­cen­ded wi­th the basket to the ha­ll, and ca­lled a han­som. The por­ter in­qui­red to what ad­dress he should or­der the ca­bman to dri­ve. Dr. Ni­ko­la did not re­ply for a mo­men­t, then he sai­d, as if he had be­en thinking so­me­thing ou­t: “The Gre­en Sai­lor pu­bli­c-hou­se, East In­dia Do­ck Ro­a­d.”

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You can re­ad the rest of “A Bid For For­tu­ne; Or, Dr. Ni­ko­la’s Ven­de­tta” at Open Li­bra­ry