The Black Sailor scowled, and looked fiercely at the Professor. “Ludgrove is an interfering busybody,” he growled. “I do not propose to explain my methods to you, naturally, but this much I will tell you, Ludgrove has on more than one occasion prevented me from carrying out my designs, I have no other quarrel with him, and he is in no danger so long as he minds his own business. The counter was sent to him as a hint to keep out of the business altogether. And, by the way, Dr. Priestley, when you get back to London, you may give him this message from me. Unless he keeps clear, the counter, which was only a warning, will be followed by something worse.”
He laughed harshly as he saw a flicker of astonishment pass across the Professor’s face. “Oh yes,” he continued. “You will no doubt go back to London and recount your experiences to your friend Hanslet and the rest of the police. Why not? I have no doubt they will be very pleased to learn the motive for these mysterious murders which have so sorely puzzled them. They may dimly realize that an apparent murder may sometimes be a just execution. But the knowledge won’t help them much, and it won’t help you, Dr. Priestley. In fact, it was Dr. Morlandson’s wish that the reasons for the deaths of his victims should be fully known. His example may cause jurymen to consider their verdicts more carefully in future. And as for me, what harm can any of you do? Why, from the first there has been a reward upon my head, a reward you will never earn, Dr. Priestley.”
He paused, and then continued more seriously. “You are a sensible man, and must see how utterly useless any attempt to put the police on my trail must be. It will take you an hour at least to reach the police station at Corfe Castle, and heaven knows how much longer to persuade the police to search for me. Don’t for an instant think this meeting is accidental. It is not. I have for some time been seeking for an opportunity of meeting you. It was Dr. Morlandson’s expressed wish that I should see you and explain matters. Now that I have done so, the Black Sailor will disappear, only to appear once more, when your sentence is to be executed.”
“And that sentence is——?” enquired Dr. Priestley firmly.
“That you should live in the constant expectation of a violent death,” replied the Black Sailor gravely. “The time may come soon or late, but you cannot escape the doom which hangs over you. You may take what precautions you please, you may condemn yourself to a life of constant supervision within the walls of a fortified house. If you do, you will know something of the hell which Dr. Morlandson endured as the result of your verdict. But at last the moment will come, and you will be stricken with death when you believe yourself to be safest. Copperdock was warned, he was under the special care of the police, he was alone in his own house with the door locked behind him. Yet death found him, as it will find you when the time comes, Dr. Priestley.”
The Black Sailor put his foot on the pedal of his bicycle. “You will excuse me if I break off this interesting conversation,” he said. “I have many things to attend to to-night, and it is getting late. But before I go I will give you this. It will serve to remind you that your meeting with me was not a trick of your imagination. It may also be useful as evidence of your veracity when you tell the story to the police.”
He drew something from his pocket, and threw it contemptuously at the Professor’s feet. Then, before the latter could reply, he had jumped on his bicycle and was pedaling rapidly in the direction from which he had come.
It was quite dark by now, and the Professor watched his retreating form until it was lost in the night. Then he bent down and picked up the object which he had thrown upon the ground, and which glimmered faintly upon the dark surface of the heather on which it had fallen. He knew what it was, without the trouble of striking a match. It was typical of him that he handled it by the edges, and wrapped it carefully in his handkerchief before he put it in his pocket. Then he started once more on his homeward journey, his mind full of this interview with the man who called himself the Black Sailor.
His theory had been vindicated. During the night which had followed Inspector Hanslet’s first visit to him, he had racked his brains in the endeavour to recall the circumstances under which he had first heard the name of Copperdock. And then, at last, just before dawn, the scene had come back to him. The gloomy court at the Old Bailey, the voices of counsel, the set tense face of the prisoner in the dock. And finally, the scene when the jurymen, under his direction, had discussed the verdict which was to decide the man’s fate. Yes, he remembered the name of the little man who had seemed to share his own merciful views. Copperdock, that was it. The names of the others he did not remember, but they had seemed to be inspired with a stolid common-sense virtue. One of them had implied that if doctors thought they could get away with this sort of thing, there was no knowing what they would be up to. They were a lot of butchers as it was, always cutting people up to find out what was the matter with them.
Yes, he remembered the scene well enough. It had been impossible to argue with his colleagues on the jury. The majority were against him and the man Copperdock; they could only acquiesce in their opinion. The twelve had filed back to the places in court, he could see now the look of awful anxiety in the eyes of the prisoner. And then, in reply to the solemn question of the judge, he had spoken the words, “Guilty, my Lord.”