"Not the least," replied Bob. "She's a gem. Of the first water. Wash and comb her regularly--dress her decently--teach her to read and write--give her two or three years to grow up in--and there's no telling what she may become. Much obliged for the introduction. Much obliged also for the business in hand." He said this with perfect sincerity. Bob Tucker was in his element.

On the following morning he and Sophy set off for Tylney House. By Bob's advice I remained behind in Nutford. It would be best, he said, that Dr. Peterssen should not see me.

I waited in great anxiety for his return, and at three o'clock in the afternoon he was with me again.

"All arranged," he said. "Sophy is now a friendly patient in Tylney House. Did not tell you, did I, that I telegraphed to Peterssen from London yesterday afternoon?"

"No," I replied, "I was not aware of it. You lay your plans well, Bob."

"No use undertaking a job unless you do. I sent him telegram--'Coming to your establishment to-morrow with young patient. SILAS NETTLEFOLD.' We arrive in a fly--ring the bell--man appears. I ask, 'Dr. Peterssen at home?' 'Name?' inquires the man. 'Silas Nettlefold,' I answer. 'Dr. Peterssen is at home,' says man. 'Walk in.' I do. Sophy slouches by my side--good actress, that girl. Man eyes her. She doesn't notice him apparently. All the same she sees him--and reckons him up. In the grounds she picks up stone--looks at it--turns it over in her hand--shies it over the wall. 'A way she's got,' I say to man. Slip two half-crowns into his hand. He grins, and leads the way. Peterssen--damned scoundrel--receives us. I introduce myself--and my stepdaughter Maria. He shakes hands with me--no suspicion in his manner. I was looking out for that. Puts his thumb under my step-daughter's chin--raises her face. She gives a silly laugh, and turns away. I explain matters, saying first, 'Can I speak plainly to you?' 'I am a man of the world,' he says. 'So am I,' I respond. I give him a sly look; he gives me one. I motion Sophy, otherwise Maria, out of the room. He rings for man to take her into the grounds. 'Not my daughter,' I say; 'my first wife's. Widow when I married her. Now, dead. Six weeks ago I married again. Second wife wants her out of the house. So do I. More comfortable for all parties. Dumb from her birth; quite silly, but has, or will have when she's of age, property. Meanwhile I am her guardian. Willing to pay well to have her well taken care of. Must not be ill-treated. Am a Christian--so are you.' Peterssen smiles; I smile. I continue: 'It is to my interest that she shall be happy. I wish her to live a long life--in such an establishment as yours--at so much a year, paid in advance. I should like her to get fat. The longer she lives, the better for me. If she died her property would pass out of my control.' And so on, and so on. Peterssen comprehends--grasps the situation. Promises everything I ask. Shall be treated as friendly patient, but of course the charge will be proportionate. 'Quite so,' I say. Everything then is arranged. She will have perfect liberty inside the stone walls. Will be kindly treated. Will be allowed to walk freely about the grounds, and to indulge her harmless habit of occasional stone-throwing. So far, all plain sailing. Then comes question of terms. 'Two hundred a year,' says Peterssen, rather stiff. 'We'll not haggle,' I say. Peterssen much relieved. He's devilish hard up. Saw it with half an eye. His hand stretched out to clutch the money. Took advantage of his eagerness. Gave him twenty pounds on account of first quarter. Promise to pay the other thirty in a month. After that, regular quarterly payments in advance. Peterssen made lame attempts to hold out for larger sum down on the nail. I stood my ground. Peterssen gave way. If he'd been flush of money would have seen me further first. Interview terminated. We go out to Sophy, otherwise Maria. Girl very happy, playing with two stones. 'Let her have her way,' I say, 'won't give you a bit of trouble.' I wish her good-by. She takes not the slightest notice of me. Begins to whistle. Clever girl, Sophy. Gives me a silly look, that's all. I speak to man, otherwise keeper, aside. 'Don't bother her,' I say, 'and she won't bother you. Treat her kindly, and you get a crown a week. Here's first fortnight in advance.' Keeper promises to be good to her, and not to interfere with her. A crown a week buys him body and soul. Sophy all right. Shake hands with Peterssen, pat Sophy on the head, and make my way here. Not in a straight line. Hired fly some distance off in another direction. Leave Bob Tucker alone for putting people off the scent."

There was nothing to find fault with in Bobgs description; all that I had wished for had been cleverly carried out, and everything seemed now to depend upon whether the desk of Indian wood was in Dr. Peterssen's establishment and whether Sophy would be able to obtain possession of it. But it was not without an uneasy feeling that I thought of Sophy being at the mercy of such a man as the master of Tylney House. Bob did his best to dispel my uneasiness. He was positive that Sophy was quite safe. Dr. Peterssen was seldom in the house, his inclinations and pleasures lying elsewhere, and the management of the establishment was left almost entirely in the hands of the keeper who Bob said he had bought for five shillings a week.

"Doesn't get a tip once in a blue moon," said Bob. "That was evident from his manner of accepting mine. It was such a novelty that it almost knocked him over. Doesn't get too well paid, either. There's a tumbledown air about Tylney House which made me think of a man on his last legs. One thing is certain. Peterssen's heart is not in it. Mind occupied by matters more engrossing. Generally savage look upon his face. The fellow's ripe."

"For what, Bob?"

"For any kind of villainy, from pitch and toss to manslaughter. Wouldn't stop short of manslaughter. Oh, I know my customer."