He knew Nestley was a very clever man, but remarkably weak, and likely to be led astray. In London, under the influence of drink, he had been a slave to Beaumont, and here in Garsworth the artist determined to reduce him to a similar state of slavery. Never for a moment did he think of the clever brain he would destroy, or the life he would wreck--all he wanted was the assistance of the young doctor in certain plans beneficial to himself, and, at whatever cost, he determined to carry them out. Beaumont, as a matter of fact, had in him a great deal of the Italian Despot nature as described by Machiavelli, and with cold, relentless subtlety, set himself to work to ruin the unhappy Duncan Nestley body and soul for his own ends.
Nestley was doubtless weak to allow himself to be so dominated, but unhappily it was his nature. If Nature endows a man largely in one way, she generally deprives him of something else in equal proportion, and while Nestley was a brilliant, clever man, who, if left to himself, would have lived an honest and creditable life, yet his morally weak nature placed him at the mercy of any unscrupulous scoundrel who thought fit to play upon his feelings.
Unhappily, circumstances aided Beaumont's nefarious plan, for after leaving Una the young doctor walked across the common to the village, hoping to pull himself together by a brisk walk.
At the bridge he found Beaumont leaning over it, looking at the water swirling below, and on hearing footsteps, the artist looked up with a gratified smile as he recognised his victim.
"What's the matter, Nestley?" he asked after the first greetings; "you don't look well."
"I'm not well," retorted Nestley abruptly; "I'm nearly worn out by that old man--morn, noon and night I've got to be beside him--if he's paid me handsomely he's taking his full value out of me."
"Yes, I think he is," replied Beaumont deliberately, "you look quite thin--not the man of three weeks ago. He must be a kind of mediæval succubus living on the blood of young men. It would be wise for you to leave him."
Nestley leaned his chin on his folded arms, which were resting on the parapet of the bridge, and sighed deeply.
"No--I can't do that."
"Oh! I understand," said Beaumont with a sneer, beginning to smoke one of his eternal cigarettes.