“No, dear father, I hear nothing. You are torturing yourself with all these dreadful memories; they are exciting you too much; it is dreadfully bad for you to talk as you do.”
“Nothing is bad for me now. I am past the good or the bad of life. I stand on its threshold. Let me describe the picture. I hear Eustace Moore speaking. These are his words:
“‘I have brought you terrible news, doctor. I cannot mince matters, nor break the blow in any way. Your son is dead!’
“‘Go on,’ I answer. I stagger, but I don’t fall; ‘go on, hurry, tell me everything.’
“‘Your son was murdered at a café in Paris,’ continues Moore. ‘The cause of the murder is an absolute mystery. A stranger had a quarrel with him; there were hurried words, followed by blows and pistol shots—the boy was shot clean through the heart. My address was found in his pocket; someone rushed to my flat, not far away, and I was on the scene in less than half an hour. Anthony was lying dead on a table in an inner room of the café. The man who had quarrelled with him and who had murdered him was known by the name of Hubert Lefroy. As I was entering the café, I saw a tall man rushing by in considerable agitation; he wore no hat, and he flew quickly past me. I observed his strange face, and a mark—the mark of a death’s head and cross-bones tattooed on the upper lip. Knowing nothing definitely at the moment, I did not stop to arrest his flight. My firm belief is that he is the murderer. Every possible search has been made since, but not a trace of him has been heard of. The man was tall, dark and strong. By the mark on his lip we ought to know him again—I should recognise his face were I to see him.’
“Those were the exact words spoken by Eustace Moore, Nancy. I know them, as you perceive, by heart—they are, indeed, graven on my heart. The picture fades. Moore’s voice is silent. He has died since then. We do not know a single living person who has seen that assassin, who sent my only son to an early grave. For six long years we have searched for him—you, my child, know how well.”
“Yes, father,” answered Nancy, “I do know.”
“We have spent all our money,” continued the doctor, “we have employed the very best detectives—we have done all that human beings could do. I have lived on the hope that the day would come when I should see that wretch arrested, tried, hanged by the neck until he died. My hope is fading into the night. I have not found the murderer. You will find him, Nancy—you will carry on my work.”
“I hate the man,” said Nancy slowly and speaking with intense fervour. “When you recall that dreadful picture, I hate the man who murdered my brother as much as you do. I dream of him also night after night, and my hate is so deep that nothing in all the world can extinguish it; but how am I to carry on this awful search? Where you failed, how am I to succeed?”