The man before me sat with folded arms in almost complete silence, listening intently to every word. The twilight faded and darkness fell quickly, as it does in November in the City. He had given orders that we were not to be disturbed, and he sat silent, so transfixed by my strange story that he did not rise to switch on the light.
I told him all, everything—until I described to him the discovery of that venomous tarantula in Asta’s bedroom. Then he suddenly struck his table with his fist, and sprang to his feet, crying—
“Ah! I’ve been expecting to hear of this all along. The scoundrel meant to kill the poor girl! There were reasons—very strong reasons—for doing so.”
“What were they?” I demanded quickly. “I have told you everything, Mr Fryer. Now, be quite frank with me, I beg you—and tell me the whole truth.”
He was silent. I could hardly distinguish his thin, deeply lined face seated as he was in the shadows, his back to the window, so dark had it now become.
Presently, he rose and turned on the light, saying as he did so—
“Well, Mr Kemball, as you seem to have been so intimately associated with the closing scenes of poor Melvill Arnold’s career, I will explain the whole truth to you—even at the risk of a breach of professional confidence. My client is dead, but the dastardly attempt upon Miss Asta Seymour must be avenged—that man Harvey Shaw shall be brought to justice. Listen, and I will tell you a story stranger than most men have ever listened to—a romance of real life of which, however, every word is the truth.”
“The cylinder!” I cried. “Are you aware of what is contained in it?”
“I have not the slightest knowledge,” he declared. “That we will investigate together later—after you have heard the strange romance of the man whom you knew as Melvill Arnold.”