The Black Sorcerer

"I am off to America on Friday next."

"What! off to America?"

"Yes; I'm not joking."

"Are you really serious? Fancy, going to America this time of the year, at the end of November! It must be very important business which takes you there! Can't you send some one else? You know Clara won't consider her firstborn properly baptized if you don't stand godfather to him. That ceremony is to take place next Sunday."

"Unfortunately it is important business-very important business-that only I can undertake. I am awfully sorry to disappoint your wife, but I must go."

This conversation took place in Monk's sitting-room. It was my usual habit, on leaving my office at seven o'clock, to go up to Monk's rooms and have a chat with him, and sometimes persuade him to come home with me.

I ought perhaps here to inform my readers that, some years before this story begins, I had returned to my native country after having spent several years abroad, where I had made a small competency as an engineer. When I again saw Monk, the friend of my boyhood, I found he had, strange to say, adopted the profession of private detective. As far as I could understand, he carried on this business just as much out of love for his work as for a means of earning his living, and had already won himself a reputation by his shrewdness, honesty, and disinterestedness.

Monk's sudden announcement took my breath away; he had never for a moment said a word about going to America before.

"Is it a new case you have on hand?" I asked.

"No; it is not a new case."

I looked doubtingly at him; this was not the Monk I was accustomed to see standing quietly before me with the handsome, open countenance, and the intelligent grey eyes looking fearlessly into mine.

He was now pacing restlessly up and down the floor. All at once he stopped in front of me.

"Can you stay with me this evening?"