“A fellow who can hit a good downright blow, as I can testify to my cost.  His name is Burt.  He is the man who cut my head open in Africa.  I met him in London the other day, and spotted him at once.  He is a half-starved, poor devil, and as desperate as a man could be.  He is just in the key for any business of the sort.  I’ve got the whip-hand of him now, and he knows it, so that I could put him up to anything.  I believe that such a job would be a positive pleasure to him, for the fellow is more like a wild beast than a man.”

“Sad, sad!” Girdlestone exclaimed.  “If a man once falls away, what is there to separate him from the beasts?  How can I find this man?”

“Wire to me.  Put ‘Send a doctor;’ that will do as well as anything else, and will sound well at the post-office.  I’ll see that he comes down by the next train.  You’d best meet him at the station, for the chances are that he will be drunk.”

“Bring him down,” said Girdlestone.  “You must be here yourself.”

“Surely you can do without me?”

“No, no.  We must stand or fall together.”

“I’ve a good mind to throw the thing over,” said Ezra, stopping in his walk.  “It sickens me.”

“What!  Go back now!” the old man cried vehemently.  “No, no, that would be too craven.  We have everything in our favour, and all that we want is a stout heart.  Oh, my boy, my boy, on the one side of you are ruin, dishonour, a sordid existence, and the scorn of your old companions; on the other are success and riches and fame and all that can make life pleasant.  You know as well as I do that the girl’s money would turn the scale, and that all would then be well.  Your whole future depends upon her death.  We have given her every chance.  She laughed at your love.  It is time now to show her your hate.”

“That is true enough,” Ezra said, walking on.  “There is no reason why I should pity her.  I’ve put my hand to the plough, and I shall go on.  I seem to be getting into your infernal knack of scripture quoting.”

“There is a brave, good lad,” cried his father.  “It would not do to draw back now.”

“You will find Rebecca useful,” the young man said, “You may trust her entirely.”

“You did well to send her.  Have they asked for me much?”

“Yes.  I have told them all the same story—­nervous exhaustion, and doctor’s orders that you were not to be disturbed by any business letters.  The only man who seemed to smell a rat was that young Dimsdale.”

“Ah!” cried the old man, with a chuckle; “of course he would be surprised at our disappearance.”

“He looks like a madman; asked me where you had gone, and when I answered him as I had the others, stormed out that he had a right to know, and that he would know.  His blood was up, and there was nearly being a pretty scene before the clerks.  He follows me home every evening to Eccleston Square, and waits outside half the night through to see that I do not leave the house.”