“In any open place,” Ford assured him. “In a park or public square, but of course most frequently at sea.”
The quack waved his great hands as though brushing aside a curtain.
“I will remove the illusion,” he said, “and give you others more pretty.” He smiled meaningfully—an evil, leering smile. “When will you come?” he asked. Ford glanced about him nervously.
“I shall stay now,” he said. “I confess, in the streets and in my lodgings I am frightened. You give me confidence. I want to stay near you. I feel safe with you. If you will give me writing-paper, I will send for my things.”
For a moment the Jew hesitated, and then motioned to a desk. As Ford wrote, Prothero stood near him, and the reporter knew that over his shoulder the Jew was reading what he wrote. Ford gave him the note, unsealed, and asked that it be forwarded at once to his lodgings.
“To-morrow,” he said, “I will call up our Embassy, and give my address to our Naval Attache.
“I will attend to that,” said Prothero.
“From now you are in my hands, and you can communicate with the outside only through me. You are to have absolute rest—no books, no letters, no papers. And you will be fed from a spoon. I will explain my treatment later. You will now go to your room, and you will remain there until you are a well man.”
Ford had no wish to be at once shut off from the rest of the house. The odor of cooking came through the hall, and seemed to offer an excuse for delay.
“I smell food,” he laughed. “And I'm terrifically hungry. Can't I have a farewell dinner before you begin feeding me from a spoon?”