Frank Defoe moved back in his seat in absolute dread.

  The vanity of the great detective was much flattered, when he saw the impression that his investigations had produced.

  “And now, mon ami,” he said blandly, “now that you know, that Poiret, he knows all, he hopes that you will be more communicative.”

  Mr. Bletchley had not told his secret to the young doctor, but he had said enough for him to feel that the detective was correct in his inference.

  “Surely,” said Inspector Watkins, “we ought to be able to come to a more definite understanding. I saw that you were watched by the very person that I was watching. For three days my men have followed you.”

  “I, sir?”

  “For many years,” continued Inspector Watkins, “I’ve been certain that an organized group of blackmailers exists in London. Family secrets, sins, shame and sorrow are milked by these villains like gold mines and bring them huge annual incomes.”

  “Ah,” said Frank, “I expected something of this kind.”

  “Of course, when I was quite sure of these facts,” continued Watkins, “I said to myself, “I will break up this gang,” but it was easier said than done. There is one very peculiar thing about blackmail. Those, who carry it out are almost certain of doing so with impunity, because the victims will pay and not complain to us. Yes, I have often found these unhappy creatures, but never could get one to speak.”

  The inspector was so indignant and acrimonious, that Frank couldn’t help but feel respect for the policeman.

  “It wasn’t until I talked to Mr. Poiret,” the policeman continued, “that I recognized the futility of my attempts and the impossibility of reaching these scoundrels through their victims. So I have decided to strike at the pirates themselves. The scheme that was proposed by Mr. Poiret took patience and time. I’ve waited for my chance for years, so I was ready to follow his directions. For the past few months one of Poiret’s best men has been in the service of Baron St. Ives. Up to now this band of villains has cost the government over ten thousand shilling. That scoundrel, Joseph Kennan, has put several white threads in my hair. I know them all, from the chief, Joseph Kennan, the enforcer, the Weasel, his son Jeff Lett, down to their lowest agents, Chuff and Allen Acheson, their docile puppet. We will get a hold of the whole gang and neither the South African, Carl Esprey nor their solicitor Whittaker Johnson will escape us. Just now the latter is travelling around with Lord Swaffham and a fellow named Earl Keresley and two of my lads are close on their heels and send me hourly reports of what is going on. My trap,” he glanced at Poiret, who frowned, “has an alluring bait. The spring is strong and we will catch every single one of them. And now do you still hesitate to confide all you know to me?”

  Frank Defoe yielded. If he hid anything from him today, wouldn’t Poiret find out tomorrow and share his information with the inspector? And so Frank told his story and everything that he knew.

  “Now,” cried Watkins, “I see it all clearly. Aha, they want to force young Greenstreet to disappear with Mrs. Delaford, do they?”

  Beneath his gold-rimmed glasses Poiret’s eyes flashed fiercely. He seemed to be occupied in writing down his plan of action.

  “From this moment, mon ami,” he said, “be at ease. In another month Mademoiselle Cora Bletchley, she will be your wife. This, Poiret, he promises to you and the promises of Poiret, they are never broken.”

  Watkins stood up and paced up and down the room. He stopped for an instant, as though to collect his thoughts and then said, “I can answer for all, except for your life. A lot are interested in your disappearance from this world. They will make every effort to get rid of you. Never eat twice at the same restaurant, throw away food that has the faintest strange taste. Avoid crowds in the street. Don’t get into a cab, that’s been waiting. Never walk under scaffolding. In a word, fear and suspect everything.”

  Poiret looked at the young man for a moment then he conducted him to the door.

  “Farewell for the present, mon cher Docteur.”

  At these last words Frank turned around, but the door closed and he heard the key grate in the lock. He walked through the outer office, where a policeman and the clerk seemed to gaze on him with a glance of admiration and fondness.

  He walked into the open street.

  What did those last words of Poiret mean?

  As soon as Poiret thought that the coast was clear, he walked back to his desk and nodded to Inspector Watkins. The inspector stood up and called the agent waiting in the other room.

  “Jones,” said the police inspector, “you saw that young man, who went out just now? He’s a very important witness.”

  The policeman made a gesture signifying that henceforth Frank would be under his care.

  “You will be his shadow,” continued Watkins, “and stay close enough to him to rush to his aid at a moment of danger. That gang, of which Joseph Kennan is the head, wants him dead. I trust him to you. I’ve warned him, but youth is rash and you will see danger where he would not. If there is any danger, dash forward boldly, but try to let no one find out, you are a copper. If you must speak to him, whisper my name in his ear and he will know you have come from me. Remember, you are responsible for his life.”

  Inspector Watkins nodded at him.

  “And now to your work, Jones.”

  The policeman was off like the wind and when he reached Smedley Street, he caught sight of the doctor, who had been entrusted to his care.

  Frank Defoe was walking slowly along, thinking of Inspector Watkins’s warning, when a young man, with his arm in a sling, overtook him, going in the same direction as he was. Frank was sure that it was Allen Acheson and as he knew that he couldn’t be recognized, he passed him in his turn and saw that it was indeed the Allen, Mrs. Delaford was pining for.

  “I must find out where he goes to,” thought Frank.

  He followed and saw him enter the house of Mr. Lett. Two women were gossiping near the door and Frank heard one of them say, “The young man is visiting his fiancée. He didn’t even bring her any flowers. And look at his arm. Poor Carey.”

  “So Allen is to marry the daughter of one of the blackmailers,” he thought. “I wish I had time to tell Poiret this, but, of course, the detective probably already knows about it.”

  Frank decided not to wait there, but to go to his surgery to find out if his patients were being taken care of satisfactory. He found the nurse there and she did not recognize him, when he asked for Dr. Yoder.

  “He’s in the office,” she said. “You can go in.”

  Dr. Yoder was surprised, when Frank made himself known, because he had not recognized him under his strange disguise.

  “It’s nothing,” said the young man cautiously, as Yoder stopped for an explanation. “A little love affair.”

  “Do you expect to win a woman’s heart by looking like a vagrant?” asked his friend with a laugh.

  “Hush! I will explain matters later on.”

  He stopped himself, turned terribly pale and listened intently. He thought that he had heard a woman scream his name.

  “Dr. Frank, it’s Cora. Help!”

  Quick as lightning Frank rushed into the street and looked around. He heard another scream. He ran under the scaffold going there from whence the sounds came.

  Chuff had earned the banknote with which the Weasel had bribed him. The scaffolding gave way with a loud crash and Frank was buried under it. The bricks and cement bags did their work as the unhappy young man fell with a dull thud, bleeding and senseless in the street.

  Nearly three dozen persons in Oxford Street witnessed the hideous sight. At Yoder’s cry, everyone had stopped and froze with horror and had seen every detail of the grim tragedy.

  In an instant a crowd had gathered around the poor broken man, who lay motionless. Chuff and two workmen were soon on the spot and pushed their way through the crowd, who were gazing with a morbid curiosity on the man on the ground.

  Frank gave no sign of life. His face was dreadfully bruised and his eyes were closed, as Yoder raised his friend’s head on his knee.

  “He’s dead!” cried the crowd.

  “Let us take him to the hospital!” exclaimed Dr. Yoder.

  An ambulance was called and placing the insensible doctor carefully in it, it quickly returned to the hospital.

  One curious event had excited the attention of some in the crowd. Just as Frank was struck down, a policeman had rushed forward and seized a woman. She was one of the ladies of the night, who frequent Oxford Street and it was she, who had lured Frank out of the surgery. The woman made an effort to escape, but the policeman caught her arm. Soon Inspector Watkins was also on the scene. He looked at the policeman, who lowered his head. He was told to explain the situation. When he had finished his story, Inspector Watkins said, “Jones, we’ll talk about this later.”

  He looked at the woman, who was fidgeting and unruly.

  “Not a word,” he said sternly. The wretched creature seemed in abject fear and obeyed him.

  “Why did you cry out?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “It’s a lie!”

  “No, it’s true. This gentleman came up to me and says, “Miss, if you cry out now, “Dr. Frank, it’s Cora. Help!” I will give you fifty shilling.” Of course I agreed. He gave me the fifty shilling and I did as he asked me.”

  “What did this man look like?”

  “He was old and very shabby and dirty. I never set eyes on him before.”

  “Do you know,” said the policeman sternly, “that your words have caused the death of the poor man?”

  “Why did he not take more care?” she asked indifferently.

  The inspector was furious.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Matilda Jarrett.”

  “You’re going to the station,” he said. “You’re an important witness at a trial that must follow without a doubt.” Then addressing the policeman, “Jones, take her way.”

  He had not much time for reflection, because he had to gather up every piece of evidence. How was it that this accident had occurred? The scaffolding lay in fragments on the pavement. He picked up one of the pieces and at once saw what had been done. The woodwork had been sawed almost in two and the putty with which the marks of the cuts had been hid still clung to the wood. Inspector Watkins called one of the workmen, who seemed to be more intelligent than his friends, pointed out the planks with the saw marks to him and ordered him to gather up the pieces and put them in a secured area.

  Having done his duty, Inspector Watkins joined the crowd. Frank had already been taken away to hospital. He looked around to see if there was anyone from whom he could get more information. He noticed on a bench an older gentleman and his dog. It was a thief, whom he had often arrested. It was Chuff, no longer dressed in the shabby rags of a day or two back. He was dressed in a gorgeous suit with a carnation in his button hole. His face was pale, though, his eyes wild and his lips kept moving uncontrollably. He was the victim of a new emotion, remorse. He was thinking about going to the nearest police station and giving himself up. For a moment Inspector Watkins thought of talking to him, he decided against it.

  “No, that would never do. We would risk losing the whole gang.”

  Inspector Watkins presented himself at the hospital and asked for the young man, who had just been brought in.

  “You mean Dr. Defoe?” asked one of the nurses. “He’s in a critical state. We fear internal injuries, fracture of the skull et cetera.”

  It took Frank two days to regain consciousness. It was midnight, when he first woke up to the realities of life. One glance allowed him to guess where he was. He felt pain, when he tried to move, but he could move his legs and one arm.

  “How long have I been here?” he wondered.

  He tried to think, but he was too weak and thoughts wouldn’t appear. A few minutes later he fell asleep again and when he awoke, it was light outside the windows. The ward, he was in was full of life, because it was the hour of the university doctor’s visit. He was an older man, with a cheerful face, followed by the group of students. He went from bed to bed, explaining cases and cheering up the patients. When Frank’s turn came, the doctor told him that his shoulder was broken, his arm was broken in two places, he had a bad cut on his head and his body was full of bruises. He was in luck, he was told, to have got off with his life. Frank listened to him with only a vague understanding of what he was saying. With the return of his consciousness, he remembered Cora and he asked himself what would become of her, while he was confined to his bed in the hospital. As this thought passed through his mind, he uttered a groan. One of the students, a fat man, wearing an exquisitely tailored suit, a white tie and a homburg hat, who looked as if he should have completed his studies years ago, stepped up to his bed and leaning over the patient, murmured, “C’est moi, mon ami, Poiret.”

  Frank Defoe opened his eyes wide at the name.

  “Mr. Poiret,” he gasped.

  “Hush, mon ami! Who knows, who it is, who is watching us? Poiret, he has come to give your mind ease, which will do you more good than all the medicines the doctors will give to you. I have seen Monsieur Bletchley and have given to him the valid excuses for the postponing of the marriage of his sister to the Baron St. Ives for a month. You must stay here. You cannot be in a place of better security. But even here you must be cautious. Please to eat nothing that is not given to you by someone, who says the word, “Poiret.” If you want to see or write to Poiret, the patient on your right, he will aid you. He is the police officer. Please to be patient.”

  “I can wait now,” answered the young man, sighing in relief, “because I have hope.”

  “Ah,” murmured Poiret, as he moved softly away, “is not hope the true secret of life and happiness?”

  Mr. Poiret could now prove that the head of the blackmailers was the instigator of the murder attempt. But he didn’t intend to make use of this discovery at once, because he had promised Inspector Watkins that he would take down the whole gang and his actions had been so carefully conducted that his victims didn’t for a moment suspect the net that was closing around them.

  The day after the attempt, Joseph Kennan sent an anonymous letter to Scotland Yard, informing them that Chuff was the author of the crime and providing them with his address.

  “Of course,” thought the wily plotter, “Chuff will implicate the Weasel, but that worthy man is now in Le Havre, waiting for his son, Jeff Lett to collect his share of the loot.”

  Joseph Kennan had been careful to help Newton burning all his effects and clothes and with satisfaction he had watched the columns of somber smoke roll upwards.

  “Look for him as much as you please,” he laughed. “The old man has left the building up through the chimney.”

  The next business matter was to disappear himself. The disappearance of Joseph Kennan was a more difficult operation. Few would care to inquire about the Weasel, but Joseph Kennan was the head of a prosperous insurance business. His disappearance would be noticed and brought to the attention of the police. His best course would be to openly sell his business on the account of family matters causing him to spend more time at home. He easily found a buyer and within a few hours the contracts had been signed.

  That night Joseph Kennan had much to do. Helped by Earl Keresley, he took all his private papers to Jeff Lett’s mansion.

  Joseph Kennan was eager to leave. But he first had to induct his successor in his insurance business. He went through the books with him and explained all the workings of the brokerage. This took him nearly all day and it was getting late, when his luggage was put in a cab, which was waiting for him. A new plate with a different name had already been placed on the door.

  Knowing that he must carry out the deception completely, Joseph Kennan drove to Waterloo Train Station and took a ticket for Brighton. He felt rather uncomfortable, because he feared that he was being watched and he made up his mind not to leave a single trace behind him. In Brighton he abandoned his luggage, which he had taken care should not afford any clues as to ownership, changed his appearance and returned to London as a guest of the well-known industrialist, Jeff Lett, the father of the pretty Carey.

  He had not noticed in the train with him a young man with piercing eyes, who looked like a salesman for some respectable commercial firm. As soon as he reached Lett’s house, he went to the private room of Mr. Lett and opened it. He had been at the house for five minutes, when Earl Keresley entered the room, with his perpetually smiling face.

  “Now, you unbeliever,” cried Kennan cheerfully, “is not fortune within our grasp? The Weasel and Joseph Kennan are gone as if they never existed and soon we may enjoy our millions.”

  “Heaven grant it,” said the doctor piously, looking to the ceiling.

  “Pooh, pooh! We have nothing more to fear. You would know that, if you had gone through the case as thoroughly as I have done. Who was our biggest enemy? Frank Defoe! He is not dead, but he’s in hospital for several weeks and that is enough. One of my men, who managed to get admitted to that same hospital, says that he has not received a visitor or sent a letter for the last two weeks.”

  “But he has friends.”

  “Friends, my friend, always forget you! Where is Mr. Poiret?”

  “He spends most of his evenings eating at the different restaurants.”

  “Mrs. Diss?”

  “Her husband’s scientific work is sufficient for her giddy head.”

  “Mr. Greenstreet?”

  “He has his son’s problems to look after.”

  “And how about young Greenstreet?” he asked with a knowing smile.

  “Oh! He has yielded to the Weasel’s power of persuasion, made up with Mrs. Delaford and the love birds have taken wing for Bath.”

  But the earl was still dissatisfied.

  “I’m uneasy about Cora Bletchley,” he said.

  “But why? St. Ives was very well received by the family. I don’t say that Miss Cora has exactly jumped in his arms, but she thanks him every evening for the flowers he sends in the morning and we can’t expect more than that.”