The Mystery of the Four Fingers

by Fred M. White

"I mustn't have any more of that," he said. "It would be simply playing into the hands of the fiend who is pursuing me."

With a resolution that cost him an effort, Fenwick locked the brandy away in a cupboard and threw the key out of the window. In his present state of mind he dared not trust himself too far. Partially divesting himself of his clothing he drew from about his waist a soft leather belt containing pockets, and from these pockets he produced a large amount of gold coins and a packet of banknotes. Altogether there were some hundreds of pounds, and Fenwick congratulated himself on the foresight which had led him to adopt this plan in case necessity demanded it. He had enough and more than enough to take him to the other side of the world, if only he could manage to get rid of Felix Zary.

His mind was made up at length; he would creep out of the house in the dead of the night and make his way down to the Docks. At every hour ships of various size and tonnage put out of the port of London, and, no doubt, the skipper of one of these for a consideration would take him wherever he wanted to go; and Fenwick knew, moreover, that there were scores of public-houses along the side of the river which are practically never closed, and which are run entirely for the benefit of seafaring men. It would be easy to make inquiries at some of these and discover what vessels were leaving by the next tide, and a bargain could be struck immediately, go far as Fen wick was concerned, he inclined towards a sailing ship bound for the Argentine. His spirits rose slightly at the prospect before him; his step was fairly light and buoyant as he proceeded in the direction of his bedroom. There was no light in the room, so that he had to fumble about in his pockets for a box of matches which fell from his fingers and dropped on to the floor.

"Confound it," Fenwick muttered. "Where are they?"

"Don't trouble," a calm, quiet voice said out of the darkness. "I have matches, with which I will proceed to light the gas."

Fenwick could have cried aloud, had he been physically able to do so. There was no reason for a light to be struck or the gas to be lighted so that he might see the face of the speaker. Indeed, he recognised the voice far too well for that. A moment later, he was gazing at the impassive face of Felix Zary.

"You did not expect to see me," the latter said. "You were under the impression that you were going to get away from me. Never did man make a greater mistake. It matters little what you do, it will matter nothing to you or anybody else in twelve hours from now. Do you realise the fact that you have but that time to live? Do you understand that?"

"You would murder me?" Fenwick said hoarsely.

"You may calm yourself on that score. You are unarmed, and I have not so much as a pocket knife in my possession. I shall not lay a hand upon you—I shall not peril my soul for the sake of a creature like you. There are other ways and other methods of which you know nothing."

"How did you get here?" Fenwick asked hoarsely. "How did you put that dreadful thing on my table?"