Sanderson, for eighteen
months. Number Three is simply a blackmailer, as I have suspected.'
'Quite so, sir,' replied Sanderson, taking a newspaper from his
pocket. 'I read in this paper an account of a man immured in a Spanish
dungeon. His friends arranged it with the officials in this way: The
prisoner was certified to have died, and his body was turned over to
his relatives. Now, if that could be done in America, it would serve
two purposes. It would be the easiest way to get my young master out
of the jail. It would remain a matter of record that he had died,
therefore there could be no search for him, as would be the case if he
simply escaped. If you were so good as to undertake this task you
might perhaps see my young master in his cell, and ask him to write to
this Number Three with whom he is in constant communication, telling
him he was very ill. Then you could arrange with the prison doctor
that this person was informed of my young master's death.'
'Very well, we can try that, but a blackmailer is not so easily thrown
off the scent. Once he has tasted blood he is a human man-eating
tiger. But still, there is always my private dungeon in the
background, and if your plan for silencing him fails, I guarantee that
my more drastic and equally illegal method will be a success.
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