Morlandson had been reprieved, and, according to the notes made by Harold, must by now be at liberty. Was it possible that he had returned to the world with vengeance in his heart? The Professor had obtained permission to examine the official records of the trial, and had thus learnt the names of the remaining members of the jury. Five of them corresponded with the names which Hanslet had mentioned as the victims of the recent mysterious murders. There could be no further doubt.
But Morlandson had died, burnt to death in his laboratory within a year or so of his release. How was this fact to be fitted in with this theory? The Black Sailor had enlightened him upon this point. Dr. Morlandson had handed on his vengeance to this mysterious successor, whose true identity he had no means of guessing. It was true that in one direction his doubts had been resolved, but only to be replaced by a series of questions, equally imperative. Who was this man, who called himself the Black Sailor? The Professor had examined his appearance intently while the light lasted, and could see none of the obvious traces of disguise. He could swear that his most striking beard and whiskers had been genuine, and he had worn his clothes naturally, as though accustomed to them. Again, how had he known that Dr. Priestley was in the neighbourhood? The Professor was certain that he had not been followed during his journey from London. It was impossible that this man should live openly, with the reward for the Black Sailor circulating all over the country. Was it possible that he lived concealed somewhere in this desolate tract of country? And if so, how did he contrive to carry out his murders within the very heart of London?
These problems would wait. A more urgent one seemed to the Professor to require solution. What, he asked himself, had the Black Sailor’s object been in seeking this meeting? The Professor was quite prepared to believe that the reason he had given accounted for part of the truth. He could well imagine Morlandson, his brain turned by his fancied grievance, wishing the effects of his vengeance to become known. This was to be expected, it was merely an example of the curious vanity usually displayed by maniacs. But was there any other purpose in the meeting, which he had not yet understood? And, in any case, what course was he to take?
As the Black Sailor had suggested, to set the local police on the scent would be sheer waste of time. No serious attempt to scour the heath could possibly be made before daylight next morning, by which the object of the search would be far away. They might find the tracks of his bicycle, but if he desired to elude pursuit all he would need would be to carry it for some distance over the heather. The Professor credited the man who had baffled the London police by the ingenuity of his murders with sufficient acumen to leave no tracks by which he could be followed. No, the police could not help him, if he were to escape the fate that threatened him, it must be by his own efforts.
And so far his adversary had completely outwitted him. In spite of his own elaborate precautions, his investigations into the death of Dr. Morlandson were known and had been treated as the most natural thing in the world. For his own part, he had learnt very little that he had not known before. Certainly his theory as to the motives for the murders in Praed Street had been confirmed. This was a small satisfaction to place against the Professor’s chagrin. He had also learnt that the Black Sailor, in spite of official scepticism, was an actual person. But of his identity, or the means by which the crimes had been committed, he had learnt nothing. From the police point of view he had failed utterly, since he had failed to secure any information which could possibly lead to an arrest.
It was nearly eleven o’clock when the Professor saw the lights of the village in the distance, and, leaving the railway line, found the lane which led homewards. The sound of his footsteps re-echoed among the silent houses, the whole place breathed an atmosphere of perfect peace and tranquillity. His recent adventure seemed to the Professor as an impossible dream, a trick of his mind, so long concentrated upon the subject. So strong was the illusion of unreality that the Professor was impelled to feel the hard outline of the counter hidden in the folds of his handkerchief. There had been something theatrical about the whole adventure; the time, the place, the man’s appearance, his voice, so curiously harsh and rasping, his very words, so utterly at variance with his character of a rough sailor. With something of a shock the Professor remembered that Copperdock had claimed to have seen him at a moment when it was proved that there was no one there. Was it dimly possible that there was something supernatural about the affair? The Professor brushed the suggestion aside as absurd.
The inn was closed by the time he reached it, but, remembering the landlord’s instructions, he knocked upon the door, and after a short interval the key turned in the lock and the door opened. The landlord’s voice welcomed him. “Bit later than you expected, sir, aren’t you?” he said. “Did you lose your way or anything like that?”
“No, the—er—beauty of the night tempted me to stay out of doors,” replied the Professor.
“Well, sir, come ten o’clock, and seeing as you didn’t come home, I put a drop of that old brandy aside for you. I hope I don’t presume too much, sir.”
“You did not indeed, I shall be very glad of it,” replied the Professor thankfully.