ON THE BRINK.
It was quite evident that the strong man was breaking down under the
strain of these damning proofs. He would, apparently, have said more
if he could, but his lips were dry, and the back of his throat
appeared to have turned to ashes. With a shaking hand he lifted the
glass of water which had been placed on a little ledge before him, and
drank it down eagerly.
"What object do you expect to gain by this course?" the judge asked.
"If you have any witnesses to call----"
Anstruther intimated that he had. The eager audience appeared to be
disappointed. It was as if they had just witnessed the first act of a
powerful drama which had ended abruptly owing to some unforeseen
circumstance. Still, the prisoner was likely to have his own way over
this, seeing that he was undefended by counsel; indeed, it was only
fair that no obstacle should be put in his way.
"Very well, then," the judge said briefly. "The case is adjourned till
ten o'clock to-morrow morning."
Five minutes later the court was deserted, and another judge was
listening to some prosaic case of no importance whatever. Seymour had
made his way rapidly out of court, followed by a curious crowd. He was
quite calm and collected, though he had taken the precaution to hide
his features as much as possible. Jack and Rigby caught him just at
the moment that he was entering his cab.
"Where are you going to?" the latter said. "I have got a thousand
questions to ask you. Don't run away like this."
"I wasn't going anywhere in particular," Seymour explained. "I have
nothing to do but to kill time. It seems to me that I have very little
more to do in the way of ridding the world of Mr. Spencer Anstruther.
Call it unchristian if you like, but there is a feeling deep in my
heart that I shall be able to rest in future without the wild desire
of always being at that fellow's throat. I don't think they will want
me to-morrow morning."
"What do you suppose Anstruther is up to?" Jack asked.
"Suicide." said Seymour curtly. "I know that man far better than
either of you. And if this verdict goes against him to-morrow--as
assuredly it will--he will find some way of putting an end to his
life."
Jack look significantly at Rigby, who nodded.
"Come round to my rooms," he suggested, "and let us talk this matter
over. And now that you have once appeared in public, and now that you
have once told part of your story in the witness-box, you might, at
least, disclose the rest of it to two sympathetic friends like
ourselves."
Just for a moment Seymour seemed to hesitate.
"Very well," he said. "If you don't get it from me you will from Lord
Barmouth. If it had not been for Ferris and your discovery of him at
the Great Metropolitan Hotel, nothing would have induced me to say a
word. But I have more than a hope now that before long I shall stand
before the world a changed man, and be able to take my place amongst
my fellow creatures without being the subject of vulgar and idle
curiosity. I will tell you everything when we get as far as your
rooms."
It was over a whiskey and soda and a cigar that Seymour proceeded to
tell his story. Both Jack and Rigby had heard the best part of it
before. They knew all about the Mexican tribe and the dangers of the
gold belt, but the cream of the mystery to them was the way in which a
man of ordinary appearance could be transformed into so repulsive an
object.
"The whole thing." said Seymour, as he approached the most fascinating
part of his narrative, "was the way in which those people revenged
themselves upon outsiders who had the temerity to invade the region of
the gold belt. Mind you, they were a powerful tribe, and in some
remote age or other had evidently been highly civilized. At the time
Ferris and Barmouth and myself had the misfortune to find ourselves
prisoners in their hands, they were absolutely eaten up with
priestcraft. As I think I told you before, the most powerful man in
the tribe was not a native at all, but an Englishman. You will not be
surprised to hear that the Englishman's name was Anstruther. I did not
know then as I know now what that man had gone through to learn the
secret of where the great masses of gold were hidden. Interrupting my
narrative for a moment--have either of you ever noticed a faint
resemblance between Anstruther and any other Nostalgo like myself?"
"I have," Jack cried. "Especially in moments of passion."
"That I can quite easily understand," Seymour went on. "When
Anstruther first fell into the hands of those people he was served in
exactly the same way as I was served myself; in other words, one of
those diabolically clever surgeons in the tribe turned him into a
Nostalgo. Don't ask me how it is done; don't ask me to explain how the
muscles are cut and knotted and twisted so as to give one the hideous
deformity of face which is my curse at present. But Anstruther carried
the same intolerable burden in his day. Why he was retained amongst
the tribe; why he was not sent out into the world as an example to
others, is not for me to say. Perhaps he made himself useful, for he
is a clever man. Perhaps they had need of his services. At any rate,
the devilish surgeon who could make a man look like a hideous demon
fully understood the art of restoring a face to its normal aspect."
"But Ferris has discovered a surgeon who can do that," Jack explained.
"He has already told us so."
"It is on Ferris's little Frenchman that I mainly rely," Seymour said.
"Otherwise, I should fade out of this business, and you would see me
no more."
"There is one thing I cannot understand," Rigby put in. "Why did
Anstruther cause all those posters to be placed on the principal
hoardings of London?"
"Because Ferris had escaped him," Seymour explained. "You see, he
wanted Ferris very badly. He could blackmail him, and hoped to go on
doing so with impunity. But Ferris gave his tormentor the slip, and
placed himself in the hands of that clever French surgeon. Once the
cure was complete, Ferris could have passed Anstruther in the street
without the least fear of being recognized. He had only to change his
name, and the thing was done."
"But I don't quite understand yet," Jack said.
"Well, you see, Ferris is a very sensitive man, and cursed with a
lively imagination. That was where Anstruther's wonderful intellect
came in. He had lost his man, and was determined to find him once
more. Hence those accusing posters, that were destined to meet
Ferris's eye at every turn, and so play upon his nerves that he would
be glad to give himself up, and make the best terms he could. It was
just the sort of scheme to appeal to Anstruther, and I am quite sure
that if Ferris had not met his friend the surgeon, the plan would have
been brilliantly successful. And now, if you don't mind, I should like
to go as far as the Great Metropolitan Hotel and talk this matter over
with Ferris. I am not in the least likely to be called to-morrow;
indeed, it seems to me that I have finished my task so far as
Anstruther is concerned. This being so, the sooner I place myself in
the hands of the French surgeon the better. My word! If you men could
only understand the life I have led the past three years!"
Seymour turned away, and hid his face for a moment. The other two
could respect and understand his feelings, for a long pause followed.
When Seymour paused again, he was more calm and collected. He pitched
his cigar into the fireplace, and suggested calling a cab and going
off to the Great Metropolitan Hotel at once. Ferris appeared only too
glad to see them; indeed, he was much better and more cheerful than he
had been a night or two ago, when Fate had so strangely brought Jack
and himself together. Most of the plaster had been removed from his
face by this time, and, so far as his visitors could see, there were
only the faintest traces that the knife had been used to remove the
terrible brand of the Nostalgo scourge.
"I expect to be out in two or three days," Ferris explained. "I shall
walk the streets with all the more pleasure now that I know there is
no chance of meeting Anstruther. I have just been reading an account
of the trial in one of the evening papers."
Seymour grasped his old comrade's hand, and drew him eagerly to the
light. It was brilliant sunshine outside, so that the face of Ferris
was picked out clearly. Despite his assumed calmness, there was a
trembling anxiety in Seymour's eyes. Long and earnestly did he gaze at
the pale features of his friend.
"Yes," he muttered. "Yes, I can hope at last. What a wonderful
operator your surgeon must be. So far as I can see, you have no marks
whatever, except here and there some star-shaped scars, which will
vanish in the course of a few days."
"They will be gone altogether at the end of a week," Ferris said. "At
least, so my doctor says."
"Amazing!" Seymour cried. "Why, I myself have tried specialists in
nearly every capital in Europe. Every one of them was utterly ignorant
of how the thing had been brought about, and not a single operator of
the lot could give me the faintest hope of my ever being any better;
and yet here you find a comparatively unknown man, who places his
finger on the right spot at once. How did he manage it?"
"That is quite easily explained," Ferris said. "You will not be
surprised to hear that this Doctor Benin has led a life of adventure.
He was out in Mexico four years ago with an exploring party, and
accidentally came in contact with the same tribe that has cost us both
so dear."
"Ah," exclaimed Seymour. "Now I begin to understand. Like the rest of
us, Doctor Benin was after the gold. I presume he came under the ban
of the tribe, who made a Nostalgo out of him, and turned him out as
hideous as the rest of us."
"You have guessed it exactly," Ferris said gravely. "For over a year
Benin was experimenting on the muscles of the face. He discovered, at
length, that certain of these muscles had been drawn up by some
ingenious process, and partially paralyzed. This it was that gave the
face of every Nostalgo its peculiar hideous appearance. Benin
discovered, at length, a means by which the temporary paralysis of the
muscles could be removed, and a man's normal expression restored to
him. You know what I was at one time--look at me now! I tell you that
in a month from now you can be absolutely restored to the world,
without people shuddering and turning away as they pass you in the
street. The same remark applies to Lord Barmouth. Once Anstruther is
out of the way, we shall come back to our own again, and know the
meaning of happiness once more."
"I think that Barmouth ought to know this," Jack said. "I have already
told him about Mr. Ferris, and he is anxious for a meeting to be
arranged. But I must go off now, and inform him how successful the
operation has been."
Jack found Barmouth pacing up and down the study in no enviable frame
of mind. On inquiry, it turned out that Anstruther had sent Barmouth a
summons to appear at the trial the following morning and give evidence
on his behalf.
"Of course, this is a mere act of simple spite," he said. "He merely
wants to expose me to the gaze of the world, and thus spoil the rest
of my miserable life for me; but I shall go, I have quite made up my
mind to that. At the same time, Anstruther will not realize his
purpose. I shall take the precaution to practically hide my face with
strips of sticking plaster, and let it be understood that I am
suffering from the result of an accident."
Jack proceeded to turn the conversation in the direction of Doctor
Benin. He could not complain that he lacked an interested listener.
Barmouth would see Benin without delay; indeed, he would call upon him
after he had given evidence at the trial to-morrow. There would be no
difficulty about this, Jack said, for Benin was pretty sure to attend
the hearing in person. Jack's prophecy was borne out next morning by
the appearance of Benin in the well of the court. The first witness
called was Barmouth; who, true to his promise, had disguised himself
almost beyond recognition. As he stepped into the witness-box,
Anstruther turned upon him savagely from the dock, and then the face
of the latter, with the light upon it, was plainly visible to the
little French doctor. Heedless of his surroundings, heedless of the
solemnity of the occasion, the Frenchman jumped to his feet, and
pointed a shaking finger in Anstruther's direction.
"Murderer, murderer!" he cried. "Dog, is it you?"
Anstruther paused, and threw up his hands like a man who is shot. He
fell back, a collapsed heap, on the floor of the dock. A warder rushed
forward and raised the prostrate figure.
"I think he is dead, my lord," he said simply.