There was a heavy step outside. The door was opened and Silas Linden, fake medium and ex-prizefighter, walked in. His small, piggy grey eyes under their shaggy brows looked round with suspicion at the three men. Then he force
d a smile and nodded to Mailey.
“Good day, Mr. Mailey. We had a good evening last night, had we not?”
“Sit down, Linden,” said Mailey, indicating a chair. “It’s about last night that I want to talk to you. You cheated us.”
Silas Linden’s heavy face flushed red with anger.
“What’s that?” he cried, sharply.
“You cheated us. You dressed up and pretended to be a spirit.”
“You are a damned liar!” cried Linden. “I did nothing of the sort.”
Mailey took the rag of linen from his pocket and spread it on his knee.
“What about that?” he asked.
“Well, what about it?”
“It was cut out of the white gown you wore. I cut it out myself as you stood in front of me. If you examine the gown you will find the place. It’s no use, Linden. The game is up. You can’t deny it.”
For a moment the man was completely taken aback. Then he burst into a stream of horrible profanity.
“What’s the game?” he cried, glaring round him. “Do you think I am easy and that you can play me for a sucker? Is it a frame-up, or what? You’ve chose the wrong man for a try-on of that sort.”
“There is no use being noisy or violent, Linden,” said Mailey quietly, “I could bring you up in the police court to-morrow. I don’t want any public scandal, for your brother’s sake. But you don’t leave this room until you have signed a paper that I have here on my desk.”
“Oh, I don’t, don’t I? Who will stop me?”
“We will.”
The three men were between him and the door.
“You will! Well, try that!” He stood before them with rage in his eyes and his great hands knotted. “Will you get out of the way?”
They did not answer, but they all three gave the fighting snarl which is perhaps the oldest of all human expressions. The next instant Linden was upon them, his fists flashing out with terrific force. Mailey, who had boxed in his youth, stopped one blow, but the next beat in his guard and he fell with a crash against the door. Lord Roxton was hurled to one side, but Malone, with a footballer’s instinct, ducked his head and caught the prizefighter round the knees. If a man is too good for you on his feet, then put him on his back, for he cannot be scientific there. Over went Linden, crashing through an armchair before he reached the ground. He staggered to one knee and got in a short jolt to the chin, but Malone had him down again and Roxton’s bony hand had closed upon his throat. Silas Linden had a yellow streak in him and he was cowed.
“Let up!” he cried. “That’s enough!”
He lay now spread-eagled upon his back. Malone and Roxton were bending over him. Mailey had gathered himself together, pale and shaken after his fall.
“I’m all right!” he cried, in answer to a feminine voice at the other side of the door. “No, not yet, dear, but we shall soon be ready for you. Now, Linden, there’s no need for you to get up, for you can talk very nicely where you are. You’ve got to sign this paper before you leave the room.”
“What is the paper?” croaked Linden, as Roxton’s grip upon his throat relaxed.
“I’ll read it to you.”
Mailey took it from the desk and read aloud.
“ ‘I, Silas Linden, hereby admit that I have acted as a rogue and a scoundrel by simulating to be a spirit, and I swear that I will never again in my life pretend to be a medium. Should I break this oath, then this signed confession may be used for my conviction in the police court.’”
“Will you sign that?”
“No, I am damned if I will!”
“Shall I give him another squeeze?” asked Lord Roxton. “Perhaps I could choke some sense into him—what!”