The Ringer by Edgar Wallace

THE return of John Lenley was the most supremely embarrassing thing that had ever happened within Maurice Meister's recollection. If he had resented the attitude of the young man before, he hated him now. The menace in his words, the covert threat behind his reference to Gwenda Milton, were maddening enough, but now there was another factor operating at a moment when it seemed that all his dreams were to be realised, and Mary Lenley, like a ripe plum, was ready to fall into his hands; when even the fear of The Ringer had evaporated in some degree, there must enter upon the scene this young man whom he thought he would not see again for years.

Prison had soured and aged him. He had gone away a weakling, come back a brooding, vicious man, who would stop at nothing--if he knew. There was nothing to know yet. Meister showed his teeth in a smile. Not yet.