"After that, you see, there was no more chance of doing the thing secretly," went on Capper, speaking of the appalling business in the most easy and natural fashion. "He shut me out of the house; he would not let me come near him. Twice I followed him, and the second time I lost him. Now, sir,"—he clasped his hands, and looked at me with an agony of entreaty in his eyes—"now, sir, will you let me know where I can find him?"
"Answer me one question first," I said, looking into his eager eyes. "If you kill this man, what will become of you?"
He spread out his hands, and smiled the strangest smile I have ever seen. "What does that matter?" he asked simply. "If I am found out they may say that I am a madman; they may shut me away for life. They may even hang me. It will not matter—my life finished when the man who saved me from myself died."
I did not hesitate any further; I told Capper that Dr. Bardolph Just was living down at a place called Green Barn, near Comerford, in Essex. He thanked me in the strangest fashion, with the tears in his eyes; he asked if he might shake hands with me. I had a weird feeling that he felt he might be going to his own death as I gripped his hand and let him go. I watched him for a long time while he went across the heath; he walked quickly, and without once looking to right or left, or even looking back at me. And I wondered what manner of death was preparing for Dr. Just.
Let it be understood clearly that I was so amazed by the whole business that for some time I could not decide what to do. There was no thought in my mind of saving Bardolph Just, or of warning him; I felt that in this grim business I had no right to interfere. The man who had meted out death to another man, and had striven so hard to kill an innocent girl, was no subject for pity. If I had desired to do anything to stop the business, it would have been on account of the man Capper; and so far as he was concerned, I knew that I might as well try to turn some strong river from its course as hold him back.
But I thought now of Debora. Strange as it may appear, in my own mind I regarded the death of Dr. Just as something inevitable—something arranged and settled. Capper had given away his secret to me; I knew that in some fashion Dr. Just would meet his death at Green Barn, unless by a miracle it happened that he had already gone away. And even then Capper was capable of following him, in that deadly hunt, to the other side of the world. I determined that I must go to Green Barn—not with any intention of standing between Capper and his intended victim, but in the hope to be of service to Debora. Debora would be alone with Bardolph Just, and Bardolph Just was marked for death!
I hurried back to my lodging, in the hope to find Andrew Ferkoe, and to let him know what I was doing; but I found that he had not yet returned to the house, and the landlady had no knowledge of his movements. There was nothing for it but for me to leave a message, saying that I was called away into the country, and hoped to be back within a day or so. I said nothing more definite than that.
I got out at Comerford Station in a heavy fall of summer rain. I had no knowledge of whether Capper was in front of me, or behind me in London; whether he had yet come face to face with the doctor, or whether that was still to happen. I was passing rapidly through the little booking-hall when I saw a big man lounging on a seat there, with his arms folded and his legs stretched out before him. It was Harvey Scoffold, and half involuntarily I stopped.
He looked up at me with a scowl, which changed the next moment to a grin. "Hullo!" he said, with an attempt at joviality, "what brings you down here?"
"You should be able to guess," I reminded him.