Gilchrist shuddered and thought suddenly of the terrified man behind the curtain, dimly realizing the significance to that overwrought brain of these fatal words. He glanced at the betraying bulge, saw it move slightly.
Williamson smiled down into the intelligent eyes of his old dog.
“Tiger, old fellow,” he said jocularly, “you’ve made a mistake—you’ve brought this message to the wrong man. It is evidently meant for the person who shot poor old Hepplewhite. Here”—he held it out to the dog—“take it to him. Find him!”
The dog took the paper in his jaws, wagged his tail with a comprehending look up at his master, and ran, following the scent which was on the paper, across the room. He stopped, pawing at the bulged curtain.
Williamson stared after him in amusement.
“Is he there, Tiger?” he said, humouring the intelligent animal. “Have you found him?”
Gilchrist stood speechless. What was coming next?
The curtain was flung suddenly aside. The old gentleman stood revealed, stepped forward into the room. His bulbous eyes were unwholesomely bright.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “I surrender. You have won. I might, of course, shoot you”—he took a revolver from his pocket—“as I shot your confederate in the train to-night. But I recognize that it would be useless. Your Society would raise up yet other avengers——”