’Dr. Bream sees visitors himself from ten to twelve, sir, after he’s been his rounds to the patients’ rooms.  You’ll have to get permission from him.’

‘But it’s like a prison!’ exclaimed Mr. Bamberger.

‘Yes, sir,’ answered the old soldier imperturbably.  ’It’s just like a prison.  It’s meant to be.’

It was evidently impossible to get anything more out of the man, who did not pay the slightest attention to the cheerful little noise Mr. Bamberger made by jingling sovereigns in his waistcoat pocket; there was nothing to do but to go away, and Mr. Bamberger went out very much annoyed and perplexed.

He knew Van Torp well, or believed that he did, and it was like the man whose genius had created the Nickel Trust to have boldly sequestrated his enemy’s chief instrument, and in such a clever way as to make it probable that Mr. Feist might be kept in confinement as long as his captor chose.  Doubtless such a high-handed act would ultimately go against the latter when on his trial, but in the meantime the chief witness was locked up and could not get out.  Sir Jasper Threlfall would state that his patient was in such a state of health, owing to the abuse of alcohol, that it was not safe to set him at liberty, and that in his present condition his mind was so unsettled by drink that he could not be regarded as a sane witness; and if Sir Jasper Threlfall said that, it would not be easy to get Charles Feist out of Dr. Bream’s establishment in less than three months.

Mr. Bamberger was obliged to admit that his partner, chief, and enemy had stolen a clever march on him.  Being of a practical turn of mind, however, and not hampered by much faith in mankind, even in the most eminent, who write the mysterious capital letters after their names, he wondered to what extent Van Torp owned Sir Jasper, and he went to see him on pretence of asking advice about his liver.

The great man gave him two guineas’ worth of thumping, auscultating, and poking in the ribs, and told him rather disagreeably that he was as healthy as a young crocodile, and had a somewhat similar constitution.  A partner of Mr. Van Torp, the American financier?  Indeed!  Sir Jasper had heard the name but had never seen the millionaire, and asked politely whether he sometimes came to England.  It is not untruthful to ask a question to which one knows the answer.  Mr. Bamberger himself, for instance, who knew that he was perfectly well, was just going to put down two guineas for having been told so, in answer to a question.

‘I believe you are treating Mr. Feist,’ he said, going more directly to the point.

‘Mr. Feist?’ repeated the great authority vaguely.

’Yes.  Mr. Charles Feist.  He’s at Dr. Bream’s private hospital in West Kensington.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Sir Jasper.  ’Dr. Bream is treating him.  He’s not a patient of mine.’

‘I thought I’d ask you what his chances are,’ observed Isidore Bamberger, fixing his sharp eyes on the famous doctor’s face.  ’He used to be my private secretary.’