He had been hurled over the platform--and as
he fell he had clutched out wildly and seized the mummy's hand. He had
been foully murdered; and we had watched his murder, comprehending
nothing. My flesh began to creep as the light of understanding broke
in upon my brain. For I realised in the same instant that Weldon's
murderer was, in all probability, the man who had had most occasion
to desire his death--Belleville--my enemy and the enemy, although
the lover, of the woman I loved; the wretch in whose power she was
at that moment. He had warned Miss Ottley that unless she broke off
her engagement with Weldon her fiancé would die within the week. He
had died--murdered in cold blood--on the evening of the seventh day. Belleville had been most terribly faithful to his awful promise. To
the very letter he had kept his dreadful vow. And now--Miss Ottley
was his prisoner in her own father's house; and, no doubt, Sir Robert
Ottley, sick, enfeebled in body and intellect, was Belleville's puppet
instrument to the furtherance of his atrocious purposes. What chance
had I--fighting a man so utterly unscrupulous, so strong-willed and
remorseless, and endowed with a power so tremendous and far-reaching
as the possession of a chemical agent capable of rendering himself
imperceptible to mortal sight whenever it should please him to make
use of it? How could I or anybody bring such a man to justice? Why,
even if I should foil his scheme for my undoing, and were it possible,
as well, to get the better of him to the extent of satisfying myself
beyond doubt as to his guilt, what court on earth would believe the
evidence I could bring forward? A tissue of absurdities; a network
of hypotheses and chimeras! I should be laughed at as a madman, a
foolish visionary; and he would go scot free with undamaged reputation,
free to work his evil will upon an unconscious and defenceless world. Belleville's advantage over me was so manifestly overwhelming that I
confess the prospect of entering into a trial of strength and cunning
with him daunted me. And yet, if I did not, Weldon's death would surely
go unavenged, and Miss Ottley's fate would be sealed. She would be
forced into a marriage--somehow or other--with a man she loathed--the
murderer of her dead lover. I felt so sure of this that towards morning
I resumed my packing. I did not go to bed at all. After breakfast I
went out and called at half a dozen newspaper offices. I saw as many
journalists, who all promised to paragraph my departure for the East. I then wrote a letter to the Society stating, guardedly, my intention
of again visiting the Nile; and I caught the afternoon train to Dover. That night I slept at Calais. On the following day I went to Paris and
put myself in the hands of a hairdresser and costumier, who carried on
a peculiar business at Montmartre under the secret surveillance and
government of the police. For a respectable consideration he effected a
complete metamorphosis in my appearance. He speckled my black eyebrows
with silver. He shaved off my moustache and beard and dyed my skin a
jejeune saffron, my hair a bilious iron-brown. He forbade me to wear
a starched collar. He taught me how to walk like an elderly man; and,
finally, he provided me with a suit of clothes that fitted fairly
well, but which could not be said to possess any other virtue. But
the fellow was well worthy of his hire. When he had finished with me
I could not recognise myself. The mirror showed me a gaunt piece of
human wreckage. I was to the life a decayed gentleman; an unobtrusively
rakish, elderly degenerate. I was remarkable in nothing except height,
and even that singularity departed as I learned to stoop. In such guise
I returned to London by way of Boulogne and Folkestone, and I took
up residence immediately in a tenement-house in Soho, to which I had
been recommended by my friend, the costumier. It was a curious place. It was populated by Frenchmen, Italians, and a sprinkling of Swiss,
and a number of Russian political refugees. I found them a decent lot
of law-abiding miserables. The majority were derelicts of fortune,
who lived like parasites on the toil of some few hardworking, foolish
artisans among them. And yet, despite their deplorable estate, they
always had a cheerful word and a smile to spare for a stranger. They
were a picturesque, interesting people, and I should have liked to
study them under other circumstances. But placed as I was, I conceived
it best to keep my room as much as possible, and I only went abroad to
buy a paper and to eat and drink. On the fourth morning the expected
summons came to hand. It was the first advertisement in the column. "D. Menchikoff. Fearless. Doorfront. Twelve. Unfailing. Noiseless. Open. Mizpah." And this I interpreted to mean, "Fearlessly approach
the front door at midnight this evening! You will find it open. Enter
without noise! God be with you till we meet!" Chapter XXIV

The Gin Is Sprung


I set out wearing rubber shoes and armed with a loaded revolver. This I
concealed in my breast pocket. I timed myself so nicely that I arrived
at Sir Robert Ottley's mansion on the fifth stroke of twelve. Forthwith
I mounted the steps and softly tried the door. It was ajar. I pushed
it back and entered, closing it noiselessly behind me. I locked it,
too. The hall was unlighted and black as Erebus. I stood for a moment
or two listening breathlessly. Then I thought I heard a sigh. "May!" I
whispered. I was answered by a sibilant soft "S-Sh!" Then a hand was laid upon
my sleeve and I felt myself drawn forward. I gave myself up to be
guided the more willingly that I hardly knew the place. We came to
a staircase. My guide breathed "S-Sh" again, and muttered "stairs." We climbed them step by step. Heavens, how dark it was! Afterwards I
was drawn like a shadow through a maze of thickly carpeted corridors. Finally, we stopped. The hand left my arm and I heard a door creak
open. "Come!" whispered my guide. I stepped towards a dim, dim glow,
and as I crossed the threshold, the door, shutting on my entrance,
grazed my arm. "At last!" the voice whispered. It was a signal. Hardly was it uttered than a blaze of white light
stabbed the darkness. I found myself in an immense apartment, blinking
foolishly into the muzzle of a revolver presented at my forehead by Dr.
Belleville. Our eyes met presently across the sights. His were smiling
coldly. "An excellent disguise, Dr. Pinsent; my sincere congratulations," he
observed. "It is evident you have obeyed my instructions to the letter." "Your instructions," I said. "Ay. Mine." "Then you----"

"The cipher was my idea entirely. Ah! but you must not blame Miss
Ottley. She signed the first letter without understanding. Later,
however, she would not write. She knew. I was obliged to use the
typewriter, and in order to convince you of the authenticity of the
letter I threw at your feet last Thursday night--my emissary followed
you home and pretended to wish to wrest it from you.