“You remember, sir,” continued the young man, “my reference to money-lenders? There was one of these, a Mr Raphael Colfox, of Great Queen Street, who was often with my employer Mr Lerroux. I think he not only bled him pretty freely, but, with an eye to future possibilities, was in the habit of acquiring from him at nominal prices works of his. Among those that had passed into his possession was, it appeared, that very piece which I had risked my soul to obtain. He had come to tell me so, with the intimation that his late appearance in the matter was due to nothing more than the difficulty he had found hitherto in running me to earth. He had seen, he said, the thumb-mark on the post, and had at once identified it with another in his possession; and he offered me his silence at a price. All my explanations and protests were in vain, and he ended by convincing me that he held my life in his hands.” The narrator, whose voice had sunk lower and lower, gave a little choke here, and stopped. “I see,” said Gilead, “I am beginning to see very clearly. Tell me only, if you can, what was this article you desired so much to get into your own possession.” “It was a cast of my right hand, palm uppermost, sir, that Mr Lerroux had taken most beautifully in wax. _And my name was on it._” There followed a short silence; and then Gilead spoke in the soft ominous voice that it always thrilled Miss Halifax to hear. “This is all quite plain, Mr Dobell, and I thank you for coming to us in your difficulty. I should like to ask you a final question or so. This first visit of Mr Colfox’s--when did it occur?” “About six months ago, sir.” “And he has been--we won’t mince matters--_blackmailing_ you ever since?” “He forced me to accept a promissory note, sir, for an imaginary accommodation, and he has been--yes, he has been bleeding me on it ever since. I owe him fifty pounds at this moment, and he is pressing for its payment under threat of exposure. I had to leave my situation a month ago, or I don’t know what would have happened. I am not strong, and this constant misfortune and persecution seem to unbalance my reason. It was his own suggestion that I should advertise as I did in the _Daily Post_.” “Exactly. You are convinced, of course, that he actually possesses the wax cast?” “I have seen it, sir.” “Where?” “He keeps it in a safe in his office.” “Does he, do you know, sleep on the premises?” “No, I am sure he does not, sir. I know his private address.” “Very well, Mr Dobell. And now I am going to place you in the hands of my secretary, Mr Nestle, who will make himself responsible for your present custody and well-being. Be assured that you have nothing to fear and everything to hope; that this nightmare shall not be permitted to demoralise you much longer. Come.” The young man tried to articulate his thanks, but, utterly failing, Gilead took him gently by the arm and led him from the room.