Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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THE thick yellow waters of the Thames shone like gold beneath the afternoon sun as Sexton Blake gazed out from his window in Norfolk Street, Strand. For the first time for many weeks the great investigator was enjoying an afternoon of comparative rest. The great Mortman murder mystery had for the past month monopolized his waking thoughts, and strained to the uttermost his bodily and intellectual strength.
Just now he was thinking of nothing in particular. His fine, clear-cut face and dark, shrewd eyes lay, so to speak, placid beneath the usually active brain, which for the time being he was allowing to remain fallow. He was gazing idly out on the shining water at the light, feathery wisps of cloud that here and there dotted like oases the big, beautiful desert of blue sky. At some distance a great engine went ramping over the railway bridge from Charing Cross, and rent the silent air with its hoarse, steamy cry.
Almost simultaneously a knock came at the door behind Sexton Blake, and a man entered. 'A telegram, sir,' he said.
The detective's eyes brightened instinctively as he tore open the brown envelope. Then they drew nearer each other, and his forehead furrowed as he read:
SIR EDWARD DIED SUDDENLY THIS AFTERNOON. COME AT ONCE, THERE IS SOME MYSTERY—GERALD.
Sexton Blake did not hesitate. He simply grasped the full purport of the telegram, quickly discovered from the ABC that a train left Paddington at 5.15, and then rapidly packed a portmanteau, which contained an infinite number of compartments and pockets, and in a quarter of an hour from the receipt of the wire was seated in a cab en route for the Great Western terminus.
Gerald Buckley—the nephew and heir of Sir Edward Buckley—had been Sexton Blake's chum at school and later on at Oxford, where they had gone at the same time to the same college. Except at rare intervals they had not met for some six or seven years, the detective's time having been fully occupied by his profession, and Gerald Buckley having devoted the greater part of those years to travel. The cordial friendship of the two men, however, had been sustained through the medium of the post, and had been so strengthened by absence that each felt no task could be mentioned which he would not cheerfully undertake for the sake of the other.
And so it was that Sexton Blake was only too eager to rush to the side of his old friend to render what sympathy and aid he could.
Dismissing the cab outside Paddington, he took a ticket for Sand-hill, the nearest station to Buckley Park, and secured a second-class compartment.
Two hours later Sexton Blake was ushered into the library of Buckley Park, and one minute afterwards his friend Gerald entered.
'Thanks, old man, for coming so promptly in my time of trouble,' he said.
'I am only sorry it is a time of trouble for you,' Blake answered, as the two gripped hands cordially. 'But you didn't send for me for consolation merely, did you? I gathered from your wire that there might be some work for me to do. You spoke of mystery, did you not?'
'I did. Do you know, Blake, since his death this afternoon my uncle seems to have undergone a most extraordinary alteration?'
'In what way?'
'Well, in connection with his eyes. His hair and face remain the same, but the expression of his eyes is different from anything I have ever seen in them before.'
'That could be accounted for by the absence of life,' the detective observed.
'I hardly think so. My uncle was the kindest and best of men in life, and I cannot understand why his whole expression should have changed to one of cruelty and wickedness in death.'
'Ah, my dear fellow, you are fancying these things! The tragic occurrence has unnerved you, and put you into a condition in which you are unable to judge.'
'No, no, Blake! you are wrong. I am not fancying the things I mention. Come, you have seen Sir Edward on one or two occasions and you are a keen observer—come and see him now, and judge for yourself.'
So saying, Gerald took a lamp and led the way upstairs and through various panelled passages of the old Elizabethan house, the detective following close upon his heels. At length they stopped before a door curtained with black velvet, and softly entered a room. There, on a bed, beside which a lamp burned dimly, making the room seem weird and awful, reclined the dead body of Sir Edward Buckley, Bart.
At a motion from Gerald the detective stepped up and bent over the bed, scanning the dead face with intense interest. For fully two minutes he remained so, scrutinizing the still open eyes with a determined look on his face, endeavouring to fathom the secret of their expression. Then he left the room with his friend, the pair descending in silence to the library. For a moment neither uttered a word. Then Gerald broke the silence with a monosyllabic inquiry:
'Well?'
'The eyes are changed,' the detective replied. 'But that is not all.'
'Eh? Is there something I had not noticed?'
'There is something absent. Your uncle had a scar on his neck under the right ear—the result of a sabre cut, I should imagine?'
'Yes, yes! He received it in India, during the Mutiny. But what of that?'
'Only that that scar is not apparent on the body upstairs.'
'Great Heaven! I did not look myself. What—what can be the meaning of it?'
'It is too early yet to form any definite theory on the matter. What I have seen and missed has only started a train of thought.'
'But what do you think of the whole affair?'
'I can give you no opinion yet,' the detective answered. 'You must allow me a little time to investigate.'
'Anything you like! Anything to fathom this mystery!'
'You must give me carte blanche in this affair. The whole thing is extraordinary; perhaps the most extraordinary thing I have met with in my life. It is an astounding puzzle at present, but give me time and opportunity and I may find the solution.'
'I am sure if anyone can solve it you can. As for your action—do just what you please, and command me in any way.'
'Then I will ask you to leave me now.'
'But first you must eat.'
'I am not hungry.'
'Then let me show you your room.'
'I shall not sleep tonight.'
'But, my dear Sexton. ..'
'My dear Gerald, you will excuse me, but in the pursuance of my profession I must do as I choose. I ask you, then, to allow me to go on with this business in my own way. Tonight I wish to be with Sir Edward's body.'
'With Sir Edward's body?'
'Yes, Gerald. You need not look aghast. I cannot tell you exactly why yet, but this much, Gerald, I may say. This mystery of the change of expression in your uncle's face engrosses me. When I think of it I am fascinated, spellbound, enthralled, haunted—what you will. I only know that I cannot rest until I have elucidated the whole mystery. I must begin at once. I can find my way to your uncle's room.' And he extended his hand to bid good-night to his friend.
'Well, then, since you must have your way—good-night,' the latter said.
'Good-night,' returned the detective. And the two parted.
IN the presence of another, Sexton Blake had felt the necessity of never betraying his feelings, or of exhibiting his fears or confidences. With anyone present he ever preserved a bearing of complete calm, of entire passiveness. An average man observing him would never have supposed that beneath that placid eye and calm, unruffled face there was working one of the most acute brains possible; that, notwithstanding the cool, untroubled bearing of the man, his mind was ever receiving and assimilating impressions and ideas of everything occurring at the moment.
Such was Sexton Blake in company: alone, his whole bearing changed. With Gerald gone, the detective began to slowly pace the room, with his eyes to the floor, his brows knit, and the long, thin, nervous fingers of his right hand clutching his left wrist behind him. His brain was analysing the events of the past two hours.
'What could that changed expression mean?' he asked himself. 'Sir Edward Buckley had been one of the most amiable of men, and his look had ever been the personification of urbanity. His life had been that of a thorough English gentleman, and his honour had ever remained unstained. What, then, had produced that haunting look of almost diabolical cruelty in his eyes? And then, the sabre cut! Why—when—how had the scar disappeared? Here was a mystery indeed—a mystery so startling, so unprecedented, as almost to make the contemplation of it seem a dream.
Sexton Blake found his brain reeling at the stupendous difficulty. He ceased his walk, and opened his portmanteau, which had been left in the library at his desire. From one of the many compartments the detective drew out a small brass instrument, fitted with minute but powerful lenses. It was a diminutive photographic camera, of wonderful mechanism and superb workmanship, the design being the detective's own.
Often he had experimented with it, but never up to the present had he pressed it into service in earnest. Now he would test it in grim reality. It was just possible that it might aid in the solution of the awful mystery. Taking from another pocket in his bag a small electric battery, Sexton Blake made his way silently, but quickly, to the room in which the body of Sir Edward lay, cold in death.
Once more he scrutinized the marble features. Yes; there were the same deeply-graven lines of the face, and there was the same heavy iron-grey moustache of Sir Edward. But those eyes! That demoniacal look! That had not been the look of Sir Edward! No, no, no! Some superhuman agency must have worked the change to suit some fiendish purpose, for there seemed no human explanation for it!
Presently the detective commenced the task he had set himself. Taking the camera in his hand, he fixed it on the face of the dead man, right over the eyes. Then, having adjusted the focus by covering his own head and the camera with a black cloth (light being supplied by the tiny electric battery), he placed into the frame of the camera a minute sensitized plate, covering the camera again with the cloth, unscrewed the small brass nozzle, and, half a minute later, had a photograph of the dead man's eyes upon the plate. The photograph was invisible as yet, of course. It must be fixed and developed before it could be seen.
Blake had now to postpone further inquiries until the morning; so he descended to the library, threw himself upon an ottoman, and rested. At daybreak he was at work again. With Gerald's assistance, he rigged up a dark room where he might develop the negative. But he did not tell his friend what the photograph was.
By nine o'clock he had completed his task. The tiny negative was fixed. To the naked eye, however, it showed nothing but a small dark blur. It must be magnified ere it would reveal whatever it might contain.
His face working with excitement and hand trembling ever so little, Sexton Blake drew from his pocket his most powerful lens. For fully five minutes he examined the negative closely.
As he gazed his eye brightened with quickened intelligence, and then changed to vacant wonder alternately, while his face first reddened with excitement and then went to a pallor that seemed to betoken awe.
What did the photograph show? Did it reveal the mystery of the whole affair? Alas, no! But indelibly, though faintly, upon the negative there appeared what at present only made the mystery more astounding, but which at the same time seemed to offer promise of a clue. What it was will be revealed in due time.
His examination finished, the detective betook himself to the breakfast-room. Gerald was already there anxiously awaiting Blake.
'Have you discovered anything?' he asked, scrutinizing the now impassive face of the detective.
'Nothing worth telling yet. But, Gerald, I want to talk about the affair. Who was the foreigner present with your uncle when he died? He is a foreigner, is he not?'
'Partly. Though I don't understand how you discovered it, or how you came to know that he was present at all.'
'Never mind. Tell me about him.'
'His name is Dr Bulasco. His father was an Italian, though his mother was English. But, Sexton, you mustn't think, you know—that is, Dr Bulasco was one of Sir Edward's oldest friends. He was Surgeon-Major in my uncle's regiment.'
'Ah! Then he was probably with him in India?'
'He was.'
'Humph! Thanks, Gerald. When shall I have the opportunity of seeing Dr Bulasco?'
'This very morning. He is coming for the inquest, which, I forgot to tell you, takes place this afternoon.'
The conversation of the two friends ceased soon after, when they heard the crunching of the dogcart wheels on the gravel outside. A minute later Dr Bulasco was shown in. At his own previously-expressed wish, Sexton Blake was introduced by the name of 'Mr Rogers'. While the doctor was engaged in discussing the affair of Sir Edward with Gerald Buckley the detective had an opportunity of observing the former.
Dr Bulasco was a tall, wiry man of about forty-five. His dark hair was thick, and bunched up crisply over his ears; his intense black eyes, sunk deeply in their sockets, seemed to the detective to reflect a disposition that was cruel; while the firm, square jowl gave the man an appearance of invincible determination. The unprepossessing expression of the eyes was brightened by a heavy sweep of black moustache and a small, pointed tuft that grew from his chin.
'Well, Gerald, as I have to have my evidence cut and dried for the coroner this afternoon I should like to make another examination of Sir Edward,' the doctor observed a few minutes later.
'Certainly, doctor; anything you please. I will take you to the room now, if you like.'
'Thanks, I can find my way, I think. And, if you don't mind, I will make an examination with no one present.'
Gerald assenting, the doctor left the room. Gerald turned round to speak to Blake, but the detective had already left the room. Thinking that he would be back presently, Buckley sat down to read the morning papers.
Dr Bulasco hurried upstairs to the room where Sir Edward lay. Arrived there, his first act was to lock the door. Then from his medicine chest he drew two or three bottles, mixed a draught in a physic-glass, and approached the dead body. His next act was a strange one.
Opening the tightly-set jaws of the corpse, he poured the draught down its throat, murmuring as he did so: 'That will disperse all traces of the other stuff, I think. Now I must close the eyes, or they might betray. It's fortunate that young fool hasn't noticed the change. But there, if he had he wouldn't suspect. It's beyond his comprehension, and everybody else's for that matter, except mine—and Abdul Kali's, maybe. Ah! what was that?'
A faint sound had reached his alert ears. It was but the slightest creaking of a door or board, but it came from the side of the room opposite to that by which he had entered. Faint as it was, the sound had made Dr Bulasco go pale as marble. Had he been overheard? Was there anyone in the room—in that cupboard opposite, for instance? If there was, then—then he would have to take desperate action! He must protect his secret at all hazards!
From a pocket beneath his waistcoat he drew out a long, flashing blade—an Italian stiletto. Then, with his eyes fixed on the door of the cupboard, he stepped towards it, the knife raised ready for a lunge. But before he had proceeded half way across the room the door was thrown open, and there stepped out of the cupboard none other than Sexton Blake.
Dr Bulasco stepped back a pace and lowered his knife.
'You here!' he hissed between his clenched teeth. 'Ah, I see! You have come to play the spy on me!'
'Play the spy on you, Dr Bulasco! Why should you think that? Have you done anything that, if known, should necessitate anyone spying upon your actions?' Blake's face was impassive and his voice calm.
'No, curse you! But why are you here? Why did you conceal yourself here, if not to spy?'
'Well, suppose I give as a reason that I am interested in the mystery of Sir Edward Buckley's death, and was anxious to witness your scientific examination of the body? Suppose I admit so much, does my innocent desire for knowledge warrant your taking up such an aggressive position as you have done? An instrument like that is not commonly found in a doctor's hand,' and Sexton Blake pointed to the stiletto which Dr Bulasco still firmly grasped. The detective's calm, almost bantering, manner made the doctor mad with rage, and incapable of controlling his speech.
'You mean, lying spy!' he gasped, 'you came here deliberately to watch me secretly! As to this instrument —I will show you that, though it is uncommon in a doctor's hands, I can use it effectively!' And he rushed quickly towards Blake with the weapon raised.
But the detective was quicker. Like a flash of lightning, he whipped from his pocket a small revolver and Dr Bulasco again recoiled as the glittering, plated barrel met his eyes.
'You had better be careful, doctor,' Sexton Blake observed imperturbably. 'You are a bad tactician. It is always better to ascertain the enemy's strength before you commence the assault.'
Bulasco made no reply. His lips twitched nervously, as though he would have stormed out; but that deadly, shining barrel still covered him, and he could see he had no common foe to deal with.
'And now, Dr Bulasco,' the detective added, 'I have a little favour to ask of you. Will you kindly unlock the door?'
Bulasco hesitated a moment. He was no coward, and he saw what a danger threatened him if those muttered words of his had been overheard by the man who stood before him. He must find this out ere he allowed this cool, self-possessed man to depart.
'Open the door!' Sexton repeated, his eyes still fixed on the hesitating doctor.
'Before I do so will you answer a question?' inquired the other hastily.
'Ask it.'
'Did you hear what I said-before you opened that cupboard door?'
'Yes.'
'What did you hear?'
'Every word.'
Scarcely were the last two words out of the detective's mouth than he felt a twinge of pain in his wrist as of a serpent's sting, and the next moment found himself grappling with Dr Bulasco. The latter, driven to desperation by his position, had sprung upon his enemy with knife uplifted, ready to drive it fatally home to the detective's heart.
So furious and unexpected was the onslaught that Sexton Blake had barely time to ward the blow with his arm and receive the stiletto upon his wrist. The painful shock, too, caused him to drop his revolver, and he found himself opposed unarmed to a desperate adversary whose knife had already tasted blood.
By a quick feint, he managed to seize the arm of the doctor, which had flashed the weapon aloft to repeat the stab. And now the struggle resolved itself into a grim wrestle for the mastery. Locked in each other's arms, the two men swayed and writhed and tugged, each trying to throw the other, but neither during the first few minutes gaining any appreciable advantage. Though considerably older than the detective, Dr Bulasco was almost as strong. His tall frame was wiry and his muscles like iron.
But soon it became apparent that he had not the stamina of Sexton Blake. He began to puff and breathe hard, as though his wind was going, whilst the detective seemed scarcely to feel the exertion at all. Forcing his arms round his antagonist till he could lock his hands behind his back, the latter tightened his grip. Rising on tiptoe, he threw the whole weight of his body upon his opponent's chest. For a few seconds this position was maintained; but then the doctor, unable to bear longer the fearful embrace he was enduring, suddenly collapsed and fell to the ground, receiving the whole weight of the detective upon him.
'Now, Dr Bulasco,' Sexton Blake said, as he disengaged himself from the other and pinned him to the floor with his knee, 'you are at my mercy! You deserve no quarter, treacherous hound that you are! But I will spare you now; I will not defile the house of the dead with the perpetration of revenge. Your punishment shall come upon you on a future occasion.' And, so saying, Sexton Blake, taking the stiletto and revolver in his hands, strode from the room.
He made his way to Gerald at once.
'I have had a little encounter with Dr Bulasco,' he observed, in reply to Gerald's look of astonishment on beholding his wounded wrist. 'But I wish you to act towards him as though you knew nothing about it. The fact is I suspect him.'
'Suspect Dr Bulasco? Not of causing my uncle's death, surely?'
'May be not. But he knows more about it than we do.'
'But there was no motive, and he was my uncle's dearest friend!'
'Behind a mask of friendship there often lurks the deadliest enmity. But now, Gerald, I must leave at once. I have much work to do. You shall hear from me soon. Remember that you know nothing of my encounter with Dr Bulasco, and that urgent business was my reason for going so hurriedly. And don't let my profession leak out. I will pack up, and then trouble you for the dogcart to drive to the station.'
SEXTON BLAKE had barely left the house ere Dr Bulasco rushed into Gerald's room in a terribly excited state. He had in the few minutes that had intervened, made up his mind what to do.
'Where is that fellow Rogers?' he asked angrily.
'He has gone to town. Important business necessitated his immediate return. But what is the matter?' And Gerald assumed a look of utter ignorance of anything that had transpired.
'Matter enough! That man is a scoundrel and a spy! He came to your uncle's room to spy on my movements there.'
'Surely you must be mistaken?'
'Not a bit of it! I found him concealed in the cupboard. I asked him why he was there; he refused to give any reason, and, when I demanded an answer, drew a revolver and threatened to shoot me! On my expostulating further, he seized me by the throat and threw me down!'
'Good heavens! How extraordinary!'
'Yes; from my experience of the insane I should say the man is mad. You say he is gone to town?'
'Yes; he has gone to the station.'
'Have I time to catch him?'
Gerald glanced quickly at his watch and said:
'You might just catch him. But why?'
'I believe him to be mad, and I refuse to be a party to his being at large.'
And, before Gerald could interpose, Dr Bulasco had left the room, and was on his way towards the railway station.
The story which Dr Bulasco had told to Gerald Buckley was, as the reader already knows, entirely false, as also was the assertion that he believed Blake to be mad. The latter was merely an excuse for following the detective, for he had made up his mind that to let him get away would be disastrous: Sexton Blake—or Rogers, as Bulasco knew him—might search out Abdul Kali, and learn from him the key to the mystery of the changed eyes. If he did, then—but there, he must not get to London!
He, Bulasco, must prevent that; must delay him till he himself should be able to communicate with Abdul Kali, and warn the latter not to reveal the tragic secret. Bulasco must remain at Buckley Hall until after the inquest.
So ran the villain's thoughts as he sped quickly along the road towards the station. He looked at his watch. He had but a quarter of an hour, and there was over a mile yet to traverse. If he should miss the train then good-bye to his peace of mind for ever. Anything to prevent that! Anything!
A terrible suggestion was evolved from his black brain. It turned his steps from the road on to a footpath that led through the green fields to a red arch which spanned the railway, about a mile from the station. A train could be stopped there, and the train in which his enemy would be must pass the spot presently.
Yes; the train must be stopped, by whatever measures might be required. He must not hesitate. His liberty —perhaps even his life—depended upon his prompt action.
The bridge was reached by now. Over its wall Bulasco gazed down upon the rails that glittered in the sun, and curved like silver serpents round a bend a hundred yards away. A little way below the bridge, against the tall bank of the white chalk cutting, lay several shovels and picks, left there by workmen who had gone to a public house for refreshment.
In an instant Bulasco decided what he would do. He would wreck the train! Descending the bank by some rough steps, he hurried to the spot where the picks lay, seized one and then madly hacked and wrenched at one of the 'up' rails.
For a few minutes his fiendish efforts were ineffectual; but suddenly he found a weak spot at one of the joints. Using the pick as a lever, he exerted his strength in a mighty wrench.
The rail moved!
Again he tugged fiercely, while the sweat rolled down his face like rain on a window. For a mighty dread seized him that he might be discovered at his diabolical work.
The rail moved further! It was an inch out of the parallel now. His task was done. That train would never reach London. Some of its human cargo would be hurled without warning into eternity. Might his foe be among them? But he must away.
As he clambered up the steep bank the hoarse screech of an engine was borne on the air to his ears. It was the train leaving the station. Another minute or two, and it would meet its fate.
Bulasco paused breathless at the top of the bank. Something prevented him moving till he had witnessed the effect of his dastardly work.
On, on the engine came; nearer and nearer. Through the bridge it swept, increasing in speed at every yard.
Crash!
There was no warning screech or any sound. The engine-driver had not noticed the displacement of the rail. The first he knew of it was when the engine ran right off, pitched over, and hurled him headlong forward.
Terrified shrieks of women rent the air, accompanied by the agonized groans of the injured. Bulasco heard them as he lay crouching in concealment on the crest of the cutting. A fearful tremor shook him through; his face paled as he trembled; over his brain there swept a wave of terrified remorse. But in it there was no tinge of sorrow or repentance. It was merely a self-reproachful lash of evil conscience at having done so much to obtain so little.
But it was done now, and there was no use repining. The further he was away from the tragic scene the better for his personal safety. So, choosing lonely ways, he hurried back to Buckley House, with terror in his eyes and his brain on fire.
And how had it fared with Sexton Blake? The dogcart had landed him at the station several minutes before the train was due to start. He secured a first-class compartment to himself, and, as the train moved out of the station, settled himself to think over the events of the past few hours.
He has not been long engaged thus when suddenly he was pitched violently forward to the opposite corner of the compartment. The train had run off the line. For a minute he could not realize whether he was injured or not, for the shock paralysed his faculties. But quickly he picked himself up, and with some difficulty managed to force open the door.
He stepped out. An awful sight met his gaze. The engine was smashed, and the carriages forward completely telescoped. He did not look long, for there was work to be done. Recovering himself from the state of semi-stupor into which the shock and the appalling sight had thrown him, he commenced the task of extricating the injured from the debris—a task in which he was assisted by two or three other men a few minutes later.
The same night, about ten o'clock, Sexton Blake found himself in London, too exhausted after the fatiguing events of the day to pursue his investigation into the mystery surrounding Sir Edward Buckley. The detective had proceeded by a train that started immediately after the rails had been put in order. Haggard in body and tired in brain, he threw himself in his bed, and sank into a deep, refreshing sleep that lasted till the dawn of the next day.
Early in the morning he arose, took his bath and breakfast, and then proceeded, as was his rule, to survey, examine, and put into order the incidents of the previous day. He contemplated again and again the strange, unfathomable, weird mystery of the changed eyes; but, contemplated in the abstract it only landed him in hopeless perplexity. But there was this Dr Bulasco! Did not he possess the knowledge of the thread that would unravel the tangled skein? Had he not done strange things? Why had he administered a draught to a dead man? And then, those awful incriminating words of his! Surely they must furnish a clue.
Blake repeated them slowly to himself, accenting certain words.
'That will disperse all traces of the other stuff. Now I must close the eyes, or they might betray. Its fortunate that young fool hasn't noticed the change. But there, if he had he wouldn't suspect. It's beyond his comprehension, and everybody else's, for that matter—save mine and Abdul Kali's maybe.'
What demoniacal business was this, that none save two could comprehend? Ah! this Abdul Kali! Who was he? He must be sought out, and this everlasting fire-pit knowledge sucked from his brain. His was an Indian name, and maybe to find him would necessitate a long journey. But he must be found, whatever the cost, whatever the risk!
'WE must be nearing Chatapore?'
It was Sexton Blake who spoke, and he addressed his guide—a dusky Hindu. Nearly five weeks had passed since the events recorded in the previous chapter. Fascinated by the mystery of Sir Edward Buckley, he had instituted inquiries from a friend of his occupying a distinguished position in the India Office, and had elicited the information that Abdul Kali was an Indian fakir, living at Chatapore, in central India. Kali, it appeared, was a man of vast knowledge. He was renowned for his wondrous jugglery, and feared for his reputed dealings with Siva the Destroyer, the Hindu God of Death. About him he had gathered a company of rebels, who carried on a system of riot and pillage and murder throughout the neighbourhood of the village where they dwelt, and altogether Kali was a man of whom it behove any man to steer clear.
But Sexton Blake—that man of iron purpose and invincible courage—took no heed of the official's warning words, further than to promise to be wary; and so here he was, five weeks later, seated in a bullock-cart, slowly travelling over the hot roads of India, accompanied by the guide who had been deputed to show him the way by the authorities at the port where he had landed. It was to him that the great detective made the remark:
'We must be nearing Chatapore?'
'Some two leagues more, sahib,' replied Parandee, the guide.
'Do you know this fakir fellow—Abdul Kali?'
'I know him well, sahib, by repute. He is a fakir, and to be that is to be a robber and cut-throat while assuming the guise of a saint, martyr, and prophet.'
'This Kali is a man of wonderful knowledge, is he not?'
'Yea, sahib. Much knowledge has he, and many are the astounding deeds that he has done. There be those who say he is immortal—that he is Siva incarnate; and truly he has done evil enough.'
'Is he, then, so wicked?'
'No sin is there, sahib, but what Abdul Kali the fakir has made more evil by perpetrating. He lives but to do evil—to rob, to torture, and to slay. Treachery and murder he deals on all sides. His hand is against every body's.'
'But he has a faithful band of followers?'
'Faithful because they fear to be false, sahib. Everybody fears Abdul Kali. Were this not so he would not be so powerful as he is.'
'Then would a brave man prevail against him?'
'Ah, sahib; but all have been murdered save one.'
'Save one! Who was that?'
'It was the Great White Doctor who healed Abdul Kali's sickness in the year of the terrible mutiny—of which great Vishnu save us a repetition! The Great White doctor sent Abdul into a strange ghost-sleep, and to this day, 'tis said, he pales at the mention of the Great White Doctor—Bulasco.'
'Bulasco! Did you say that name?'
'Yea, sahib. Bulasco, the great doctor of the white soldiers.'
Sexton Blake said no more. As the bullock-cart toiled up the mountain pass that led into the valley of Chatapore on the other side, his brain was busy fitting facts and thoughts into place by the new light that the guide's words had thrown upon the subject.
Quickly his own thoughts filled in the gaps that existed in the guide's account. Bulasco had sent Abdul Kali into a strange ghost-sleep, and ever since the latter had feared the former. Hum! That looked as though Bulasco was a mesmerist. If so that would account for much. 'And even now, 'tis said that Kali pales at the mention of the Great White Doctor.' If that were so, here truly was a weapon by the aid of which the mystery of the changed eyes might be wrung from the cut-throat fakir. Yes, yes! He would learn that. Sexton Blake knew something of mesmerism himself. Might he not, too, send Abdul Kali into a ghost-sleep?
By this time the cart had approached the village, which consisted of a score of huts built in such a manner as to surround equally on all sides a large, curiously-built place—half palace, half temple.
This was the house of Abdul Kali, the chief of the village. Some half-dozen rough, murderous-looking natives raised themselves from the ground on which they had been reclining, and stared with villainous eyes at the bullock-cart. Sexton Blake returned their stare with imperturbable face. At this the natives looked at one another in surprise. It was new to them for one man to treat six as six treated one. So they stared the harder and glowered at the white man, at which his face distended into a grin, half amusement and half contempt.
One of the natives, angered at this, seized the leading rein of the foremost bullock, and brought the cart to a standstill.
'Let go!' the detective shouted in Hindustani.
The native paid no heed.
'Give me the whip!' the detective cried to the guide, who, horrified at the turn events had taken, looked as though he were about to leap from the cart and escape.
'Let go that reign!' Blake repeated, whirling the thong of the whip slowly round his head.
Then, as the native refused to budge, he let it sail quickly through the air sideways, till it flicked the native's naked leg.
It was not a severe blow, but it was sufficient to induce the man to quit his hold and cry out. At the same moment his companions drew their ugly, curved knives, and rushed threateningly towards the cart. With their bare, white teeth grinding together, they came on, attempting to clamber into the bullock-cart.
A big, black villain, with his knife in his teeth, managed to climb up the wheel unseen by Sexton, who meantime was engaged in braining another with the butt-end of the whip. Just as he had done this he felt a sharp twinge in his leg, as of a bite. Glancing quickly down, he saw what had happened. The native had been about to stab him in the side when the guide, observing the action, promptly hit out, and forced him to lower his aim. Before the big Hindu could recover from the blow the guide had struck him, he found himself seized in the detective's vice-like grip. For a moment he remained poised, almost rigid, in the air, and the next he found himself thrown with terrific force right on top of one of his fellows, who was about to follow his lead by clambering up the wheel. The concussion seemed to stun the two, for they remained almost motionless on the ground, their hands loosening their murderous grip on their knives.
But the peril of the detective was by no means over. It was, indeed, now to be heightened. For the crash of falling bodies had aroused the attention of four or five other natives, who had been reclining out of sight behind one of the huts.
These dusky men now came hurrying round to see the cause of the hubbub and, seeing two of their companions lying helpless on the ground, drew their knives, and advanced with fierce demeanour towards the bullock-cart. And now indeed had the two men to look out for themselves, for the whole lot of natives rushed on them with a wild whoop that rent the air and betokened their savage determination.
Sexton beheld them, and his heart quickened a little, though he was not dismayed.
'Now fight for your life!' he cried to the guide, who was in a fearful fright at the terrible odds. And then he added, drawing his revolver: 'The first of these beggars that attempts to board this cart shall get such a taste of English lead as will make the others respect white men for evermore. Oh, you're the one are you? Then here goes!'
And as he spoke the shot rang out, and an intrepid native almost turned a somersault backwards from the wheel, and bit the dust. But still the others came on in a swarm. Again Sexton fired, and again a native fell dead.
This made the natives pause. They retreated some fifty yards, and stood near one of the huts holding a council of war, jabbering and gesticulating excitedly.
Sexton Blake reloaded his emptied revolver, and awaited events. Somewhat to his surprise, the blacks, after a brief consultation, all turned, and went into their respective huts. A minute or two later, however, a little crowd gathered some distance away; and now each native carried a more dangerous weapon—a muzzle-loading rifle.
It was evident, too, that the revolver-shots had aroused the whole village, for from every hut there now issued men, gun-armed and excited, who all hurried to join the ever-growing crowd.
And now Sexton Blake became seriously concerned. It was now a matter of about fifty to two—or rather, one —for the guide was shaking with a mighty fear. Well all he could do would be to fight, and, if need be, die fighting, like a true Briton.
The whole body of natives at length moved slowly towards the bullock-cart. Straining his ears for anything that might be spoken, Blake heard the order given in Hindustani:
'Don't shoot till it's necessary! Take him alive, if possible!'
Opening out into something like skirmishing order, the Hindus came on, surrounding the cart on all sides. There seemed but small hope for Blake. Still, he would die like a man. So, as soon as the first man clambered into the cart, he fired. A second, third, and fourth time he repeated the action. But then he felt himself seized by rough hands from behind and in a few minutes he was down, and bound hand and foot, the guide being served likewise. Helpless they lay, awaiting their fate. In a few minutes the natives decided what this should be.
'To the Pool of Death! To the Pool of Death!' the cry went out from every villainous throat.
'To the Pool of Death let it be!' observed the man who had acted as leader. 'The cursed white has deserved the fate. Let the crocodiles devour him!'
Sexton Blake heard the dread decision, and something like a tremor of fear shook his powerful frame. But there was no time for thought. He was hoisted upon eager shoulders, and a minute later was being hurried through the village, followed by the Hindus, who bellowed with morbid joy at the prospect of seeing their foes devoured alive.
The position of the two latter was indeed a perilous one. Five minutes brought them within sight of the Pool of Death, and there, on the top of the steep bank, they were set down for a minute preparatory to being cast in.
The pool was about eighty yards broad, and was filled with deep, green, slimy water. But the most terrifying attribute was the presence in the pool of large dark objects, floating lazily near the surface and looking like huge logs.
They were crocodiles!
On all sides the pool was surrounded by steep sandbanks, which, from where the water commenced, descended in sheer perpendicular, so that the water was as deep at the sides as anywhere, and allowed no chance of escape to anyone who might find himself among the terrible reptiles that thronged those pestilential waters.
All this Sexton Blake realized as, bound hand and foot, he crouched side by side with the guide. A pang of horror and revulsion passed through him as he gazed over the margin of the bank into the deep, dark waters that reeked forth malarial odours and teemed with ravenous crocodiles, some of which, seeming to know what was about to happen, were gaping wide their huge, voracious jaws. Blake looked at the gleaming teeth, and shuddered with anticipated agony.
Two natives now approached him. What were they doing? Undoing his bonds? Surely not! Yes! What did it mean? Was he to be spared after all? Alas, no! For into his brain at that moment shot the remembrance that he had once read that the Hindus invariably leave the hands of a victim free that he may fight for his life with the crocodiles, and thus make sport for the spectators. This was their idea, then; for, after cutting the bonds from his wrists, they still left his feet bound. And now it was decided by the assembled Hindus that the guide, their own countryman, should be the first victim. The white man must witness his death struggle, and thus heighten his own suspense and agony.
Parandee, the guide, was raised by the legs and arms, and, to the tune of a slow, weird chant, was swung several times to and fro. Then, as the last notes of the eerie hymn—hideous mockery!—were borne away on the stifling air, the swingers let go their hold, and the hapless victim was precipitated into the pool below.
Instantly their was a wild scurry in the water, the hideous crocodiles rearing up with eager jaws to seize their human prey. Parandee gave but one wild howl ere he was torn limb from limb by the rapacious reptiles, which dropped lower in the water to eat. A minute later nothing remained but streaks of blood, looking like open veins upon a giant hand, to betoken the horrifying spectacle.
It was Sexton Blake's turn now. With his brain all numbed with horror, and the blood frozen within him, he was raised, and found himself swinging to the same dread dirge as the poor guide.
The end was nearing! Another moment, and he would be cast into the waters.
'Stay!'
The word, spoken in Hindustani, came from behind. Sexton Blake heard the sound as of a deep voice, and at the same instant felt the swinging stop.
Again the same voice rang out:
'In the name of the Holy Trimurti I command you to stop! Brahma gave life, and Vishnu preserves it, and none save Siva the Destroyer shall take it away! Stay your hands on the white man!'
FROM the moment of his miraculous salvation from death in the murky pool Sexton Blake knew nothing for some hours. The pent-up agony and suspense of the terrible ordeal had been such that even his mighty nerve had to sink below, and no sooner had he heard the words that had delivered him than he went off into a swoon that lasted some hours.
When he recovered consciousness it was to find himself in a small, cell-like chamber. Near him stood a swarthy Hindu, attired in a long black cloak, like a cassock, and a hood that concealed the whole of his head, save eyes, mouth, and nose.
'Where am I?' asked the detective in Hindustani, gazing about him wonderingly.
The Indian medicine-man, for such he was, answered in solemn tones:
'You are in the palace of Abdul Kali, chief of Chatapore.'
'Abdul Kali!' Blake exclaimed eagerly. 'That is whom I want to see. When can I see him?'
'You will see him soon enough. For at the setting of the sun you are to stand your trial before him.'
'Stand my trial! For what? I do not understand!'
'Do you remember that you did slay with firearms, yesterday, seven of the chief's band; and afterwards how, when they did seek to cast you into the Pool of Death, the voice of Abdul Kali did bid them stay their hands?'
'Was it—was it Abdul Kali who saved my life?'
'It was none other.'
'Oh! Let me see him, that I may thank him for his immeasurable goodness. He saved me from an awful death.'
'Ay, he did,' the doctor replied. 'But be not too hasty in thinking your life is spared. What Abdul Kali did he did not in mercy, but in justice. For he is wise, and will not have death meted out to a man till he be proved guilty and deserving of it. Today he will sit in judgment upon your yester-deeds, and if report be true, there is evidence against you that will lead to your being burnt at the stake.'
'I, burnt at the stake? For what?'
'Know you not the law of Brahman the Creator, which saith: He that taketh a life unlawfully shall render up his own as atonement for his deed?'
'But I killed the men in self-defence.'
'That will be settled at the trial, within an hour or two. Now I must leave thee, and may Vishnu preserve thee!' And with that the doctor departed.
Alone—friendless—in a strange land—with but a few hours to live maybe! To be burnt at the stake, and thus go to death without a word or sign to friends waiting anxiously at home. What a fate! What an end! He would have been instrumental in unravelling mystery on mystery, such as none other could solve, to die thus in such mysterious surroundings! Fool to have ventured on such an errand; to have wandered thus far to find the clue that would bring another man to justice! What availed him now—his brain, his marvellous deductions, his insight into human nature—what availed him anything against death at the stake, which now threatened?
Yet stay!
Could his brain now, even still, devise some cunning means to save him? Yes, yes. There might be a way. Did not Abdul Kali pale at the mention of the Great White Doctor, Bulasco, with his mesmeric power of producing 'ghost-sleeps'?' Why could not he—Sexton Blake, the detective, who was renowned for his mesmeric powers— why could not he impersonate Bulasco?
Had he not, time without number, in his detective capacity, often had to imitate and impersonate other people—their voices, gestures, and manners—everything? And what for? For money, or a little trumpery fame. And could he not, then, do the same now, when the greatest human treasure, life, was concerned? Yes, yes! That would be his plan.
There were many difficulties in the way, of course. But what are obstacles when a man wishes to escape death?
To begin with, he did not resemble Bulasco. At home, with his make-up box, false wigs, etc., this would have been of no consequence, but here there were no facilities for disguise of the face.
But, after all, the voice would be the thing that Abdul Kali would remember in the man who mesmerized him. And could not he re-produce Bulasco's voice? Yes, he thought he could do that. Let him consider. It was years ago that Abdul Kali had heard the voice of Dr Bulasco. The latter was then, of course, a young man with firm voice. He would try and speak as Bulasco must have spoken all those years ago.
And there, in that Indian cell, the great English detective rehearsed the scene he was to play so soon; the scene he was to play for dear life. Every little modulation of Bulasco's voice which he remembered perfectly—the curious harshness of some sounds, with the contrasting Italian softness of others. All these things he practised till he had them to perfection.
He had finished practising, and again the cell was wrapped in silence, save for the soft footfall of the detective as he paced the floor, deep in thought. Then, after a time, the sound of approaching footsteps outside broke on his ear, and a minute later, the heavy bolts of the door were shot back. Two men entered. They were his gaolers.
Unresistingly, Sexton Blake accompanied the natives to the justice-hall. To reach this they had to traverse many winding passages in which, the detective at once conjectured, it would not be difficult to lose oneself. At length, in a little ante-chamber on the threshold of the justice-hall, Sexton was commanded to halt for a moment. Then, when certain preliminaries had been enacted, he was led into the court.
Guided by his gaolers, he was placed into the dock, which in this case was a kind of cage, made with a framework of hard black wood, but fenced about on all sides by bars of iron. Once enclosed therein, the prisoner had an opportunity to look about him, and see what manner of place the chamber was.
Immediately opposite whither he had to face was fixed a tall, throne-like chair, carved with the most fantastic and elaborate designs. The arms and legs were finished in dead gold, quaintly chased, while surmounting the throne was a representation, in the same costly metal, of the Hindu Trinity. From the eyes of these figures, and all about the throne, there flashed forth diamonds, rubies, and all manner of precious stones. The throne was unoccupied at present, for Abdul Kali had not yet entered the justice-hall; but seated upon the floor all round it were dusky natives—both men and women—arranged in order of caste, and decorated with jangling bracelets and earrings of brass or gold, according to the wearer's station.
By this time dusk had come upon the land and the court was illuminated by means of torches stuck into sconces of brass, which were fixed to the walls and pillars. The flaring lights, casting their yellow glare upon the swarthy natives, made the scene weird and awful.
Presently the entrance of the chief was announced. Immediately everybody arose from the floor and, led by the harsh clang of cymbals played by four men, all joined in a monotonous chant that, reminding Sexton of that awful scene at the pool, caused him to shudder.
Then, with slow and stately steps, Abdul Kali entered, and took his seat upon the throne. He was a very old man indeed. His bent shoulders detracted much from his great height, while his long, snow-white beard swept his breast. His eyes, sunk deep beneath a massive brow, looked dull and weary, as though with the anticipation that soon they would bid farewell to mortal sight. Only the firm, deep voice betokened active life—that same deep voice that had but yesterday saved Sexton Blake's life.
And now the trial began. After some strange formalities and more chanting, several natives were called as witnesses. Each testified to having seen the prisoner shoot down several of their comrades. Then, at the conclusion of the evidence, which was of the most damning character, Abdul Kali asked Sexton Blake if he had anything to say in his defence.
The detective spoke. He pictured, in vivid and forcible language, the position of himself—a stranger in a strange land. He recounted how, engaged on an important mission to Abdul Kali he had journeyed many weary miles in a bullock-cart. How, on arriving at the village, the inhabitants had molested him and refused to allow him to journey on farther, and how, in self-defence, he had shot down those who dared to assail him.
But his eloquence was all in vain. That could be seen directly Abdul commenced to speak.
The latter said, addressing all assembled:
'Children of Holy Buddha, ye have heard what has been said. Into your ears have been poured the words of your tribesmen—that this white man did shoot down their fellows. Of this there is no doubt, for even the white man himself admits it.
'And what says he in exculpation of his acts? He says that he was molested; was hindered in his journey through this village. But is not the village the home of those who molested him? And was it not their duty to stay him? Yes. I commend them for their action, though I censure them for having taken upon themselves the punishment of the white man, inasmuch as they attempted to cast him into the Pool of Death.
'From that fate I saved him yesterday that justice might be done. Justice shall be done! The white man shall be taken, bound and lashed to a stake. Faggots shall be piled about him, and these shall be set on fire. And the white man shall burn till his body be as a cinder and shall crumble into dust, like unto that from which it was made. For he that taketh a life shall offer up his own as a sacrifice to Siva the Destroyer. Guards, to your work!'
A minute later Sexton Blake found himself bound hand and foot by thongs that almost cut into the flesh. Then, carrying him between them, the guards drew back a huge curtain that divided the justice-hall from another compartment of curious structure. It resembled an ordinary chamber, inasmuch as it was enclosed by walls, but it was curious in having no roof. It opened right out to the ruddy sky of the Indian night.
At its eastern extremity there was a queerly-shaped altar, and before this was a raised dais with a strong pillar, about the height of a man, fixed in the centre. Straps and chains, fastened to rings, hung from the post, and about it were heaped faggots and dried leaves, easy to kindle.
Instantly the detective grasped the purpose of these things. But he could do nothing yet. He was bound securely to the post; his heart thumped wildly on, as he contemplated the deadly intentions of his enemies.
The faggots were piled about him. Abdul Kali and his followers were assembled. Four natives stood with lighted torches ready to ignite the fire. Sexton Blake summoned all his nerve to support him. Abdul Kali spoke:
'White man, your time has come! The faggots are set about you, and be ready to be kindled. Yet before you die I will give you another opportunity to speak. Have you anything more to say?'
Now was Blake's time. Clutching his hands tightly and drawing himself up as high as his bonds would allow, he said:
'Abdul Kali, chief of Chatapore! you have given me an opportunity to speak, and this I avail myself of. Know you, then, that I am not what I seem to you—an utter stranger!'
Then suddenly the detective changed his whole manner and speech, and assumed solemnly the tone of Doctor Bulasco.
'Know, O Abdul Kali, that we have met before! In the years that are gone, in the time of the dread Mutiny, when India swarmed with rebels and swam in blood, I cured you of a malady that was beyond the skill of your native men of medicine. I am the Great White Doctor; the doctor of the white soldiers, who sent you into a ghost-sleep; who made you dream ghost-dreams! Pause, then, ere you offer me as a sacrifice!'
During this brief harangue, delivered in tones and words strangely like Dr Bulasco's, Abdul Kali had at first shifted uneasily in his seat. Then he went pale and trembled slightly, and finally, as the detective alluded to the ghost-sleep, was seized with a convulsive shaking. As Blake paused and looked at him for a reply, Kali murmured, his ordinarily firm voice shaking with fear:
'I did not know you were the Great White Doctor. My eyes grow dim, and I cannot see plainly. But I hear your voice, and I know you now. What would you with me?'
'First, I would be set free!' Blake answered, still in the assumed voice. Abdul Kali paused. He reflected a moment; then his eyes seemed to change, as though with fear. Then he signalled to the attendants to cut Blake's bonds.
A minute or two later the detective stood free.
TWENTY-FOUR hours had passed. Blake was pacing the apartment that had been set apart for his use, awaiting an expected summons to appear before Kali. Presently it came. An attendant drew back the curtain, and, with a low salaam, announced:
'The chief awaits you, sahib!'
The detective followed the man to the grand chamber, and, the guide retiring, found himself alone in the presence of Kali.
The chief spoke:
'I have sent for you to ask why you have come to Chatapore. Have you come to torment me, to trouble me again with your accursed mesmerism?'
'Nay, nay, chief! be at peace. I come not to inflict pain, but merely to glean a little from your vast store of wisdom.'
The tone in which the words were spoken, as well as the import of them, conciliated Kali somewhat.
'You come to learn of me—you who know so much? Surely the White Doctor is trifling?'
'I am in grim earnest.'
'Then what is it you would learn?'
Now was the supreme moment. Sexton Blake made the plunge.
'I would learn of you how eyes change in death; how eyes that in life shone forth kindness and goodwill, express nothing but cruelty and hate when they are dead?'
He looked straight at Kali as he spoke. The latter paused ere he spoke, Then he asked:
'I had thought I had told you this thing in the times long past, but, since you ask now, I must be mistaken. But why should you seek to know this thing?'
'There are pressing reasons,' Sexton answered, 'and I beseech you to tell me the secret!'
Again Kali paused. Then a cunning thought came into his brain.
'If I tell you what you wish to know,' he said, 'will you in return tell me the secret of the ghost-sleep; you will divulge to me the mysteries of mesmerism?'
'There is no mystery,' Blake replied. 'Mesmerism is merely the triumph of a strong mind over a weaker.'
'Ah! you say that in order that I may not press you for the secret,' Kali replied angrily. 'You refuse my request. What will you say if I refuse yours?'
'To refuse mine,' the detective retorted hotly, 'would be to force me to avail myself of the aid of mesmerism. Give me the information I seek, and I will molest you no more. Refuse, and I will put you into a ghost-sleep, and make you reveal the secret to me in your dream.'
'Ah! threats! You would threaten me!' Kali burst out in alarm. 'Guards! guards!'
Six men sprang into the room before the detective could interpose.
'Bind this man and take him to the dungeons!' Kali commanded.
The guards rushed forward; but instantly the foremost went reeling back from a blow between the eyes which Blake delivered straight from the shoulder, while another was doubled up by a heavy blow in the pit of the stomach.
There was intense excitement, and a great cry for more help went up. In answer to this four or five other dusky ruffians rushed in, and, despite the detective's desperate defence, he received a fearful blow on the head which rendered him unconscious.
When he came to it was to find himself lying upon some damp ground, bound hand and foot.
The dungeon in which he was confined was a largish chamber, divided off into compartments by arches. There were no doors to these, and, but for his bonds, he would have been free to walk from one end of the big chamber to the other. The place was as black as night; no ray of light illumined the subterranean cavern save a thin sun-streak that found its way through a narrow slit at the top of the dungeon wall.
Through the apartment sounded every minute or two the sound of small, soft feet upon the stone floor, to be followed a moment later by a scratching scurry as Sexton moved and frightened the animals away.
'They are rats—Indian rats!' thought the detective. And with the thought came the sense of a new and terrible danger. For well Sexton Blake knew the ferocity of these rodents. Well he knew that cases had occurred of their eating men alive. And here was he, bound and helpless, at their mercy. He shuddered as he contemplated his fate, and at every sound of their approach the shudder was involuntarily repeated.
For some time the rats kept off, frightened by the movements of his body. But soon they grew emboldened. They came right up to him, and one actually scampered over his body. They had ceased to be afraid now. Sexton Blake felt a cold foot on his face, and the prick of a talon as the large rat tried to gain a foothold.
And now another rat had begun to gnaw at his arm. Blake felt the tug at the cloth covering it. But he could do nothing, so tightly bound was he, and he was too exhausted to roll over.
Gnaw! gnaw!
It was strange that the rat continued to gnaw at his coat now that the flesh was apparent. It was. ..
Ah! what was that? Something had given way upon his arm. He could—yes! he could move his arm. The rat had bitten through the thong that bound it!
Blake's heart gave a great leap as he realized the fact. With a sweep of his arm he drove the rats off, and the next moment his freed hand was engaged at the cords that bound his other limbs. Ten minutes later he rose to his feet, and, shaking the loosened thongs from about him, stood there a free man.
Free, however, only in the sense that he was unbound, for he was still immured within the cruel confines of the dungeon, from which it must now be his purpose to effect his escape.
Alas! How difficult that would be amid such blackness! But he must try, and that at once, for might not his gaolers come at any moment, and, finding that he was free, rebind him and place him under stricter vigilance?
So groping about, feeling the walls for sign of door or other means of exit, Blake searched. Suddenly his hand touched something that lay upon the ground. Taking it to a place beneath the opening where the powerful sun shone in, he found it to be a half-consumed torch. His heart leapt at the discovery, but immediately his hopes were dispelled by the reflection that he had no matches with which to ignite the brand.
Instantly he cast his eyes upward, as though praying for guidance in his dilemma. The full glare of the sun through the slit met his eyes, and instinctively suggested something to his excited brain. Why should he not transmit the heat of the fierce sun to the torch?
Simultaneously with the thought his hand dived into his pocket, and brought out the powerful lens which he always carried. Holding this in such a position that the sun-rays fell full upon it, he placed the torch's dry, ragged ends underneath. The lens grew hot in his hands in a few moments; the torch partook of the heat and commenced to smoke, then to smoulder. A few minutes later sparks upon the torch were discernible, and upon these the detective began to blow with frantic determination. He blew till he was in a reeking perspiration—till his throat was parched and he had scarcely any breath left, when—oh, joy!—the torch suddenly burst into flame.
Cheered by his success over such obstacles, Blake now began his exploration in earnest. By the aid of the torch he discovered an iron ring fixed into the wall close to the floor. Tugging at this, he found that a large square stone revolved in the wall, and left a space big enough to allow the passage of his body.
Through this he crept, replacing the stone when he had passed through. He found himself now in another dungeon, larger than the other and even darker. Groping along, he came without warning upon a sight that froze the blood in his veins.
Upon the ground lay a skeleton of a man. The bones were old and crumbling to dust, and upon the arm and leg joints were still fastened horrible manacles of iron, rust-eaten with age. Passing on quickly to rid his sight of the terrifying spectacle, his foot touched another skeleton, and then another. Each was similarly manacled, and all had evidently been starved to death. The detective shivered as he reflected that his fate would have been a similar one but for his providential freeing by the rodent.
The chamber through which he walked led the detective to a narrow passage, at the end of which a steep flight of stone steps led upwards. Ascending these, a door confronted him. And now he hesitated a moment. Supposing someone was in the chamber on the other side of the door, his escape would be prevented. But he only paused for a moment. Then he tried the door. To his surprise it was unbolted, and, passing through, he found himself in a small chamber, lighted by a window that looked out into a sort of courtyard.
In the middle of the room was a rough table, and at the side, on a shelf, some parchment scrolls were placed. For a moment Blake gazed at these in idle curiosity. Then a wild hope suddenly shot through him. Might not these musty parchments contain the secret he had come so far to seek?
Hurriedly he took them down, glancing through them as quickly as he could. No; the secret was not there. He must still search on.
What was this? Could he believe his eyes? He had taken up the last scroll, and was reading it intently, his heart leaping madly in his breast.
The secret! He had unearthed the secret! He had fathomed the mystery! Bulasco was unmasked! All was now as plain as daylight. Trembling with excitement, he folded the scroll, and put it in his pocket.
'At last!' he muttered. 'At last my search is rewarded! Neither Bulasco nor Kali can keep the knowledge from me now. But I am still in peril's path. I must escape from this place at once. I can reach the window. Now for England, home, and justice!'
SEXTON BLAKE at once drew the table from the centre of the room to a position beneath the window. Mounting it, he clutched hold of the sill, and, putting forth an effort, drew himself up and began to scramble through the aperture.
He was not a moment too soon, for as he was disappearing through the window the door of the apartment was opened, and Abdul Kali himself entered the room. Catching sight of Blake as he was escaping through the window, he uttered a cry which a moment or two later brought several followers to his side.
'The prisoner has escaped!' he cried, in answer to their inquiring looks. 'The prisoner has escaped! Pursue, and bring him back! Stand not like gaping fools, but after him!'
Instantly there was a wild rush for the courtyard, and the report that Blake had escaped spread like wildfire through the village.
Meanwhile the detective had managed to get past the confines of the chief's house unmolested, and, by careful strategy, contrived to get out of Chatapore. A short distance away from the mountain road, to the south-west, there was a forest, and towards this, judging it better for purposes of concealment, Blake made his way.
Over a hard, broken path, impeded by jagged boulders and rocks, he scrambled, anxious to reach the shelter of the forest, for he had heard Kali's shout of alarm, and knew that he would be pursued. It was about half an hour before he dived into the belt of under-growth that skirted the forest. Two or three times on the way he had heard shouts behind him, which told him the natives were on his track, and it was, therefore, with a feeling of relief that he entered the wood, where concealment would be easier.
Not, however, that he under-estimated the new dangers which might await him in the forest. Well he knew that savage animals there abounded, and that, unarmed as he was, save for a small knife he had picked up, his chance of contesting successfully the right of way, should one of them waylay him, was small.
But although these things were borne in mind, he pushed on, penetrating pretty deeply into the thick growth, and choosing his direction, as near as he could judge, by the sun. The hours passed by and the miles were got over as he resolutely plodded on, never stopping to rest and yet never seeming to grow tired.
Gradually, however, the feeling of hunger grew upon him. Time after time he drew in his belt so that the feeling of emptiness might not appear so pronounced—but such tricks were of no avail. Nature demanded food. Blake searched about for berries to eat, but the gathering of dusk made their finding difficult, and he had to go hungry after all.
And now, for the first time in his life, Blake began to be afraid. In the face of ordinary dangers few were so brave as he. Dangers that he could comprehend he never feared. But now, for the first time, he found himself benighted in the depths of an Indian forest, out of sight of the lurid sky that shone far above; and it would be idle to say a man of his keen sensibilities felt no sensation of fear.
Everywhere about him the trees stood out like giant mutes, while the thickly-leaved boughs seemed to his mind to take on the semblance of huge funeral plumes. Ever and anon the roar of some ferocious animal would go echoing awfully through the wild trees, while occasionally a rustle in the grass, followed by a low, harsh hiss, betokened the presence of some treacherous reptile. And still he plodded on, hungry and hopeless; and still the night loomed blacker and blacker before him.
Suddenly straight before him, about eight yards ahead, there faced him, in vivid contrast to the surrounding darkness, two balls of brilliant fire, shining out from the branch of a tree twelve feet up.
Nothing else could he see, but he knew too well what those two spots betokened. They were the eyes of an animal—a tiger maybe, or a leopard.
Blake halted dead.
For a moment the eyes did not move. Then the two blazing orbs seemed to roll in their invisible sockets. A moment later, and they appeared to approach him. The leopard—for such it really was—was wriggling along the bough ready for a spring.
Blake divined the animal's intention, and, with his heart in his mouth, waited. Only the small knife he held in his hand was there between him and death, and he thought that now surely his last hour had come. But, strangely enough, with the thought arose a fierce determination to sell his life as dearly as possible.
Again the eyes became fixed upon him for a moment. Then they came swiftly at him, and it seemed as though a blacker mass had leapt into the black night. The fierce animal sprang right at him. That he should escape death seemed well-nigh impossible, but, as the animal sprang swiftly upon him, his keen knife was clutched rigidly before him, and the beast was impaled upon the spike-like blade. The weight of the animal sent Blake reeling to earth, the stabbed animal falling upon him. His right arm, which had held the knife and received the force of the leopard, seemed paralysed by the shock, and altogether he was too much shaken to be able to rise for a few minutes.
But, if he was hurt, he had not received the worst of the encounter. The knife had penetrated a vital part of the animal's breast with terrific force, and the animal lay in agony upon the ground, panting for its last few breaths.
Too tired and weak to move further that night, Blake remained on the ground, and, committing his safety to his Maker, dropped off into a sound sleep.
When he awoke the day had broken. What awoke him was a sensation of hugging, which he could not comprehend in his half-asleep condition. It seemed as though he was bound by cords. Had he been dreaming, or what? He stretched out his arms to see whether he was actually free. His hand touched something that was slimy and cold, and, in response to the unexpected sensation, his eyes followed the direction of his hand.
Oh! horror! How shall his state of mind be described when he found himself not bound by cords, but within the folds of a huge snake?
The enormous reptile had entwined itself about him as he slept. How it happened that it had not awakened him earlier in the process can only be explained by his thoroughly exhausted condition.
Blake's agony was fearful, as he realized his terrible predicament. Not that he suffered any pain. On the contrary, the hug of the snake was by no means of a severe kind, and, strangely enough, it did not attempt to sting, but remained passive, resting its striped head upon Blake's shoulder. It was so docile that the detective dare not move, fearing that to do so would be but to awaken it to more harmful conduct. So he lay quite still, inwardly praying that providence might deliver him from his dread position, though he feared each moment would be his last.
Presently, through the brushwood that filled up the spaces between the tree-trunks and prevented all view, shouts reached his ears. Though tempted almost to desperation, he dared not shout back fearing to awake the cobra from the sleep into which it had evidently fallen. But gradually the shouts got nearer and nearer, until he at length ventured to whistle low in reply.
The whistle had its effect almost at once. Three or four natives came rushing to his side, asking questions in Hindustani. They ceased their questioning, however, when they caught sight of the shake, and simply exclaimed:
'Ah! ah! Here he is; here he is!'
To Blake's tremendous relief and astonishment, they immediately began to unwind the snake from about his body.
So soon as he was free he inquired of the natives, who were perfectly friendly, an explanation of the affair. From them he learnt that the snake belonged to one of their tribesmen, a snake-charmer. It had escaped on the previous evening and had, they supposed, sought out one of its old haunts in the forest. Years before its poisonous fangs had been removed, so that it was perfectly harmless.
Accepting the hospitable invitation of the natives, Blake accompanied them back to their huts. There they gave him food, and a day or two later furnished him with a bullock-cart and guide, with which he started off en route for a port—and England.
BLAKE stood on the deck of a vessel bound for England. As he paced the deck on this particular day, his mind was, as usual, fully occupied with the case of Sir Edward Buckley. A mighty impatience filled him—an impatience to get to England. There were points in the mystery surrounding the case that still remained to be elucidated, for the parchment only explained the theory of the changed eyes.
Homeward the good ship rolled, at good speed, though all too slow for Sexton Blake. The longest journey, however, must have an end, and so in due time the detective found himself in London.
At home once more! How all perils of the past faded into nothingness in the enjoyment of the glorious present at home. Not that Blake spent any time in idle contemplation or rest after his arrival. On the contrary, he wasted not a moment, but was at once full of energy in pursuit of the links that were still wanting in his chain of evidence against Dr Bulasco.
His first act on the following day was to see Gerald. The meeting took place at Blake's rooms in London. Gerald listened attentively, anxious to hear the whole of Blake's adventures, especially those which had any bearing on the solution of his uncle's death. At the mention of the parchment scroll he started.
'And what did the scroll contain?' was his first inquiry.
'It is too long to read out the whole,' Blake remarked, 'but I will translate to you the part that is of such vital importance in the present case. Listen to what it says, after referring generally to changes after death:
'List, O ye mortals that would learn the secret of the changes whereof I have spoken. Even as a man's mind may be changed by influences upon it, so also may a man's features be changed by the action of a potion made of the roots and herbs the names of which do follow. But list further, and know ye that, in the change whereof I speak, the eyes of man shall remain the same. For the eyes are the windows of the soul; and as to change the soul is beyond the power of mortal man, so even must the reflection of the soul remain unalterable.
'The scroll then goes on to say,' continued the detective, 'that under certain conditions, and by the aid of the potion, the features of a dead man may change to those of a man who may be living.'
'And the living man—what of him?' queried Gerald anxiously.
'He takes upon him the features of the dead man before he undergoes the change.'
'And arguing from these facts, what is your theory of the mystery surrounding Sir Edward?'
'Well, my dear Gerald, I must tell you that I emphatically believe your uncle to be still alive!'
'Still alive?' Gerald repeated amazed. 'What can you possibly mean?'
'Let me ask you a few questions ere I answer yours. You remember the morning Bulasco came to see your uncle—when Sir Edward was first taken ill, I mean?'
'Yes, I remember perfectly.'
'Well, did he on that occasion have anyone with him?'
'He had. A man accompanied him.'
'Ah! Can you describe the man?'
'Not minutely; but so far as I remember he was young, and clean-shaven.'
'Hum! that is all you can recall? Now, if I prompt you, perhaps you'll remember more. Had not this young man a pale cadaverous face?'
'Yes, yes! I remember now, he had.'
'And did not his eyes wear a wild and scared expression?'
'You are right—they did.'
'And now, I ask you, did not those eyes resemble those seen in the dead man?'
'Great heavens! It never struck me before, Sexton. And yet when I saw the expression in the dead man's eyes they seemed familiar to me. Yes, yes! They were very similar. But what—tell me what it all means!'
'My theory is this,' the detective answered deliberately. 'I believe Bulasco took that man to your house for a purpose. I believe that purpose to have been the substitution of his body for Sir Edward.'
'But the young man departed with him when he left.'
'It was not the young man at all. It was your uncle!'
'But how could that be?'
'Easy enough, in view of the other facts. Bulasco administered the wondrous potion to the young man, who, from his wild scared look, I judge to have been under hypnotic influence at the time. At the same time Bulasco must have put your uncle into a mesmeric trance, and then also administered to him the potion. Both men now being under his influence, he had but to will that their features should undergo a change, and the potion meanwhile doing its work, the change was effected.
'And now Bulasco must have performed a still more terrible act. He must have administered poison to the young man who had taken upon him the features of your uncle. From the young man's thin and cadaverous look, I should think he was weak and ill, so his death was soon brought about. Perhaps he had heart disease. If so, that would account for the verdict at the inquest. From my experience of your uncle, I should imagine he was entirely free from such a disease.'
'Everything you say seems perfectly reasonable. But, if your deductions are true, what has become of my uncle?'
'That remains to be found out. Doubtless Bulasco has him in safe keeping. And that brings me to a rather puzzling point. What motive could Bulasco have had?'
'Ah? replied Gerald, 'there I can help you. Some time before Sir Edward's death, or departure, he added a codicil to his will leaving Bulasco ten thousand pounds. Possibly Bulasco thought my uncle might, later on, cancel this, and did what he has done to prevent such a contingency.'
'Possibly. At any rate, that would furnish a motive.'
'And now, how do you propose to find my uncle, if he still be living?'
'I must search for him at Bulasco's. I will get a Government order to visit his asylum.'
'But, if you see him, how will you know him?
'By his eyes, and by his sabre-cut. He will retain the scar. According to what the scroll says, it is only the natural features of a man that change. Besides that, I may tell you that I have a photograph of your uncle as he is at the present moment.'
'A photograph? Impossible!'
'I have, really.'
Blake then recounted how he had photographed the last expression in the dead man's eyes, and he now explained what the picture revealed when examined by a microscope. It showed Dr Bulasco gazing intently at a young, cadaverous-looking man, and at the same time binding a handkerchief around his neck.
'The last act, I suspect, was done to hide the scar. And now,' concluded Sexton Blake, 'I shall lose no time in carrying my plans into effect. Comfort yourself, my dear Gerald, with the thought that your uncle is still alive, and that at the earliest possible moment I will restore him to you and bring this villain Bulasco to justice.'
AFTER his interview with Gerald Buckley, Sexton Blake was not long in putting into operation the plan by which he hoped to complete his solution of the mystery and bring Bulasco to justice. He at once placed himself in communication with the Home Secretary, from whom he obtained permission to visit Bulasco's private asylum in the character of a Government inspector.
On the morning of his visit Blake carefully disguised himself. He put on a wig and beard of a greyish hue, that might have belonged to a man of fifty-five. A few touches, which he knew so well how to apply, transformed him effectually into a gentleman past middle age, and placed him quite beyond the pale of recognition.
He took an early train to the place, some few miles out of London, where the asylum was situated, and by midday he was ringing at the lodge bell. A porter appeared.
'I wish to see Dr Bulasco,' Blake said.
'Oh, you do, do you? Well, he don't often see visitors,' the man replied somewhat rudely.
'Never mind, he'll see me. Tell him that Dr Snell, a Government inspector, is here!' Blake ordered peremptorily.
'Gov'ment inspector!' the repeated, taken aback. 'Oh, certainly, sir! beggin' yer pardin, sir. Tell him at once, sir.'
And two or three minutes later he was conducting Blake to the house.
The pseudo-inspector was received by Bulasco, who glanced sharply at Blake as he entered. But his eye could not penetrate the detective's disguise.
'Good-morning, Dr Snell, the former said. 'I have not had the honour of meeting you before, I think?'
'I have never been here before,' Blake answered. 'My work up to now has been in a different district.'
'I see,' Bulasco rejoined. Then, assuming a careless manner, he said: 'Your visit is merely a formal one, I presume?'
'Well, no, not exactly,' the detective returned. 'As this is my first visit here I have to make a full report. I shall therefore require to make a thorough examination.'
Bulasco shifted in his seat.
'That is a new rule, is it not, Dr Snell?' he observed presently. 'I have been here fifteen years, and such a thing has never happened before. My conduct of this place has always been relied on.'
'Indeed! Well, of course I must obey orders, and a thorough examination is my order for today. So, if you don't mind, I'll begin at once.'
'Oh, certainly!' Bulasco replied, assuming an easy manner, though in reality he was feeling far from comfortable.
The major part of the examination was got through without adverse comments. For in truth it was not Blake's purpose to question, except in the one case about which he had come. As yet he had not seen the patient he had come especially to see.
'Ah!' he exclaimed presently, consulting the asylum register, 'I believe I have seen all your patients except one—Herbert Knellar. I haven't seen him. I see you describe him as a young man suffering from hallucination.'
'Yes, yes! He has continual hallucinations, and rarely has a lucid interval.'
'Indeed! What form do his delusions take?'
'Why, they vary at certain periods. Sometimes he thinks he's a prince of the blood; at others he thinks himself an Italian count; just now he imagines himself to be an old Indian officer, and calls himself Sir Edward Buckley. Ha, ha! Very queer, isn't it?'
'Very.' Blake laughed too, though his heart gave a great throb as Bulasco carelessly uttered the name. He was on the right track, then; his surmise was being borne out by facts. Soon he would see Sir Edward—changed, of course, but still Sir Edward.
'That instance is indeed a queer one,' Blake repeated, after a pause. 'Where is this strange young man?'
'He's asleep just now, and I presume you won't care to wake him?'
'Well, if you'll excuse me, Dr Bulasco, your account has so awakened my curiosity that I should like to see the patient, even at the cost of disturbing him.'
A shadow of annoyance passed across Bulasco's face. How importunate this man was! Government inspectors were, as a rule, so easy-going. Well, he must somehow prevent this one seeing Herbert Knellar. So, controlling his temper, he said:
'Very well, Dr Snell. Come and have some lunch. Meantime Knellar shall be awakened, and got ready for you to see him.'
Blake could not very well demur to this arrangement, so together the two men entered the dining-room. Luncheon was on the table, and Bulasco poured out the wine.
'I don't know whether you are a connoisseur of painting or not,' he said, 'but that little portrait there is a Romney. Have a look at it.'
Blake rose, and, taking advantage of the moment, Bulasco tilted a small white powder into the detective's wine.
'That will prevent him seeing Herbert Knellar,' he thought. And he chuckled to himself at his cleverness.
'Well, what do you think of the picture?' he asked, as Blake returned to his seat.
'Very fine,' Blake replied. 'The flesh tints are superb, and the technique. .. Thanks, I never take wine during the day.' This last remark was in reply to a word from Bulasco.
The latter looked up sharply. What a man this was! First he had insisted on seeing Kellar, and now that Bulasco had tried to prevent him by poisoning his wine he was again frustrated. He could not possibly have seen him drop the powder in, for his back was turned at the time.
Little did he guess that Blake had seen it all. He had carefully watched Bulasco's every move through the reflecting glass that covered the picture he was supposed to be examining. Bulasco was clever, but he had a task in trying to outwit Sexton Blake.
Luncheon over, and Bulasco being still unable to dissuade Blake from visiting Knellar, Blake was shown to the room where the young man was. The latter was clean-shaven, with a pale, cadaverous face. His eyes were strange, and looked as though they belonged not to his face, Closely Blake approached and looked into those uncanny eyes. With the young man's face held between his hands, the detective gazed long and earnestly.
Then, as he looked, his own eyes seemed to suddenly light up, as though with the ecstasy of discovery. And truly he had reason, for in the young man's orbs he recognized the eyes of Sir Edward Buckley!
In an instant he made up his mind that here at last he had solved the whole mystery. His search of weeks, of months, was over now.
But in his manner he gave no sign that might have betrayed his secret feeling of triumph. He had one other thing to find out yet, and to do that without exciting suspicion it was necessary to get Bulasco out of the room. How could he do that? He thought a moment, then he asked:
'Who recommended this patient for admission?'
'Dr Peters and Dr Torr,' replied Bulasco. 'The patient has been here some years.'
'I should like to see the certificate,' Blake said.
Bulasco was troubled, but he saw he would have to go and get the certificate, so he left the room.
No sooner had he departed than Blake strode quickly towards the patient, and hurriedly undid the scarf that encircled his neck. He uttered a little cry as he did so for there upon the young man's neck was the scar—the scar of the sabre-cut which Sir Edward Buckley received. All doubt was dispelled now, and quickly Blake's plan of action was resolved. By the time Bulasco returned the scarf was again around the young man's neck, and shortly after that Blake took his leave.
To the police-station at the nearest town he made his way and to the inspector on duty he told as much of his wonderful story as was necessary to secure the issue of a warrant for Bulasco's arrest.
That obtained, Blake set out with the inspector and a couple of constables for Bulasco's place. Duly they arrived there, much to the surprise of the porter, who would, had he dared, have refused the police admission.
Without fluster, the four unwelcome visitors made their way towards the house. From his windows Bulasco saw the police coming, and, seeing Blake with them, his guilty conscience told him that some part at least of his crimes had been discovered. If that were so, and further investigation took place, his life would not be worth much. And so, with that point settled in his mind, he hastily resolved to make now one more bold bid for freedom.
First locking the door of the room, he went to the drawer of a cabinet and drew therefrom a six-chambered revolver. Then he waited.
The police were by this time knocking at the door, but he paid no heed to that. Then, quickly tiring of their fruitless knocking, they determined to force their way into the room. Taking it in turns, they assailed the lock with their powerful shoulders. No door could stand such an onslaught for long, and presently the one in question flew open with a crash. Headed by Blake, the police entered.
Bulasco faced them from the other end of the room. His face was of a fearful ashiness, and he looked what he was—a murderer at bay. 'The first man who approaches I will shoot!' he cried.
But the words were hardly out of his mouth ere the revolver was dashed from his hand by Blake. No man knew better than the latter that when threatened with a revolver the only course is promptitude.
In a second the police were on the villain Bulasco, and, despite his desperate struggles, he was in a few minutes securely hand-cuffed.
It was a week later. In a room at Buckley House, Sir Edward lay, looking as he had looked before the occurrence of the strange events which form the subject of this story. In the parchment scroll which Sexton Blake had discovered and brought from Chatapore, the detective had found, following the recipe for the potion whereby the wondrous changes might be wrought, a recipe for the antidote—a potion which, on being drunk, would transform a man again to his original self. The ingredients for this potion Blake had with difficulty obtained, and, under a doctor's directions, it had been administered to Sir Edward Buckley. The result was marvellous. In less than twelve hours the baronet had undergone a complete change. None save the doctor and Sexton Blake were present to witness the awful contortions and sufferings which the patient underwent during the time the potion took to accomplish the spell. But afterwards, when it was all over, others came, and tears flowed freely in gratitude at the wondrous change.
The particular day of which we now speak was the first occasion on which Sir Edward had been well enough to tell the story of his life since the burying of his actual identity under a different name and apparently changed personality.
But now that he was well enough, his friends were gathered about the couch on which he lay, to hear the story from his own lips.
'Let me begin at the beginning,' Sir Edward said. 'You all remember the day I was taken unwell. I sent for Bulasco, as you all know. He came, and with him he brought a young man, who looked very ill. I remember thinking it strange at the time, that he should bring anyone into the sick-room with him; but I did not demur, for little did I know the sinister purpose for which he had brought him.
'The next thing I remember is my drinking a strange draught, and immediately feeling myself thinking and moving as if in some strange dream. Then I felt myself all changed, and out of bed. Then, most mystifying of all, I remember looking at the bed from which I had just risen, and seeing there the exact presentment of myself. I thought at the time that I must be dead, and that I was gazing at all that was left of my mortal body; but I had not long to ponder on these things, for I remember Bulasco hurried me off.
'I remember nothing more until we reached that awful place, the asylum. There my life was one of intense misery. All the time I was there I was in a semi-dreamy condition. I have learnt since that was caused by my being perpetually hypnotized. I never had a thought that was actually my own, and till the other day, when I was brought here, I never had the slightest knowledge as to what had come to me. I only knew that it must be something terrible.'
As he finished speaking, there came a knock at the door.
'A telegram for Mr Sexton Blake,' the servant said.
The detective stepped to the door, and tore open the brown envelope. The wire ran:
DR BULASCO. PRISONER UNDER REMAND HAS COMMUNICATION TO MAKE TO YOU. CAN YOU COME AT ONCE?
A few hours later Blake was in the waiting-room of the prison from whence he had been telegraphed for.
'I have come in answer to your wire,' he said to the chief warder, who met him. 'You wired that the prisoner Bulasco had a communication to make to me.'
'I did wire you so,' replied the other, 'but I am sorry that the occasion for it is past.'
'Why, what has happened?'
'Dr Bulasco committed suicide this afternoon.'
'Great heavens! Then what he wanted to divulge to me is lost forever.'
'Perhaps not,' the warder replied, 'for this letter, addressed to you, was found by the side of his body this afternoon.'
Blake took the letter, and perused it carefully.
It was a long, carefully-drawn-up statement, confessing his guilt of the crime with which he was charged, and confirming in every important particular the preconceived theories of Sexton Blake.
Following the confession was a paragraph in which Bulasco eulogized Blake's powers as a detective, and a statement to the effect that at the time of the commission of the crime he had never entertained the slightest possibility of discovery.
Such was Dr Bulasco's end, and, in view of the later acts of his life, it was not surprising that his death was allowed to occur unregretted. In the years that have passed since those events occurred, it has been the object of those who knew him to let his name remain unspoken and his memory to pass out of their minds.
Sir Edward Buckley, once mourned as dead, is hale and hearty still. There are a few more wrinkles on his brow, but, in consideration of his experiences, this surely is not to be wondered at. His nephew, Gerald, still lives with him, loving him with the fondness of a son. The young man is to be a candidate for Parliament, and, from his enormous popularity with the tenants and neighbours generally, it is safe to assume that he will be returned at the head of the poll.
As to Sexton Blake, he and the Buckleys are the firmest of friends, and whenever he can snatch a day or two's holiday, he may be found spending it at Buckley House.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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