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The man who can save me from all this is your friend, Felix Zary. Unfortunately for me, the man has the bad taste to dislike me exceedingly. He seems to think that I was in some way responsible for your father's death. And, as you know, he loved your father with a devotion that was almost dog-like. If I could get Zary down here I should have no difficulty in convincing him that he was wrong.
He seemed to vanish almost like the spirit of one of his departed ancestors, and his place knew him no more. "Curious man," Gurdon said, thoughtfully. "Very quiet and gentle as a rule, but not the kind of person you would care to have as a foe. I have a very strong feeling that none of us will ever see Felix Zary again. Now, don't you think we can begin to forget all about this kind of thing?
Venner and Gurdon clutched eagerly at the suggestion. Without further words, they passed into the street, and would have walked down the steps had not Zary detained them. "One moment," he whispered. "Hang back in the shadow of the portico. Don't you see that there are two or three men on the steps of the house next door? Ah, I can catch the tones of that rascal Fenwick.
Bad as you are, the terrible fate which is yours moves me to a kind of pity." Le Fenu paused and glanced significantly at Fenwick's maimed hand. The latter had nothing more to say; all his swaggering assurance had left him he sat huddled up in his chair, a picture of abject terror and misery. "You can help me if you will," he said hoarsely. "You are speaking of Zary.
Zary came a step or two closer to Venner and looked down into his face with a searching yearning expression in those magnetic black eyes. The appeal to Venner was irresistible. The truth rose to his lips; it refused to be kept back. "Because," he said slowly, "because she is my wife." A great sigh of relief came from Zary. "I am glad of that," he said. "Exceedingly glad.
"I have not the slightest idea where Zary is to be found. For all I know to the contrary, he may not even be in England." "Oh, yes, he is," Fenwick chuckled. "He is in London at the present moment. If you address that letter, 17, Paradise Street, Camberwell, Zary will be in receipt of it to-morrow morning."
I know for a fact that he is going straight away to Canterbury, and probably by this time he is on his way there. According to what your mysterious friend Zary said, he had some plan cut and dried for providing for your sister's safety to-morrow.
Almost immediately the big form of Fenwick loomed in the opening, and a hoarse voice asked if somebody were there. Zary stepped out again and confronted Fenwick, who started back as if the slim black apparition had been a ghost. "You here!" he stammered. "I did not expect to see you I came here prepared to find somebody quite different." "It matters little whom you came to find," Zary said.
The Dutchman is no more, his foul wretch of a wife died, a poor wreck of a woman, bereft of sense and reason." "This is fine talk," Fenwick stammered. "What have you against me that you should threaten me like this?" Zary raised his hand aloft with a dramatic gesture; his great round black eyes were filled with a luminous fire. "Listen," he said. "Listen and heed.
Still, there was something very terrible and awe-striking about the way in which the Dutchman's fingers returned to his wife, one by one. I should like to have known, also, how Fenwick lost his fingers. But Zary would never tell me. I think he professed that it had been done through the agency of the spirits of his departed ancestors, who guarded the mine.
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