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Arthur returned with his case of knives. He saw his brother would be worse than useless about him in the task he had in hand.

Personally, he had no more compunction about dismembering his fellow-men than a butcher had in disjointing a calf—it was his business.

"Drink this, Charley"—he had poured out some brandy and handed it to his brother. "And now put on your hat and go out; take a cab down to Goffs. Buy two large portmanteaus—second hand—not less than a yard long. Put them on a cab, and come back here with them. Rap three times on the door—don't forget, three times—then I shall know it is you. While you are away I will do what is necessary."

He did. Before his brother returned, there were five small parcels and one larger one—the contents may be guessed—done up in newspaper.

Not a trace of blood or otherwise of his handiwork was visible. He had been an attentive student, and profited by it now. In class he had been marked "clean."

Three raps at the door. He opened it, and the dentist entered with the portmanteaus.

"Put them down, laddie, and while I pack, you clear out. See here, those bags in the cloak room at the station had better be fetched away; there is no knowing what is in them. If they are not large, get a porter to bring them by hand; if too big, put them on a cab and bring them that way. Here are the cloak room tickets."

And while his brother was away he packed the two portmanteaus with the American, and carefully locked and strapped them.

The keys he tied together with a piece of twine, and put into his pocket. Not that they were of use—the locks were never to be turned again.

He helped his brother in with the two bags from the cloak room. They carefully went through the contents, opening the locks with the keys they had found in the dead man's trousers pocket.

The bags were full of clothing, hosiery, and general wearing apparel; not a scrap of paper or article of any other kind.

"Charley," said the surgeon, "chirp up, old man. There is nothing to fear. Before I am far away on the trip to America you may be sure that every trace of a clue to the contents of those portmanteaus will be lying at the bottom of the sea. A dark night, an open port, and there will be an end of the matter. This passage ticket is, I see, for a two berthed cabin—that makes it easier."

"I fear——"

"I know you do, old man—early and provident fear is the mother of safety. But there is nothing to fear. Murder will out, that we see day by day. But it is not as if we had murdered the man. We have not that crime on our consciences. Keep cool, and all will be well.

"I shall—must—land in America. I shall clear from the boat, one of the first. There I shall get another outfit, and come back in the next boat in another name. I shall go out, of course, as George Depew."

"I cannot get rid of the fear——"

"No, Charley, I know you cannot. But there is nothing to fear. Think what the money means to you, to us both. To you more than to me. You have a wife and little Edith to think of. Think what the money means, the happiness it will bring to mother and child—to them both."

"I know—I know."

"After all, I am doing whatever is being done, Charley. You conscientious old beggar you, just wipe the thing out of your mind. Let it be a leaf in the book of the past. Paste it down. Don't look at it, don't think of it. Only think of the future—the brightness of a future from which the clouds have rolled away, and which a few hours ago did not seem to have a piece of blue sky in it."

"Yes—yes."

"The boat starts from Liverpool, calls only at Queenstown, and then steams away across to the States. Why, given ordinary traveling—I shall not be away more than a fortnight, Charley, and when I come back I shall expect you to have cashed all those notes—and turned them into something less traceable."

"How had I better do that? Go to the bank?"

"M'no. I don't think I can trust you to do that, Charley. You would present those notes with such a white face and trembling hand that the most unsophisticated bank clerk breathing would think there was something fishy."

"What shall I do, then?"

"M'well. … I have it! There are two rooms empty above these?"

"Yes."

"Take them to-morrow. Take them in the name of Jones, Brown, Robinson—any name. Get a list of the brokers on the stock exchange, and buy from separate men nine hundred pounds' worth of stock. Good stock—no risk. Railway shares and that sort of thing. Pay each of the brokers with a thousand pound note; you will want the change out of it for working with. Worse come to the worst, if the shares have to be sold, there will only be the loss of a few pounds."

"I will do that."

"And now get along home, Charley, or you will have your little woman worrying about you. Don't, for heaven's sake, breathe a solitary syllable which will give the faintest clue to what has happened. Your wife is a smart little woman—don't give her too much money at first. Just a pound or two more for housekeeping expenses. Let her think your practice is gradually getting better day by day. And now shake hands. Good-bye."

"But you——"

"Oh! I stop here to-night."

"With those——"

"Yes. I don't let them leave my possession till I drop the contents in the sea. I take no unnecessary risks."

"But—you—can—sleep——"

"Certainly! soundly. Why not? There might be some reason to fear a live man, but a dead one—bah!"

"I will come up early, and see you off."

"You will do nothing of the sort. Don't do anything a wee bit out of the ordinary course of things. I shall go out for half an hour presently, taking the key of the door with me, get something to eat, buy some collars, shirts, and a few necessary things for the journey, and then sleep in your operating chair."

"The chair he died in!"

"Dear boy, what of that? There, get along. Good-bye."

He literally pushed his brother from the rooms, and closed the door. Afterwards he did as he had said he would do.

In early morning a cab took the four portmanteaus to Euston Station, and he caught the train for Liverpool.

There he had two of the portmanteaus labeled "For Cabin Use!" the others, bags of clothing, were shot into the hold.

He found that the occupant of the other berth, his cabin companion for the voyage, had already turned in—presumably to get as much sleep as possible before the voyage began—and was breathing heavily, the breath of sleep.

A short time after he had got on board the vessel started. He determined not to leave the cabin, or sight of his portmanteaus, till he had thrown them or their contents into the deep waters.

That he would do when they were fairly out to sea. Then he would pick safer—quite safe.

The vessel steamed on for her one and only stopping—Queenstown, to pick up the mails.