“About six months ago, sir.”
“And he has been—we won’t mince matters—blackmailing you ever since?”
“He forced me to accept a promissory note, sir, for an imaginary accommodation, and he has been—yes, he has been bleeding me on it ever since. I owe him fifty pounds at this moment, and he is pressing for its payment under threat of exposure. I had to leave my situation a month ago, or I don’t know what would have happened. I am not strong, and this constant misfortune and persecution seem to unbalance my reason. It was his own suggestion that I should advertise as I did in the Daily Post.”
“Exactly. You are convinced, of course, that he actually possesses the wax cast?”
“I have seen it, sir.”
“Where?”
“He keeps it in a safe in his office.”
“Does he, do you know, sleep on the premises?”
“No, I am sure he does not, sir. I know his private address.”
“Very well, Mr Dobell. And now I am going to place you in the hands of my secretary, Mr Nestle, who will make himself responsible for your present custody and well-being. Be assured that you have nothing to fear and everything to hope; that this nightmare shall not be permitted to demoralise you much longer. Come.”