Three days had elapsed.

In the dingy back room of a dull, drab house in the Vauxhall Bridge Road, close to Victoria Station in London, the narrow-eyed man who had so closely questioned old Henry at the Panmure Hotel, sat at an old mahogany writing-table reading a long letter written upon thin foreign notepaper.

The incandescent gas-lamp shed a cold glare across the room.  On one side of the smoke-grimed apartment was a shabby leather couch, on the other side a long nest of drawers, while beside the fireplace was an expanding gas-bracket placed in such a position that it could be used to examine anyone seated in the big arm-chair.  Pervading the dingy apartment was a faint smell of carbolic, for it was a consulting-room, and the man so intent upon the letter was Dr. Weirmarsh, the hard-working practitioner so well known among the lower classes in Pimlico.

Those who pass along the Vauxhall Bridge Road know well that house with its curtains yellow with smoke ­the one which stands back behind a small strip of smoke-begrimed garden.  Over the gate is a red lamp, and upon the railings a brass plate with the name:  “Mr. Weirmarsh, Surgeon.”

About three years previously he had bought the practice from old Dr. Bland, but he lived alone, a silent and unsociable man, with a deaf old housekeeper, although he had achieved a considerable reputation among his patients in the neighbouring by-streets.  But his practice was not wholly confined to the poorer classes, for he was often consulted by well-dressed members of the foreign colony ­on account, probably, of his linguistic attainments.  A foreigner with an imperfect knowledge of English naturally prefers a doctor to whom he can speak in his own tongue.  Therefore, as Weirmarsh spoke French, Italian and Spanish with equal fluency, it was not surprising that he had formed quite a large practice among foreign residents.

His appearance, however, was the reverse of prepossessing, and his movements were often most erratic.  About his aquiline face was a shrewd and distrustful expression, while his keen, dark eyes, too narrowly set, were curiously shifty and searching.  When absent, as he often was, a young fellow named Shipley acted as locum tenens, but so eccentric was he that even Shipley knew nothing of the engagements which took him from home so frequently.

George Weirmarsh was a man of few friends and fewer words.  He lived for himself alone, devoting himself assiduously to his practice, and doing much painstaking writing at the table whereat he now sat, or else, when absent, travelling swiftly with aims that were ever mysterious.

He had had a dozen or so patients that evening, but the last had gone, and he had settled himself to read the letter which had arrived when his little waiting-room had been full of people.

As he read he made scribbled notes on a piece of paper upon his blotting-pad, his thin, white hand, delicate as a woman’s, bearing that splendid ruby ring, his one possession in which he took a pride.

“Ah!” he remarked to himself in a hard tone of sarcasm, “what fools the shrewdest of men are sometimes over a woman!  So at last he’s fallen ­like the others ­and the secret will be mine.  Most excellent!  After all, every man has one weak point in his armour, and I was not mistaken.”

Then he paused, and, leaning his chin upon his hand, looked straight before him, deep in reflection.

“I have few fears ­very few,” he remarked to himself, “but the greatest is of Walter Fetherston.  What does he know? ­that’s the chief question.  If he has discovered the truth ­if he knows my real name and who I am ­then the game’s up, and my best course is to leave England.  And yet there is another way,” he went on, speaking slowly to himself ­“to close his lips.  Dead men tell no tales.”

He sat for a long time, his narrow-set eyes staring into space, contemplating a crime.  As a medical man, he knew a dozen ingenious ways by which Walter Fetherston might be sent to his grave in circumstances that would appear perfectly natural.  His gaze at last wandered to the book-case opposite, and became centred upon a thick, brown-covered, dirty volume by a writer named Taylor.  That book contained much that might be of interest to him in the near future.

Of a sudden the handle of the door turned, and Mrs. Kelsey, the old housekeeper, in rusty black, admitted Enid Orlebar without the ceremony of asking permission to enter.

The girl was dressed in a pearl grey and pink sports coat, with a large black hat, and carried a silver chain handbag.  Around her throat was a white feather boa, while her features were half concealed by the veil she wore.

“Ah, my dear young lady,” cried Weirmarsh, rising quickly and greeting her, while next moment he turned to his table and hastily concealed the foreign letter and notes, “I had quite forgotten that you were to consult me.  Pray forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” the beautiful girl replied in a low, colourless voice, when the housekeeper had disappeared, and she had seated herself in the big leather arm-chair in which so many patients daily sat.  “You ordered me to come here to you, and I have come.”

“Against your will, eh?” he asked slowly, with a strange look in his keen eyes.

“I am perfectly well now.  I do not see why my stepfather should betray such anxiety on my account.”

“The general is greatly concerned about you,” Weirmarsh said, seated cross-legged at his writing-chair, toying with his pen and looking into the girl’s handsome face.

“He wished me to see you.  That is why I wrote to you.”

“Well,” she said, wavering beneath his sharp glance, “I am here.  What do you wish?”

“I wish to have a little private talk with you, Miss Enid,” he replied thoughtfully, stroking his small greyish moustache, “a talk concerning your own welfare.”

“But I am not ill,” she cried.  “I don’t see why you should desire me to come to you to-night.”

“I have my own reasons, my dear young lady,” was the man’s firm response, his eyes fixed immovably upon hers.  “And I think you know me well enough to be aware that when Dr. Weirmarsh sets his mind upon a thing he is not easily turned aside.”

A slight, almost imperceptible, shudder ran through her.  But Weirmarsh detected it, and knew that this girl of extraordinary and mysterious charm was as wax in his hands.  In the presence of the man who had cast such a strange spell about her she was utterly helpless.  There was no suggestion of hypnotism ­she herself scouted the idea ­yet ever since Sir Hugh had taken her to consult this man of medicine at a small suburban villa, five years ago, he had entered her life never again to leave it.

She realised herself irresistibly in his power whenever she felt his presence near her.  At his bidding she came and went, and against her better nature she acted as he commanded.

He had cured her of an attack of nerves five years ago, but she had ever since been beneath his hated thraldom.  His very eyes fascinated her with their sinister expression, yet to her he could do no wrong.

A thousand times she had endeavoured to break free from that strong but unseen influence, but she always became weak and easily led as soon as she fell beneath the extraordinary power which the obscure doctor possessed.  Time after time he called her to his side, as on this occasion, on pretence of prescribing for her, and yet with an ulterior motive.  Enid Orlebar was a useful tool in the hands of this man who was so unscrupulous.

She sighed, passing her gloved hand wearily across her hot brow.  Strange how curiously his presence always affected her!

She had read in books of the mysteries of hypnotic suggestion, but she was far too practical to believe in that.  This was not hypnotism, she often declared within herself, but some remarkable and unknown power possessed by this man who, beneath the guise of the hard-working surgeon, was engaged in schemes of remarkable ingenuity and wondrous magnitude.

He held her in the palm of his hand.  He held her for life ­or for death.

To her stepfather she had, times without number, expressed fear and horror of the sharp-eyed doctor, but Sir Hugh had only laughed at her fears and dismissed them as ridiculous.  Dr. Weirmarsh was the general’s friend.

Enid knew that there was some close association between the pair, but of its nature she was in complete ignorance.  Often the doctor came to Hill Street and sat for long periods with the general in that small, cosy room which was his den.  That they were business interviews there was no doubt, but the nature of the business was ever a mystery.

“I see by your face that, though there is a great improvement in you, you are, nevertheless, far from well,” the man said, his eyes still fixed upon her pale countenance.

“Dr. Weirmarsh,” she protested, “this constant declaration that I am ill is awful.  I tell you I am quite as well as you are yourself.”

“Ah! there, I’m afraid, you are mistaken, my dear young lady,” he replied.  “You may feel well, but you are not in quite such good health as you imagine.  The general is greatly concerned about you, and for that reason I wished to see you to-night,” he added with a smile as, bending towards her, he asked her to remove her glove.

He took her wrist, holding his stop-watch in his other hand.  “Hum!” he grunted, “just as I expected.  You’re a trifle low ­a little run down.  You want a change.”

“But we only returned from Scotland yesterday!” she cried.

“The North does not suit such an exotic plant as yourself,” he said.  “Go South ­the Riviera, Spain, Italy, or Egypt.”

“I go with Mrs. Caldwell at the end of November.”

“No,” he said decisively, “you must go now.”

“Why?” she asked, opening her eyes in astonishment at his dictatorial manner.

“Because ­” and he hesitated, still gazing upon her with those strangely sinister eyes of his.  “Well, Miss Enid, because a complete change will be beneficial to you in more ways than one,” he replied with an air of mystery.

“I don’t understand you,” she declared.

“Probably not,” he laughed, with that cynical air which so irritated her.  She hated herself for coming to that detestable house of grim silence; yet his word to her was a command which she felt impelled by some strange force to fulfil with child-like obedience.  “But I assure you I am advising you for your own benefit, my dear young lady.”

“In what way?”

“Shall I speak plainly?” asked the man in whose power she was.  “Will you forgive me if I so far intrude myself upon your private affairs as to give you a few words of advice?”

“Thank you, Dr. Weirmarsh, but I cannot see that my private affairs are any concern of yours,” she replied with some hauteur.  How often had she endeavoured in vain to break those invisible shackles?

“I am a very sincere friend of your stepfather, and I hope a sincere friend of yours also,” he said with perfect coolness.  “It is because of this I presume to advise you ­but, of course ­” And he hesitated, without concluding his sentence.  His eyes were again fixed upon her as though gauging accurately the extent of his influence upon her.

“And what do you advise, pray?” she asked, “It seems that you have called me to you to-night in order to intrude upon my private affairs,” she added, with her eyes flashing resentment.

“Well ­yes, Miss Enid,” he answered, his manner changing slightly.  “The fact is, I wish to warn you against what must inevitably bring disaster both upon yourself and your family.”

“Disaster?” she echoed.  “I don’t follow you.”

“Then let me speak a little more plainly,” he replied, his strange, close-set eyes staring into hers until she quivered beneath his cold, hard gaze.  “You have recently become acquainted with Walter Fetherston.  You met him at Biarritz six months ago, and on Monday last he lunched with you up at Monifieth.  After luncheon you met him in the garden of the hotel, and ­”

“How do you know all this?” she gasped, startled, yet fascinated by his gaze.

“My dear young lady,” he laughed, “it is my business to know certain things ­that is one of them.”

She held her breath for a moment.

“And pray how does that concern you?  What interest have you in my acquaintances?”

“A very keen one,” was the prompt reply.  “That man is dangerous to you ­and to your family.  The reason why I have asked you here to-night is to tell you that you must never meet him again.  If you value your life, and that of your mother and her husband, avoid him as you would some venomous reptile.  He is your most deadly enemy.”

The girl was silent for a moment.  Her great, dark eyes were fixed upon the threadbare carpet.  What he told her was disconcerting, yet, knowing instinctively, as she did, how passionately Walter loved her, she could not bring herself to believe that he was really her enemy.

“No, Dr. Weirmarsh,” she replied, raising her eyes again to his, “you are quite mistaken.  I know Walter Fetherston better than you.  Your allegation is false.  You have told me this because ­because you have some motive in parting us.”

“Yes,” he said frankly, “I have ­a strong motive.”

“You do not conceal it?”

“No,” he answered.  “Were I a younger man you might, perhaps, accuse me of scheming to wriggle myself into your good graces, Miss Enid.  But I am getting old, and, moreover, I’m a confirmed bachelor, therefore you cannot, I think, accuse me of such ulterior motives.  No, I only point out this peril for your family’s sake ­and your own.”

“Is Mr. Fetherston such an evil genius, then?” she asked.  “The world knows him as a writer of strictly moral, if exciting, books.”

“The books are one thing ­the man himself another.  Some men reflect their own souls in their works, others write but canting hypocrisy.  It is so with Walter Fetherston ­the man who has a dual personality and whose private life will not bear the light of publicity.”

“You wish to prejudice me against him, eh?” she said in a hard tone.

“I merely wish to advise you for your good, my dear young lady,” he said.  “It is not for me, your medical man, to presume to dictate to you, I know.  But the general is my dear friend, therefore I feel it my duty to reveal to you the bitter truth.”

Thoughts of Walter Fetherston, the man in whose eyes had shone the light of true honesty when he spoke, arose within her.  She was well aware of all the curious gossip concerning the popular writer, whose eccentricities were so frequently hinted at in the gossipy newspapers, but she was convinced that she knew the real Fetherston behind the mask he so constantly wore.

This man before her was deceiving her.  He had some sinister motive in thus endeavouring to plant seeds of suspicion within her mind.  It was plain that he was endeavouring in some way to secure his own ends.  Those ends, however, were a complete and inexplicable mystery.

“I cannot see that my friendship for Mr. Fetherston can have any interest for you,” she replied.  “Let us talk of something else.”

“But it has,” he persisted.  “You must never meet that man again ­you hear! never ­otherwise you will discover to your cost that my serious warning has a foundation only too solid; that he is your bitterest enemy posing as your most affectionate friend.”

“I don’t believe you, Dr. Weirmarsh!” she cried resentfully, springing to her feet.  “I’ll never believe you!”

“My dear young lady,” the man exclaimed, “you are really quite unnerved to-night.  The general was quite right.  I will mix you a draught like the one you had before ­perfectly innocuous ­something to soothe those unstrung nerves of yours.”  And beneath his breath, as his cruel eyes twinkled, he added:  “Something to bring reason to those warped and excited senses ­something to sow within you suspicion and hatred of Walter Fetherston.”

Then aloud he added, as he sprang to his feet:  “Excuse me for a moment while I go and dispense it.  I’ll be back in a few seconds.”

He left the room when, quick as lightning, Enid stretched forth her hand to the drawer of the writing-table into which she had seen the doctor toss the foreign letter he had been reading when she entered.

She drew it out, and scanned eagerly a dozen or so of the closely-written lines in Spanish.

Then she replaced it with trembling fingers, and, closing the drawer, sat staring straight before her ­dumbfounded, rigid.

What was the mystery?

By the knowledge she had obtained she became forearmed ­even defiant.  In the light of that astounding discovery, she now read the mysterious Dr. Weirmarsh as she would an open book.  She held her breath, and an expression of hatred escaped her lips.

When, a moment later, he brought her a pale-yellow draught in a graduated glass, she took it from his hand, and, drawing herself up in defiance, flung its contents behind her into the fireplace.  She believed that at last she had conquered that strangely evil influence which, emanating from this obscure practitioner, had fallen upon her.

But the man only shrugged his shoulders and, turning from her, laughed unconcernedly.  He knew that he held her in bonds stronger than steel, that his will was hers ­for good or for evil.