USING THE ENEMY'S WEAPONS
Two months passed, and no tidings of Kaffar--at least, none that were
worthy of consideration. The detectives had done all that men could do;
they had made every inquiry possible, they had set on foot dozens of
schemes; but all in vain. Voltaire, who had been closely watched, was
apparently living a quiet, harmless life, and was not, so far as could
be seen, in communication with him. I had done all that I could do
myself. I had followed in England every possible clue, all of which had
ended in failure.
Three months passed. Still no reliable news. One detective fancied he
had detected him in Constantinople; another was equally certain he had,
at the same time, seen him in Berlin. I became almost mad with despair.
The first of December had come, and I was not a step nearer finding the
man whose presence would free me from Voltaire's villainous charge.
That which troubled me most was the fact that I did not know whether he
were alive. Even if I did not kill him, perhaps Voltaire had got him out
of the way so that he might fasten the guilt on me. "What, after all,"
was the thought that maddened me, "if he should be lying at the bottom
of Drearwater Pond?"
There were only twenty-four days now. Three weeks and three days, and I
knew not what to do. If I failed, my love would marry the man who was
worse than a fiend, while I, for whom she was to suffer this torture,
was unable to help her.
And yet I had tried, God alone knows how; but only to fail. Still, there
were twenty-four days; but what were they? Kaffar, if he were alive,
might be in Africa, Australia--no one knew where. I saw no hope.
A week more slipped by. There were only seventeen days left now. I was
sitting in my room, anxiously waiting for the Continental mail, and any
telegrams which might arrive. I heard the postman's knock, and in a
minute more letters were brought in. Eagerly I opened those which came
from the detectives, and feverishly read them. "Still in the dark;
nothing discovered"--that summed up the long reports they sent me. I
read the other letters; there was nothing in them to help me.
Still another week went by. Only ten days were wanting to Christmas Eve,
and I knew no more of Kaffar's whereabouts than I did on the day when I
defied Voltaire and started on my search. Again reports from the
detectives came, and still no news. No doubt, by this, Voltaire was
gloating over his victory, while I was nearly mad with despair.
Only ten days! I must do something. It was my duty, at all hazards, to
free Gertrude Forrest from Voltaire. That was plain. I could not find
the Egyptian, and thus it was probable I had killed him as had been
said. What must I do? This, and this only. I must go to Scotland Yard,
and relate to the authorities my whole story. I must tell them of
Voltaire's influence over me, and that it was probable I had, while held
under a mesmerist's spell, killed the man I had been trying to find.
This was all. It _might_ bring this villain under suspicion, and, if so,
it would hinder him from exacting the fulfilment of Gertrude Forrest's
promise.
It was at best but an uncertain venture, but it was all I could do. I
owed it to the woman I loved. It was my duty to make this sacrifice. I
would do it.
I wasted no time; I put on my overcoat and walked to Scotland Yard.
I put my hand upon the door of the room which I knew belonged to one of
the officials, to whom I determined to report my case.
I thought of the words I should say, when--
"STOP!"
I am sure I heard that word, clear and distinct. Where it came from I
knew not; but it was plain to me.
An idea flashed into my mind!
Mad, mad, I must have been, never to have thought of it before.
Ten days! Only ten days! But much might be done even yet. I rushed away,
and got into St. James's Park, and there, in comparative quietness, I
began to think.
The clouds began to dispel, the difficulties began to move away. Surely
I had hit upon a plan at last, a plan on which I should have thought at
the outset.
I walked on towards Westminster Abbey, still working out my newly
conceived idea, and when there jumped into a cab.
Yes, I remembered the address, for I had seen it only the day before, so
I told the cabman to drive to ---- Street, Chelsea.
I was right. There on the door was the name of the man I had hoped to
find--Professor Von Virchow. I paid the cabman, and knocked at the door
with a beating heart.
A sallow-faced girl opened the door, and asked my business.
Was Professor Virchow at home?
Yes, he was at home, but would be engaged for the next quarter of an
hour; after that, he could see me on business connected with his
profession.
I was accordingly ushered into a musty room, which sadly wanted light
and air. The quarter of an hour dragged slowly away, when the
sallow-faced girl again appeared, saying that Professor Von Virchow
would be pleased to see me.
I followed her into an apartment that was fitted up like a doctor's
consulting-room. Here I found the man I had come to see.
He was a little man, about five feet four inches high. He had, however,
a big head, a prominent forehead, and keen grey eyes. He wore
gold-rimmed spectacles, and was evidently well fed and on good terms
with himself.
"You are a professor of mesmerism and clairvoyance, I believe?" I began.
"That is my profession," said the little man, "Then I am in hopes that
you may be able to help me in my difficulty."
"I shall be pleased to help you," he said, still stiffly.
"Can you," I went on, "tell the whereabouts of a man whom I may describe
to you?"
"That is very vague," was the reply. "Your description may be incorrect,
or a hundred men might answer to it. I would promise nothing under such
conditions."
"Perhaps I had better tell my story," I said.
"I think you had," said the little professor, quietly.
"On the 2nd of January of the present year," I said, "a man disappeared
in the night from a place in Yorkshire. He is an Egyptian, and easily
distinguished. A great deal depends on finding him at once. Ever since
May, endeavours have been made to track him, but without success."
"Perhaps he is dead," said the professor.
"Perhaps so; but even then it is important to know. Can you help me to
find out his whereabouts?"
"Undoubtedly I can; but I must have a good photograph of him. Have you
one?"
"I have not."
"Could you obtain one?"
"I think not."
"But this man has been seen by many people. Could not some one you
know, and who knows him, sketch a faithful likeness from memory?"
"I do not know of any one."
"Then I could not guarantee to find him. You see, I cannot work
miracles. I can only work through certain laws which I have been
fortunate enough either to recognize or discover; but there must ever be
some data upon which to go, and, you see, you give me none that is in
the least satisfactory."
"Perhaps you can," I said, "if I relate to you all the circumstances
connected with what is, I think, a somewhat remarkable story."
I had determined to tell this little man every circumstance which might
lead to Kaffar's discovery, especially those which happened in
Yorkshire. It seemed my only resource, and I felt, that somehow
something would come of it.
I therefore briefly related what I have written in this story.
"That man who mesmerized you is very clever," said the professor
quietly, when I had finished. "It was very unfortunate for you that you
should have matched yourself with such a one. His plot was well worked
out in every respect. He only made a mistake in one thing."
"And that?"
"He thought it impossible that you should ever be freed from his power
without his consent. Still it was a well-planned affair. The story, the
ghost, the quarrel--it was all well done."
"I fail to see what part the ghost had in the matter," I said.
The professor smiled. "No?" he said. "Well, I should not think it was a
vital part of his plan, but it was helpful. He calculated upon the young
lady's superstitious fancies. He knew what the particular form in which
the ghost appeared portended, and it fitted in with his scheme of
murder. Evidently he wanted the young lady to believe in your guilt, and
thus give him greater chance of success. Ah, he is a clever man."
"But," I asked anxiously, "can you tell me Kaffar's whereabouts now?"
"No, I cannot--that is, not to-day."
"When, then?"
"I may not be able to do so at all. It all depends on one man."
"Who is he?"
"Simon Slowden, I think you called him."
"Simon Slowden! How can he help us?"
"Evidently he is susceptible to mesmeric influences, and he knows the
man you wish to find. But the difficulty lies here. Is he sufficiently
susceptible?"
"Is that the only hope?"
"All I can see at present. I was going to suggest that you be thrown
into a mesmeric sleep; but you could not be depended on. The experiences
which you have had would make you very uncertain."
"Then your advice is--"
"Send for this man at once. If he fails--well, I have another
alternative."
"May I know what?"
"No, not now."
"Answer me this. Do you think I killed Kaffar, the Egyptian?"
"No, I do not; but your enemy intended you should."
"Why did I not, then?"
"Because the Egyptian also possessed a mesmerist's power, and hindered
you. At any rate, such is my opinion. I am not sure;" and the little man
looked very wise.
"Expect us early to-morrow morning," I said, and then went away to the
nearest telegraph office, with a lighter heart than I had known for many
long months. The little professor had given me some hope. The matter was
still enshrouded in mystery, but still I thought I had found a possible
solution.
"_Send Simon Slowden to me at once_" I telegraphed. "_Extremely
important. Wire back immediately the time I may expect him_."
Anxiously I waited for an answer. Although the message was flashed with
lightning speed, it seemed a long time in coming. At length it came, and
I read as follows:
"_Slowden will come by train leaving Leeds 11.38. Meet him at St.
Pancras_."
I immediately caught a cab and drove to Gower Street, and, on looking at
my time-table, I found that the train mentioned in the telegram arrived
in London at 5.15. This would do splendidly. I could get Simon to my
room and give him some breakfast, and then, after a little rest, drive
direct to the professor's.
I need not say I was early at St. Pancras the following morning. I had
scarcely slept through the night, and anxiously awaited the appearance
of the train. It swept into the station in good time, and, to my great
relief and delight, I saw Simon appear on the platform, looking as
stolid and imperturbable as ever.
We were not long in reaching Gower Street, where Simon enjoyed a good
breakfast, after which we drew up our chairs before the cheerful fire
and began to talk.
"Did you have a good journey, Simon?" I asked.
"Slept like the seven sleepers of the patriarch, sur, all the way from
Leeds."
"And you don't feel tired now?"
"Not a bit, yer honour."
"Then," I said, "I want to explain to you a few things that must have
appeared strange."
Accordingly I told him of Voltaire's influence over me, and what came
out of it.
"Why, sur," said Simon, when I had finished, "that 'ere willain must be
wuss nor a hinfidel; he must be the Old Nick in the garret. And do you
mean to say, sur, that that 'ere beautiful Miss Forrest, who I've put
down for you, is goin' to git married to that 'ere somnamblifyin'
waccinatin' willain, if his dutiful mate ain't a found before Christmas
Eve?"
"Only nine days, Simon."
"But it mustn't be, yer honour."
"So I say, Simon; and that's why I've sent for you."
"But I can't do nothink much, sur. All my wits hev bin waccinated away,
and my blood is puddled like, which hev affected the workin' o' my
brains; and, you see, all your detective chaps have failed."
"But I shan't fail, if you'll help me."
"Help you, Mr. Blake? You know I will!"
"Simon, you offered to be my friend, now nearly a year ago."
"Ay, and this 'ere is a lad as'll stick to his offer, sur, and mighty
proud to do so."
"Well, then, I'm in hopes we shall succeed."
"How, yer honour?"
"By fighting Voltaire with his own weapons."
"What, waccinatin'?"
"By mesmerism and clairvoyance, Simon."
"And who's the chap as hev got to be waccinated--or mesmerized, as you
call it?"
"You, if you will, Simon."
"Me, sir?" said Simon, aghast.
"If you will."
"Well, I said after that 'ere willain experimented on me in Yorkshire, I
never would again; but if it's for you, sur--why, here goes; I'm purty
tough. But how's it to be done?"
Then I told him of my interview with the professor, and how he had told
me that only he--Simon--could give the necessary help.
"Let's off at once, yer honour," cried Simon. "I'm willin' for anything
if you can git the hupper 'and of that 'ere willain and his other self.
Nine days, sur--only nine days! Let's git to the waccinator. I'd rather
have small-pox a dozen times than you should be knocked overboard by
sich as he."
I was nothing loth, and so, although it was still early, we were soon
in a cab on our way to the professor's. On arriving, we were immediately
shown in, and the little man soon made his appearance.
"Ah! you've brought him?" said he. "I'm glad to see you so prompt. Would
you mind taking this chair, my friend?"--to Simon. "That's it, thank
you. You've been travelling all night and are a little tired, I expect.
No? Well, it's well to be strong and able to bear fatigue. There, look
at me. Ah, that's it!"
With that he put his fingers on Simon's forehead, and my humble friend
was unconscious of what was going on around him.
"He's very susceptible; but I am afraid he has not been under this
influence a sufficient number of times for his vision to be clear.
Still, we'll try.--Simon!"
"That's me," said Simon, sleepily.
"Do you see Kaffar, the Egyptian?"
He looked around as if in doubt. His eyes had a vacant look about them,
and yet there seemed a certain amount of intelligence displayed--at any
rate, it seemed so to me.
"I see lots of people, all dim like," said Simon, slowly; "but I can't
tell no faces. They all seem to be covered wi' a kind o' mist."
"Look again," said the professor. "You can see more clearly now."
Simon peered again and again, and then said, "Yes, I can see him; but he
looks all strange. He's a-shaved off his whiskers, and hev got a sort o'
red cap, like a baisin, on his head."
My heart gave a great bound. Kaffar was not dead. Thank God for that!
"Where is he?"
"I am tryin' to see, but I can't. Everything is misty. There's a black
fog a-comin' up."
"Wait a few minutes," said the professor, "and then we'll try him
again."
Presently he spoke again. "Now," he said, "what do you see?"
But Simon did not reply. He appeared in a deep sleep.
"I thought as much," said the little man. "His nature has not been
sufficiently prepared for such work. I suppose you had breakfast before
you came here?"
I assured him that Simon had breakfasted on kidneys and bacon; after
which he had made considerable inroads into a cold chicken, with
perchance half a pound of cold ham to keep it company. Besides which, he
had taken three large breakfast cups of chocolate.
"Ah, that explains somewhat. Still, I think we have done a fair
morning's work. We've seen that our man is alive."
"But do you think there is any hope of finding him?"
"I'm sure there is, only be patient."
"But what must I do?"
"Well, take this man to see some of the sights of London until three
o'clock, then come home to dinner. After dinner he'll be sleepy. Let him
sleep, if he will, until nine o'clock; then bring him here again; but
let him have no supper until after I have done with him."
"Nine o'clock to-night! Why, do you know, that takes away another day?
There will only want eight clear days to Christmas Eve."
"I can't help that, sir," said the little professor, testily; "you
should have come before. But that is the way. Our science, which is
really the queen of sciences, is disregarded; only one here and there
comes to us, and then we are treated as no other scientific man would be
treated. Never mind, our day will come. One day all the sciences shall
bow the knee to us, for we are the real interpreters of the mysteries of
nature."
I apologized for my impatience, which he gravely accepted, and then woke
Simon from his sleep.
"Where am I?" cried Simon. "Where've I been?"
"I can't tell," said the professor; "I wish I could, for then our work
would be accomplished."
"Have you bin a-waccinatin' me?" said Simon.
The little man looked to me for explanation.
"He calls everything mysterious by that name," I said.
"'Cause," continued Simon, "I thought as how you waccinators, or
mesmerists, made passes, as they call 'em, and waved your hands about,
and like that."
"Did that Mr. Voltaire, I think you call him, make passes?" asked the
professor.
"He!" said Simon. "He ain't no ordinary man. He's got dealin's with old
Nick, he hev. He didn't come near me, nor touch me, and I wur sleepin'
afore I could think of my grandmother."
"Just so; he is no ordinary man. He's a real student of psychology, he
is. He has gone beyond the elements of our profession. I despise the
foolish things which these quacks of mesmerism make Billy people do in
order to please a gaping-mouthed audience. It is true I call myself a
professor of mesmerism and clairvoyance, but it would be more correct to
call me a practical psychologist. You'll attend to my wishes with
regard to our friend, won't you? Good-morning."
I will not try to describe how I passed the day. It would be wearisome
to the reader to tell him how often I looked at my watch and thought of
the precious hours that were flying; neither will I speak of my hopes
and fears with regard to this idea of finding Kaffar's whereabouts by
means of clairvoyance. Suffice it to say I was in a state of feverish
anxiety when we drove up to the professor's door that night, about
half-past nine.
We did not wait a minute before operations were commenced. Simon was
again in a mesmeric sleep, or whatever the reader may be pleased to call
it, in a few seconds after he had sat down.
Von Virchow began by asking the same question he had asked in the
morning: "Do you see Kaffar, the Egyptian?"
I waited in breathless silence for the answer. Simon heaved a deep sigh,
and peered wearily around, while the professor kept his eye steadily
upon him.
"Do you see Kaffar, the Egyptian?" repeated he.
"Yes, I see him," said Simon at length.
"Where?"
"That's what I'm trying to find out," said Simon. "The place is
strange; the people talk in a strange tongue. I can't make 'em out."
"What do you see now?" said the professor, touching his forehead.
"Oh, ah, I see now," said Simon. "It's a railway station, and I see that
'ere willain there, jest as cunnin' as ever. He's a gettin' in the
train, he is."
"Can you see the name of the station?"
"No, I can't. It's a biggish place it is, and I can't see no name. Stay
a minute, though. I see now."
"Well, what's the name?"
"It's a name as I never see or heard tell on before. B-O-L-O--ah, that's
it; BOLOGNA, that's it. It is a queer name though, ain't it?"
"Well, what now?"
"Why, he's in the train, and it's started, it is."
"Do you know where he's going?"
"No."
"But he has a ticket; can't you see it?"
"Course I can't. It's in his pocket, and I can't see through the cloth,
I can't."
"And what's he doing now?"
"Why, he's in for makin' hisself comfortable, he is. He's got a piller,
and he's stretchin' hisself on the seat and layin' his head on the
piller. There, he's closed his eyes--he's off to sleep."
The professor turned to me. "I am afraid we can do no more to-night," he
said. "Evidently he is on a journey, and we must wait until he arrives
at his destination."
"But can't Slowden remain as he is and watch him?"
"The thing would be at once cruel and preposterous, sir. No, you must
come again in the morning; then, perchance, he will have finished his
journey;" and accordingly he proceeded to awake Simon.
After all, it did not matter so much. It was now ten o'clock, and I
could do nothing that night, in any case.
"I do not know but that I am glad that things are as they are,"
continued the professor. "This second sleep will enable him to see more
clearly to-morrow. Meanwhile, consider yourself fortunate. If the
Egyptian stops anywhere in Italy, it will be possible for you to reach
him and bring him back within the time you mention. Take heart, my
friend. Good-bye for the time. I shall expect you early to-morrow."
No sooner were we in the street than Simon began to ask me what he had
told me, for I found that he was entirely ignorant of the things he had
said.
"Who'd 'a thought it?" he said musingly, when I had told him. "Who'd 'a
thought as 'ow I should hassist in a waccinatin' business like this
'ere! Tell 'ee, yer 'onour, I shall believe in ghosts and sperrits again
soon. Fancy me a-seein' things in Italy and tellin' 'em to you without
knowin' anything about it! Well, but 'twill be grand if we can find 'im,
yer honour, won't it then?"
I spent a sleepless night, harassed by a thousand doubts and fears.
There, in the quiet of my room, all this mesmerism and clairvoyance
seemed only so much hocus-pocus, which no sensible and well-educated man
should have anything to do with. Still, it was my only hope, and it only
wanted eight days to Christmas Eve. Only one little week and a day, that
was all, and then, if I did not produce Kaffar, all was lost. It would
be no use to go to Miss Forrest's house in Kensington and tell her that
Simon Slowden had, while in a mesmeric sleep, seen Kaffar in Italy. No,
no; that would never do. I must produce him, nothing else would suffice.
We were early at the professor's the following morning, and found him
waiting and almost as anxious as we were. Again Simon submitted to the
influence of the little man, and soon answered his questions far more
readily than he had hitherto done.
Did he see Kaffar?
"Yes," was the reply.
"Where is he now?"
He was in a beautiful town. The houses were white, the streets were
white; the town was full of squares, and in these squares were many
statues. Such was Simon's information.
"Do you know what country the town is in?"
"No," said Simon, shaking his head.
"Could you not by any means find out? There's a railway station in the
town; can you not see the name there?"
"Yes, there's a railway station, a fine one. Ah, I see the name now.
T-O-R-I-N-O. TORINO, that's it."
"Torino!" I cried, "Turin! That's a town in Italy, some distance beyond
the French border."
The professor beckoned me to be quiet.
"Kaffar is at Torino, is he?" said the professor.
"That's it--yes."
"What is he doing?"
"Talkin' with a man who keeps an hotel."
"What does he say?"
"It's in a foreign language, and I can't tell."
"Can you repeat what he said?"
"It sounded like this--'_Je restey ici pour kelka jour_;' but I can't
make out what it means."
The professor turned to me.
"He's speaking French. I did not know Kaffar knew French; perhaps he's
learned it lately. The words mean that he will stay there for some
days."
"Can you describe the street in which this hotel is?" continued Von
Virchow.
Simon began to describe, but we could make nothing of it.
"We can't understand," replied the professor. "Can you draw a sketch of
the road to it from the railway station?" and he put a piece of paper
and pencil in Simon's hand.
Without hesitating, Simon drew a sketch, a facsimile of which is given
on the opposite page.
I had been to Turin, and remembered some of the places the sketch
indicated. It might be far from perfect, but it was sufficient for me.
It would be child's play to find Kaffar there.
"That will do," I said to the professor. "I'll start at once. Thank you
so much."
"Ah, that will do, will it?" he said, with a smile. "Then I'll wake up
this man."
Simon woke up as usual, rubbing his eyes, and asked whether any good had
been done.
"Everything's been done," cried I. "Come, professor, allow me to write
you a cheque. How much shall it be?"
"Not a penny until your work is accomplished," replied the little man,
with dignity.
"That is not fair," I said. "I don't know what may happen, and you must
not be defrauded. Anyhow, here's something on account;" and I put a
twenty-pound note in his hand.
He smiled as he looked at it, while I took my hat, and stated my
intention to start for Turin at once.
"Beggin' yer pardon," said Simon, "but this 'ere waccination business
is awfully wearyin', and I should like to--that is--"
"The very thing," I replied, anticipating his request. "You shall go
with me."
Half-an-hour later, we were at Gower Street, making preparations for our
journey to Turin--Simon calm and collected, I feverish and excited.