“Meekins,” he said, “look at me.”
The man turned and faced his master. His aspect of dogged civility had never been more apparent.
“Now listen,” Mr. Fentolin went on. “I want to remind you of certain things, Meekins. We are among friends here—no secrecy, you understand, or anything of that sort. You need not be afraid! You know how you came to me? You remember that little affair of Anna Jayes in Hartlepool?”
The face of the man was filled with terror. He began to tremble where he stood. Mr. Fentolin played for a moment with his collar, as though he found it tight.
“Such a chance it was, my dear Meekins,” Mr. Fentolin continued cheerfully, “which brought me that little scrap of knowledge concerning you. It has bought me through all these years a good deal of faithful service. I am not ungrateful, believe me. I intend to retain you for my body-servant and to keep my lips sealed, for a great many years to come. Now remember what I have said. When we leave this place, that little episode will steal back into a far corner of my mind. I shall, in short, forget it. If we are caught here and inconvenience follows, well, I cannot say. Do your best, Meekins. Do a little better than your best. You have the reputation of being a strong man. Let us see you justify it.”
The man took a long breath and returned to his task. His shoulders and arms were upon the door. He began to strain. He grew red in the face; the veins across his forehead stood out, blue, like tightly-drawn string. His complexion became purple. Through his open mouth his breath came in short pants. With every muscle of his body and neck he strained and strained. The woodwork gave a little, but it never even cracked. With a sob he suddenly almost collapsed. Mr. Fentolin looked at him, frowning.
“Very good—very good, Meekins,” he said, “but not quite good enough. You are a trifle out of practice, perhaps. Take your breath, take time. Remember that you have another chance. I am not angry with you, Meekins. I know there are many enterprises upon which one does not succeed the first time. Get your breath; there is no hurry. Next time you try, see that you succeed. It is very important, Meekins, for you as well as for us, that you succeed.”
The man turned doggedly back to his task. The eyes of the three men watched him—Mr. Dunster on the bed; Doctor Sarson, pale and gloomy, with something of fear in his dark eyes; and Mr. Fentolin himself, whose expression seemed to be one of purely benevolent and encouraging interest. Once more the face of the man became almost unrecognisable. There was a great crack, the trap-door had shifted. Meekins, with a little cry, reeled and sank backwards. Mr. Fentolin clapped his hands lightly.
“Really, Meekins,” he declared, “I do not know when I have enjoyed any performance so much. I feel as if I were back in the days of the Roman gladiators. I can see that you mean to succeed. You will succeed. You do not mean to end your days amid objectionable surroundings.”
With the air of a man temporarily mad, Meekins went back to his task. He was sobbing to himself now. His clothes had burst away from him. Suddenly there was a crash, the hinges of the trap-door had parted. With the blood streaming from a wound in his forehead, Meekins staggered back to his feet. Mr. Fentolin nodded.