"You did wrong to come," he said, "I have arranged your passage to Canada next week." "I'll not go!" said the man, tossing down a drink and wiping his lips with a not over-clean handkerchief. "Curse me, van Heerden, why should I hide and fly like a--a----" "Like a man who escaped from Cayenne," suggested the doctor, "or like a man who is wanted by the police of three countries for crimes ranging from arson to wilful murder." The man shuddered. "All fair fights, my dear fellow," he said more mildly, "if I hadn't been a boastful, drunken sot, you wouldn't have heard of 'em--you wouldn't, curse you. I was mad! I had you in my hand like that!" He closed a not over-clean fist under van Heerden's nose. "I saw it all, all, I saw you bullying the poor devil, shaking some secret out of him, I saw you knife him----" "Hush!" hissed van Heerden. "You fool--people can hear through these walls." "But there are no windows to see through," leered the man, "and I _saw_! He came out of his death-trance to denounce you, by Jove! I heard him shout and I saw you run in and lay him down--lay him down! Lay him out is better! You killed him to shut his mouth, my bonnie doctor!" Van Heerden's face was as white as a sheet, but the hand he raised to his lips was without a tremor. "You were lucky to find me that night, dear lad," the man went on. "I was in a mind to split on you." "You have no cause to regret my finding you, Jackson," said the doctor. "I suppose you still call yourself by that name?" "Yes, Jackson," said the other promptly. "Jack--son, son of Jack. Fine name, eh--good enough for me and good enough for anybody else. Yes, you found me and done me well. I wish you hadn't. How I wish you hadn't." "Ungrateful fool!" said van Heerden. "I probably saved your life--hid you in Eastbourne, took you to London, whilst the police were searching for you." "For me!" snarled the other. "A low trick, by the Everlasting Virtues----!" "Don't be an idiot--whose word would they have taken, yours or mine? Now let's talk--on Thursday next you sail for Quebec...." He detailed his instructions at length and the man called Jackson, mellowed by repeated visits to the decanter, listened and even approved. On the other side of the hallway, behind the closed door, Oliva Cresswell, her dining-table covered with papers and books, was working hard. She was particularly anxious to show Mr. Beale a sample of her work in the morning and was making a fair copy of what she had described to him that afternoon as her "hotel list." "They are such queer names," she said; "there is one called Scobbs of Red Horse Valley--Scobbs!" He had laughed. "Strangely enough, I know Mr. Scobbs, who is quite a personage in that part of the world. He owns a chain of hotels in Western Canada. You mustn't leave him out."