“Mr. John Turner,” cried the hotel waiter, opening the door of our sitting-room, and ushering in a visitor.

The man who entered was a strange and impressive figure.  His slow, limping step and bowed shoulders gave the appearance of decrepitude, and yet his hard, deep-lined, craggy features, and his enormous limbs showed that he was possessed of unusual strength of body and of character.  His tangled beard, grizzled hair, and outstanding, drooping eyebrows combined to give an air of dignity and power to his appearance, but his face was of an ashen white, while his lips and the corners of his nostrils were tinged with a shade of blue.  It was clear to me at a glance that he was in the grip of some deadly and chronic disease.

“Pray sit down on the sofa,” said Holmes gently.  “You had my note?”

“Yes, the lodge-keeper brought it up.  You said that you wished to see me here to avoid scandal.”

“I thought people would talk if I went to the Hall.”

“And why did you wish to see me?” He looked across at my companion with despair in his weary eyes, as though his question was already answered.

“Yes,” said Holmes, answering the look rather than the words.  “It is so.  I know all about McCarthy.”

The old man sank his face in his hands.  “God help me!” he cried.  “But I would not have let the young man come to harm.  I give you my word that I would have spoken out if it went against him at the Assizes.”

“I am glad to hear you say so,” said Holmes gravely.

“I would have spoken now had it not been for my dear girl.  It would break her heart—­it will break her heart when she hears that I am arrested.”

“It may not come to that,” said Holmes.

“What?”

“I am no official agent.  I understand that it was your daughter who required my presence here, and I am acting in her interests.  Young McCarthy must be got off, however.”

“I am a dying man,” said old Turner.  “I have had diabetes for years.  My doctor says it is a question whether I shall live a month.  Yet I would rather die under my own roof than in a gaol.”

Holmes rose and sat down at the table with his pen in his hand and a bundle of paper before him.  “Just tell us the truth,” he said.  “I shall jot down the facts.  You will sign it, and Watson here can witness it.  Then I could produce your confession at the last extremity to save young McCarthy.  I promise you that I shall not use it unless it is absolutely needed.”

“It’s as well,” said the old man; “it’s a question whether I shall live to the Assizes, so it matters little to me, but I should wish to spare Alice the shock.  And now I will make the thing clear to you; it has been a long time in the acting, but will not take me long to tell.

“You didn’t know this dead man, McCarthy.  He was a devil incarnate.  I tell you that.  God keep you out of the clutches of such a man as he.  His grip has been upon me these twenty years, and he has blasted my life.  I’ll tell you first how I came to be in his power.