"Three times he has visited me," said Quarles. "First, just as the dusk was falling he stood in the window there, little more than a dark shadow against the light outside. The second time was when the lamp was lighted. I looked up suddenly, and he was standing there by the fireplace gazing at me intently. He was flesh and blood, real, not a ghost, no shape of mist trailing into my vision. An hour ago, at least it seems only an hour ago, he came again. The door opened, and he entered. He stood there just in front of me, as clearly visible in the daylight as you are, and as real. When you opened the door, I thought my visitor had come a fourth time."
"And what is the meaning of this—this broken rope?" I said, pointing to the drawing.
"Broken?" and he looked at the paper closely. "My hand stopped involuntarily. It is a good sign—encouraging—but the rope is not really broken yet. That is for us to accomplish."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that in one of His Majesty's prisons this man lies under sentence of death, that he is innocent of the crime, that he has been permitted to come to me for help."
"But——?"
Quarles sprang from his chair.
"Ah, leave questioning alone. I do not know how much time we have to prevent injustice being done. Take this drawing, Wigan, find out where the man is, work night and day to get the whole history, and then come to me. We must not lose a moment. Providence must have sent you to Chelsea this morning—another sign of encouragement."
I did not explain how I came to be there, nor say there was no foundation for encouragement in my unexpected arrival. Indeed, but for my talk with Zena that morning, I should have been inclined to argue with him. As it was, I left Chelsea only half convinced that I was not being misled by the fantastic dream of a man not in his usual state of health.
I was soon convinced of my error.