"Prothero," said Cuthbert, "is a man of mystery. As soon as Ibegan asking his neighbors questions, I saw he was of interest and that I was of interest. I saw they did not believe I was an agent of a West End shop, but a detective. So they wouldn't talk at all, or else they talked freely. And from one of them, a chemist named Needham, I got all I wanted. He's had a lawsuit against Prothero, and hates him. Prothero got him to invest in a medicine to cure the cocaine habit. Needham found the cure was no cure, but cocaine disguised. He sued for his money, and during the trial the police brought in Prothero's record. Needham let me copy it, and it seems to embrace every crime except treason. The man is a Russian Jew. He was arrested and prosecuted in Warsaw, Vienna, Berlin, Belgrade;all over Europe, until finally the police drove him to America.
There he was an editor of an anarchist paper, a blackmailer, a 'doctor' of hypnotism, a clairvoyant, and a professional bigamist.
His game was to open rooms as a clairvoyant, and advise silly women how to invest their money. When he found out which of them had the most money, he would marry her, take over her fortune, and skip. In Chicago, he was tried for poisoning one wife, and the trial brought out the fact that two others had died under suspicious circumstances, and that there were three more unpoisoned but anxious to get back their money. He was sentenced to ten years for bigamy, but pardoned because he was supposed to be insane, and dying. Instead of dying, he opened a sanatorium in New York to cure victims of the drug habit. In reality, it was a sort of high-priced opium-den. The place was raided, and he jumped his bail and came to this country. Now he is running this private hospital in Sowell Street. Needham says it's a secret rendezvous for dope fiends. But they are very high-class dope fiends, who are willing to pay for seclusion, and the police can't get at him. I may add that he's tall and muscular, with a big black beard, and hands that could strangle a bull. In Chicago, during the poison trial, the newspapers called him 'the Modern Bluebeard."'
For a short time Ford was silent. But, in the dark corner of the cab, Cuthbert could see that his cigar was burning briskly.
"Your friend seems a nice chap," said Ford at last. " Calling on him will be a real pleasure. I especially like what you say about his hands.""I have a plan," began the assistant timidly, "a plan to get you into the house-if you don't mind my making suggestions?""Not at all!" exclaimed his chief heartily.
"Get me into the house by all means; that's what we're here for.
The fact that I'm to be poisoned or strangled after I get there mustn't discourage us.'""I thought," said Cuthbert, "I might stand guard outside, while you got in as a dope fiend."Ford snorted indignantly. "Do I LOOK like a dope fiend?" he protested.
The voice of the assistant was one of discouragement.
"You certainly do not," he exclaimed regretfulIy. "But it's the only plan I could think of.""It seems to me," said his chief testily, "that you are not so very healthy-looking yourself. What's the matter with YOUR getting inside as a dope fiend and MY standing guard?""But I wouldn't know what to do after I got inside," complained the assistant, "and you would. You are so clever."The expression of confidence seemed to flatter Ford.
"I might do this," he said. "I might pretend I was recovering from a heavy spree, and ask to be taken care of until I am sober. Or Icould be a very good imitation of a man on the edge of a nervous breakdown. I haven't been five years in the newspaper business without knowing all there is to know about nerves. That's it!" he cried. "I will do that! And if Mr. Bluebeard Svengali, the Strangler of Paris person, won't take me in as a patient, we'll come back with a couple of axes and BREAK in. But we'll try the nervous breakdown first, and we'll try it now. I will be a naval officer," declared Ford. "I made the round-the-world cruise with our fleet as a correspondent, and I know enough sea slang to fool a medical man. I am a naval officer whose nerves have gone wrong.
I have heard of his sanatorium through----" "How," asked Ford sharply, "have I heard of his sanatorium?""You saw his advertisement in the DAILY WORLD," prompted Cuthbert.
"'Home of convalescents; mental and nervous troubles cured.'""And," continued Ford, "I have come to him for rest and treatment.
My name is Lieutenant Henry Grant. I arrived in London two weeks ago on the MAURETANIA. But my name was not on the passenger-list, because I did not want the Navy Department to know I was taking my leave abroad. I have been stopping at my own address in Jermyn Street, and my references are yourself, the Embassy, and my landlord. You will telephone him at once that, if any one asks after Henry Grant, he is to say what you tell him to say. And if any one sends for Henry Grant's clothes, he is to send MY clothes.""But you don't expect to be in there as long as that?" exclaimed Cuthbert.
"I do not," said Ford. "But, if he takes me in, I must make a bluff of sending for my things. No; either I will be turned out in five minutes, or if he accepts me as a patient I will be there until midnight. If I cannot get the girl out of the house by midnight, it will mean that I can't get out myself, and you had better bring the police and the coroner.""Do you mean it?" asked Cuthbert.
"I most certainly do!" exclaimed Ford.
