"Here, but look here!" Heyton broke out, with a kind of impatient insolence. "This is all very well. This old man comes here, makes a statement—gets you to make a statement—when, as everybody knows, you're not in your right mind—Oh, I'm not going to accept it!"
"There are proofs. You know, Wilfred," said the Marquess. "But I can talk no longer. Leave me with my brother."
They went, the doctor and nurse only remaining: the Marquess's little strength had been sorely tried, and the doctor was watching him closely. With a defiant air, Heyton swaggered down the steps. As he reached the bottom, a hand fell on his shoulder; lightly enough, but Heyton started and winced.
"Will you give me a minute or two in the sitting-room, my lord?" said Mr. Jacobs, blandly.
"Eh, what is it?" said Heyton, with an oath. "What do you want? I don't want to be bothered just now; got plenty of my own affairs on my mind."
But he followed the detective. Mr. Jacobs closed the door and stood, on one side of the table, looking at Heyton on the other.
"Yes, this has been a most upsetting business for you, my lord," he said. "You have had, and are having, a most trying time; this is the kind of thing which will break down the strongest man; and I'm about to take the liberty of offering you a word of advice." As he spoke, he took up a Continental Bradshaw which was lying open on the table. "In cases of your kind, there's nothing like a change of scene and air. You want to go right away: I mean, a long way.—I've been looking up one or two places where a man could hide himself—I beg your pardon!—I mean, seclude himself without fear of interruption or—interference."
Heyton stared at him; and as he stared, with a puzzled frown, his swollen face grew mottled, livid in places, red in others.
"I don't know what the devil you mean!" he blurted out. "Why should I go anywhere?"
"For the sake of your health, my lord," said Mr. Jacobs, his innocent blue eyes fixed on Heyton. "You want a change—and at once; in fact, it is absolutely imperative." He leant forward across the table, patted the Bradshaw and dropped his voice as he went on incisively, "You can catch the night mail from Charing Cross. Book straight through by the Trans-Siberian, by way of Moscow and Pekin. When you reach Harbin, go right into the interior. There are mines there—anyhow, you can lose yourself. You understand, my lord?"