danger, that must, at all costs, be removed." And looking into
the other's face, he added, "You understand me?"

"Perfectly."

Just before two o'clock Gustav Heureux left the frowsy house in Vauxhall
Bridge Road and walked through the silent street into Victoria Street.

He was unaware, however, that on the opposite side of the road an
ill-dressed man had for a full hour been lurking in a doorway, or that
when he came down the doctor's steps, the mysterious midnight watcher
strolled noiselessly after him.

CHAPTER VII

CONCERNING THE VELVET HAND

ON the rising ground half-way between Wimborne and Poole, in Dorsetshire,
up a narrow by-road which leads to the beautiful woods, lies the tiny
hamlet of Idsworth, a secluded little place of about forty inhabitants,
extremely rural and extremely picturesque.

Standing alone half-way up the hill, and surrounded by trees, was an
old-world thatched cottage, half-timbered, with high, red-brick chimneys,
quaint gables and tiny dormer windows--a delightful old Elizabethan house
with a comfortable, homely look. Behind it a well-kept flower garden,
with a tree-fringed meadow beyond, while the well-rolled gravelled walks,
the rustic fencing, and the pretty curtains at the casements betrayed the
fact that the rustic homestead was not the residence of a villager.

As a matter of fact it belonged to a Mr. John Maltwood, a bachelor, whom
Idsworth believed to be in business in London, and who came there at
intervals for fresh air and rest. His visits were not very frequent.
Sometimes he would be absent for many months, and at others he would
remain there for weeks at a time, with a cheery word always for the
labourers on their way home from work, and always with his hand in his
pocket in the cause of charity.

John Maltwood, the quiet, youngish-looking man in the gold pince-nez, was
popular everywhere over the country-side. He did not court the society of
the local parsons and their wives, nor did he return any of the calls
made upon him. His excuse was that he was at Idsworth for rest, and not
for social duties. This very independence of his endeared him to the
villagers, who always spoke of him as "one of the right sort."

At noon on the day following the dinner at Hill Street, Walter
Fetherston--known at Idsworth as Mr. Maltwood--alighted from the station
fly, and was met at the cottage gate by the smiling, pleasant-faced woman
in a clean apron who acted as caretaker.