certain, for when I went out to India three years ago he was a hale and
hearty old chap, fit as a fiddle and lively as a cricket, and now, when
I come back on leave, I find him a broken wreck, a peevish, wasted old
man, hardly able to help himself, and afflicted with some horrible
incurable disease which seems to be eating him up alive."

"Eating him?" repeated Cleek. "What do you mean by 'eating' him, Mr.
Bridewell? The expression is peculiar."

"Well, it exactly explains the circumstances, Mr. Cleek. If I didn't
know better, I should think it a case of leprosy. But it isn't. I've
seen cases of leprosy, and this isn't one of them. There's none of the
peculiar odour, for one thing; and, for another, it isn't contagious.
You can touch the spots without suffering doing so, although he suffers,
dear old boy, and suffers horribly. It's just living decay, Mr.
Cleek--just that. Fordyce, that's the doctor who's attending him, you
know, says that the only way he has found to check the thing is by
amputation. Already the dear old chap has lost three fingers from the
right hand by that means. Fordyce says that the hand itself will have to
go in time if they can't check the thing, and then, if that doesn't stop
it, the arm will have to go."

Cleek puckered up his brows and began to rub his thumb and forefinger up
and down his chin.

"Fordyce seems to have a pronounced penchant for amputation, Mr.
Bridewell," he said after a moment. "Competent surgeon, do you think?"

"Who--Fordyce? Lord bless you, yes! One of the 'big pots' in that line.
Harley Street specialist in his day. Fell heir to a ton of money, I
believe, and gave up practice because it was too wearing. Couldn't get
over the love of it, however, so set up a ripping little place down
here, went in for scientific work, honour and glory of the profession
and all that sort of thing, you know. God knows what would have become
of the dad if he hadn't taken up the case! might be in his grave by this
time. Fordyce has been a real friend, Mr. Cleek; I can't be grateful
enough to him for the good he has done: taking the dear old dad into his
home, so to speak, him and Aunt Ruth and--and that pair, the Cordovas."

"The Cordovas? Who are they? Friends or relatives?"

"Neither, I'm afraid. To tell the truth, they're the people I suspect,
though God knows why I should, and God forgive me if I'm wrong. They're
two West Indians, brother and sister, Mr. Cleek. Their father was mate