He needed to meet with Sir Hellsing in person, but it was impossible to reach him. It appeared that many competed for the mysterious man's attention. So Bernard tried to track down his movements, but Hellsing's appearances in public were nothing if not phantom-like. He seemed to be whisked from one edge of the map to another, as if he flew under the cover of darkness, hiding from the detective, though Bernard knew that Sir Hellsing was most certainly oblivious to his existence. It was on the occasion that Mr. Simmons had aimed to intercept Sir Hellsing on his visit to a specific lawyer, that he managed to catch his first glimpse of the man, alive and breathing – rather than the photograph of Hellsing and the composite sketches that bore his resemblance, which were kept in the detective's desk.

Sir Hellsing exuded energy in the form of a strong and well-directed purpose. His person was neat, clean, and well-arranged. Hard black boots struck firmly against the cobblestones, and the man's red trench coat carried his motion into the carriage as he was leaving while Bernard looked after him, leaning against the bars of the fence enclosing the lawyer's business. Dark eyes were locked onto the fleeting form, the blonde hair, reddish – not perfectly gold – the strong features, broad shoulders and superior height, and he saw that the man's eyes were light, though Hellsing had not looked in his direction. Bernard brooded over this meeting, and he yearned to be able to approach the man, to speak with him. Perhaps to condemn him… The aura of authority he carried, which had reached Bernard over a distance of several yards, professed the man's power of intimidation, which he harbored and could release at any given time… At least, it was what the detective had perceived with his bias view.

"Like a child…" Bernard muttered to himself, seeing the man in his mind. He shook his head; doubt pinched his brow as he frowned. In no way could he see how Sir Hellsing might resemble anything so vulnerable or innocent – the daunting figure in crimson – much more in the semblance of the devil – he thought. The devil.

Though he had had no intention of contacting Dr. Seward again after their last meeting, Bernard resorted to the doctor's aid once more when scraping together a meeting with Hellsing proved to be impossible. Dr. Seward was polite, as if he had no grudge to bear against the detective who had insulted him, and prepared, with aggravating ease, a chance for Mr. Simmons to speak with Sir Hellsing. Dr. Seward presented the numbed detective with one of two tickets that were in his possession and told Bernard to arrive at the theatre house at the appointed time – a little early, as Dr. Seward was planning to arrive at this time himself. No words can express the fury this gave the detective, who now knew that Hellsing would indulge in entertainment rather than heed his requests for a moment (only a moment!) of his time.

The ticket rested in his pocket when Bernard ascended the steps of the theatre house, his cane resting in the crook of his arm and a stony mask composing his features. The crowds of people irritated his nerves, the stupid resentment of their being able to see Van Hellsing without investing the time and effort Bernard had spent – it, and everything around him, made Bernard bitter.

What's more, Dr. Seward was nowhere to be found. Bernard had arrived at St. James's Theatre an hour before the play was scheduled to begin, as had been the plan, but Seward did not arrive until minutes before the doors were to be shut. The detective said nothing and permitted the doctor to apologize.

"I was caught up – I'm sorry for the inconvenience, Detective. But I could not get around it. There was an unfortunate incident this morning – I hope you can excuse me for making you wait."

The stone lips parted to speak. "Under these circumstances, where do I have room to complain, Doctor? I'm relying on you; my convenience is of no concern." There was a huff that could not be controlled, and a lip jerked up into an unpleasant sneer. "You have your priorities, as Sir Hellsing seems to have his own. I have little standing in the matter." Both of you seem to be above me.

Dr. Seward regarded the detective as they entered the theater. His eyes fell upon nothing as they hardened. "I cannot predict the behavior of my patients, Detective. I had to deal with a man who tried to hang himself in his room this morning."

Bernard instantly regretted his rudeness; his body grew hot as blood rushed to his face. He swallowed and nearly tripped over his own feet, as if he could not escape his fate, destined to act as the eternal fool. "How was he able to have access to the rope necessary-?" He coughed as the stupid question was interrupted – horrified by his own temerity, which he dubbed 'idiocy' for the time being.

"This man had refused to allow his hair to be trimmed for many years. His daughter had eloped with a man of bad character and fled to France, after which the man refused to marry her and instead persuaded the simple child, who was convinced that she was deeply in love – a pitiable romantic - to become his mistress instead. The shock killed the wife, who had been ill at the time. Then, news was received that the daughter had died. Details were uncovered, revealing that the girl had resorted to prostitution after the man abandoned her. The details speak for themselves. This is more than enough to break an old man. …So," he continued, "with nothing in their power allowing them to take care of their father, the sons – grown and responsible for their own wives and children - sent the distraught man to a series of specialists, and eventually I received him. This morning he decided that his hair had grown enough. He pulled it out himself, possibly plucking a few strands at a time through the course of the night while he feigned sleep – men said to be without reason exhibit a remarkable reservoir of ingenuity and patience when they are desperate – he twisted the hair into a rope, tied it in the proper fashion, and was barely swinging when one of my assistants noticed what he had done and cut him down."

Bernard's blood had now withdrawn, and instead of red-faced and stumbling, when he sat in his seat he was pale, cold, and his motions were brittle. A chill had entered his bones, brought about by the calm account – the professional description of such tragedies and horrors. He had heard others pronounce such stories in a similar manner, but not with the insights of curiosity, of interest, as if the characters were creatures instead of men.

If he could not understand what kind of man Dr. Seward was, how could he hope to understand the crimson clad enigma?

Dr. Seward took his seat, his eyes facing the stage. Voices clattered against the high ceiling above them. "He's quite alright now. No more harm should come of him tonight… And so, that is why I was late, and I ask you to forgive me for having been distracted."

"Yes… Yes, forgive my rudeness." The detective mumbled; he was silent. Then, Bernard stiffened - a man stricken by a blow to the heart, he was run through by reality as the present shattered all distractions. All heat became ice, sharp as fear - his blood froze when he realized Dr. Seward had been greeted and asked to relate the finished story to the gentleman sitting beside him.

Creaking forward with his stiffened muscles breaking off bits of ice, Bernard peered across the engaged doctor and found Van Hellsing seated casually, though with an expression made serious by Dr. Seward's tale- but- regardless, there he was…within arm's reach. …The man who had eluded him for so long, and yet had consumed so many of his waking thoughts. Bernard could only allow his eyes to gape as he remained dumb and frozen in place, as the scene took on a momentary dream-like quality, the daze that follows the sudden conclusion of a goal reached without the proper climb, the breaching of the summit, which prepares the individual for the full impact of a well-earned achievement. There was no glorified triumph.

Quietly watching the man within this state of shock, Bernard allowed his lips to remain parted in dumbfounded surprise while Hellsing continued to be ignorant of his existence. But the cobalt eyes, almost supernaturally colored, drifted towards the detective once Seward had looked to the stage, as the lights dimmed down to darkness, and the faces of the men were hidden.

The play commenced, and silence was given.

Bernard's empty stare rested on the stage, limp and without feeling - which caused it to be oblivious of the colors, the costumes and voices, the perfectly and passionately delivered lines conceived by Oscar Wilde. Yes, he thought, grim and chilled, his skin rough and his hands, which held onto the hat in his lap, were damp and clammy. Those could indeed be the eyes of a murderer. They reach straight into the depths of your soul. They could tear the life from a body - effortlessly… That man possessed the eyes of a soldier…he might have…observed…and dealt mortal blows... …He could be a murderer…

Bernard would have to know more before he could decide whether the man possessed the necessary evil or madness that could make him the perpetrator of those terrible crimes. If he could be the last image witnessed by those glass eyes…

*~*~::..+..::~*~*

I am not the stronger man. But I am a good man. And, should he prove to be evil, good shall triumph - as ought to be the case.

During intermission they had stepped outside, in accordance to Dr. Seward's advice. They were within a faint patch of light as darkness crowded around them. The social creatures, which the men could not see, could be heard near the entrance of the theater house and in the streets, but secluded by walls of lifeless bricks and with unclean pavement beneath their polished shoes, the three men stood alone in isolation. Dr. Seward allowed some distance to separate himself from Van Hellsing and the detective. He permitted his eyes to revisit Hellsing's back, and at other times observed Bernard's face as the detective held his mask of stone in place to give himself the confidence to stand up to a possible evil – a strength which his nature lacked.

As a man, a human, death and evil made Bernard cower, and yet, they also made him rebel to reject their verdicts and unjust punishments. But Van Hellsing's eyes weighed down upon him as his superior figure inspired the instinct of flight far more strongly than any motivation to oppose Hellsing.

Detective Bernard F. Simmons swallowed, and yet could not find his voice. Sir Hellsing was the first to speak. And his voice was jarringly gentle, though deep and full of authority. The nature was disharmonious with the appearance of the man, who Bernard, despite the descriptions he had collected, expected to find a tyrant - a man cold and malicious, full of arrogance and disregard for his fellow human beings. But Sir Hellsing was all patience and kindness, though he did not wear these traits as easily as the doctor did upon his face.

"I apologize for the trouble you have had to go through in order to reach me. However, it is a pleasure to have made your acquaintance, and I hope that we can resolve what troubles you."

"You know why I wanted to speak with you?"

Van Hellsing responded with a calm affirmative, and it was apparent, when Bernard glanced at the doctor who stood on the outskirts of darkness, that Dr. Seward had been communicating with Sir Hellsing. Bernard did not approve, shown by his frown, though he was not surprised. It was just not to his preference. Van Hellsing had possessed plenty of time to prepare for this meeting. Maybe, it had even been planned to occur tonight… Who had been the first to know that they would meet at this theatre? The doctor…or had Hellsing purchased the tickets? It did not seem to be the kind of play that would interest these men…

Bernard took a breath. He visualized the pages of scribbles, how he had planned to accuse the man – or interrogate him… But his nerves…merely the sight of Van Hellsing set them quivering, his heart thudding, dizziness spinning. But he held his breath and then mastered his lungs, manually filling and emptying them – Bernard took control of his body.

First he would ask Sir Hellsing to reveal his whereabouts during the dates and hours the murders, or kidnappings, had taken place. Why would he have been in the vicinity, given that these areas were not appropriate for a man of his status? Sir Hellsing could produce an excuse, a woman or some miscellaneous favor, drinking - any sin - and this could be a lie or the truth which would place him at the scene of the crime for one, two, perhaps all of the disappearances. Or he could flatly deny the accusation, which could be a lie… Bernard was certain any denial would be a lie. Hellsing might claim it was another person, a regular doppelganger – but certainly, it would have to be a lie on his part.

Then he would ask about the gun with the engraving… Hellsing might make a denial similar to Seward's initial reaction. Or he might…possibly… (Bernard was still unsure what to make of his last visit to the doctor.) In order to explain Dr. Seward's gun…Hellsing might claim that it was his business to produce ornamental guns. He might have been selling them at those times...thus explaining his appearance near the scenes… But why the secrecy? Was he not supposed to use his material – the silver - for this purpose?

Bernard would have to see what direction the interrogation took. But the six lives… The detective was determined; he would confront this man tonight about the kidnappings, the possible murders…and he would uncover the secrets which had been plaguing him. He would find the men and women, or he would save them, if any – those who had not been uncovered at all…whose heads had not been found… Those who still breathed, he would save. He would find out if…if this man…could have possibly…in his lab… He would determine if Hellsing was a monster.

"Sir Hellsing," Bernard began, his voice hard and detached from his uncertain nature, addressing Van Hellsing without feeling fear or intimidation. His thoughts had hardened him, and made his expression colder than the stone mask he had worn but now had no need to wear. He looked directly into the cobalt eyes, a resolute pillar of justice. This was the crack of the anvil calling for silence, so that he may begin, so that he may be heard, and so that the truth might be revealed. "I have several eye-witnesses placing you near the sites of several disappearances, and, in one case, you were seen in the vicinity by a reputable fellow just an hour after midnight, and a quarter of an hour before this man uncovered a-" Bernard was incapable of saying this lightly, to speak of the vision that haunted him, "…a severed head."

Dr. Seward's jaw tightened in the background, and his body took on the qualities of petrified wood as he watched the detective. His eyes shifted to Van Hellsing, but found the man unchanged.

Hellsing's face was that of a man whose attention has been claimed, who is listening to the rebuttal against his argument or to a philosophy he had not before conceived plausible, but which had now gained legitimacy in his eyes. It was interest in something that concerned himself, but which also concerned something more than himself. The man was silent, and the detective was allowed to continue.

"Can you explain why you might have been in the area at the time, Sir Hellsing? Business or pleasure… Or has some mistake been made? This is your chance to make matters clear." There was nothing reserved or respectful in the way Bernard spoke, his tone was callous and pessimistic, but he was unconscious of this. At this moment, he himself did not exist, only the matter that had consumed his life. He watched Hellsing as if the crimson man had no power in the world, and as if he himself would be able to see past any lie the man tried to weave. Hellsing was a criminal in his eyes. Nothing more. The greatness, the intimidation, all of that was gone.

"You want an explanation?"

"Yes Sir. That is what I have asked you to give me. Are you capable of providing one?"

Van Hellsing looked at the man, and he understood him. Bernard believed that he was speaking to a liar, although Hellsing was not the kind of man who would do such a thing unless he felt that it was justified. But to lie to a man like Mr. Simmons, who was only goodness in this case... There was no such justification to be made. "I do have an explanation."

"So you are admitting that you were there?" A fragment of the resolve that had encased Bernard flaked away from his protective shell. A fissure had raced up from the base of his frame.

So is this arrogance? Or will it amount to only partial truth?

Bernard was struggling, because he could not see the evil he longed to find in the crimson man.

Sir Hellsing continued, speaking as though the conversation were serious simply because it was interesting. It did not appear as if he were defending himself against anything at all. "I was there on business, perhaps. I do not know what locations you are referring to, but I am aware of some crimes and a percentage of the disappearances that are reported here in London. Where exactly have I been spotted?"

More of the shell began to crumble as Bernard gave Sir Hellsing the names of the streets, presenting the names of households in some cases.

"I have heard, or recall hearing something of what you have mentioned. The woman who had been beheaded, I recall her case specifically."

"Do you mean to say that you met these people?"

Sir Hellsing's expression revealed nothing as he stated, "I read the newspaper regularly. It is partly my business to track the crime in the cities, Detective- …Is Bernard Simmons your given name-?"

"Yes."

They were quiet. Hellsing did not offer to inflate his paltry explanation, so Bernard tried to recall what had been admitted so far. "What would have required you to be in these parts at such a late hour, Sir Hellsing? I have been unable to understand what it is you do. Dr. Seward has said that you are a scientist, possibly, that you do research…" Bernard's sentence died as he saw the spark of amusement in Van Hellsing's gaze, a smile lifting the corner of Hellsing's lips. It disturbed the detective as it suggested that he had been wrong, that the intellectuals – these men – were playing with him, but it also disturbed him because it was not malicious. It was not evil. There was no obvious evil in Hellsing. But there must be – somewhere!

A growl of pure frustration made Bernard harsh as he suddenly demanded – knocking the humor from Hellsing's eyes, "What is it you do, Sir Hellsing? Can you explain to me what your business was on the nights these people disappeared and Emma Brown was murdered?"

"I cannot tell you, Detective- Forgive me, but my business is not for you to know. I can tell you that I do not murder or abduct men and women. …This cannot make your job any easier, and that is unfortunate. But as these things are…I cannot give you an explanation, though I would like to help you with your investigation. You only have noble intentions, and I do not mean to look down upon them or disrespect them."

The hardened resolve drained as it slowly rotted away, decomposing within the detective who could not determine what it was he now felt or believed. All he could think to do was assault the man with more evidence. A tremor had entered his frame, and he knew it and fought against the perpetual weakness. "A gun bearing your name was found near the bloody traces of what we expect- of what I expect is another victim, Sir Hellsing." Bernard spoke as if he could not breathe.

Sir Hellsing's face, at this moment, mirrored the unforgivable pity Dr. Seward had shown the detective when this evidence had been brought up in the madhouse. Bernard's heart rate escalated - he became flushed and his brow dewed with perspiration.

Dr. Seward observed these changes, as did Sir Hellsing – who was less concerned by them.

"Why do you fit these guns with silver bullets? Do you think that can make them harmless? Take the meaning and purpose of a bullet – to strip it of its- of its purpose as a weapon?" The detective was beside himself, but Hellsing chose to ignore these signs. He let the wild stammering compose a riot of accusations within the semi-darkness. "What can- What are they for? Why the silver bullets? You make them- they must have come from you Sir Hellsing! The silver- the shipments- crate after crate of steel-! And the chemicals-!" A shrill note came from the detective. "What is it you do with them, Sir Hellsing? You kidnap them?" Bernard demanded to know, seeing the victims, the bloodstains and sticky clothes plastered with gore. These human lives! Taken away! "For what purpose? Are they your specimens? Human beings-! Is that your research? Do you use men and women- Do you experiment on them? Locking them away in your lab, like a dungeon-! Your property is guarded! Guarded like it was Buckingham Palace, for Christ's sake! All of this-! The shipments- the people, and supplies, and food, and-! But why the silver bullets? I don't understand! These- these bullets! Why these silver bullets? Why, Hellsing? What are they?" Bernard gasped for breath, his face crimson with his throbbing emotions and dampened by rolling beads of perspiration as his chest heaved, in and out. He felt the film of sweat above his upper lip and wiped it away with his sleeve – faint, disoriented…the shame came crashing down upon him, wave after wave, mounting – the tsunami triggered by his eruption, when the earth had shook beneath his passion. With a violent crack, he stamped his heal into the pavement and turned away to hide himself in the shadows, to hide his self-loathing, his despair and his all-consuming frustration.

He was filled with rage – it was why he had lost control. He paced and pulled on the back of his hair, not to harm himself, but the action seemed to ease his anxiety, to allow him to breathe and to compose himself. He paced and tried to forget the men who watched him. A handkerchief dabbed at his brow and fanned him awkwardly, weakly…pathetically. Bernard stumbled, and here he finally stopped, amazed to find that he had almost trampled his hat which he found lying on the pavement – the pavement which had managed to avoid soap and water for years as if it were escaping the plague.

Bernard had not realized it had fallen from his head. Now his cane- Where was his cane? It was on the pavement - this filthy pavement! - in Hellsing's direction. Had he thrown it? Dear Lord! What had come over him? How could he have done this and not realized it? He had not been himself! Somehow, he blamed Hellsing for all this – but he did not do so without strong feelings of shame.

Dr. Seward was speaking, but the detective would not meet his eye. "You are overtired, Sir. I think you should return home, or that we should spend the rest of the intermission in the company of others. I am sure that you would feel more comfortable. We can speak again when you have recovered – perhaps on a day when you have had more sleep."

'Sir'… the detective's head was bowed. Am I reduced to acting like a madman, now? To have him address me as if I were his patient! –as he seems like the kind of man who would call a raving loon, 'Sir' or 'Madam'. But I am not mad- I am sane. I am sane, and I am right. –He glared in Hellsing's direction, not allowing his eyes to touch the man directly before they were cast away to wallow in feelings of shame.

Bernard was granted ample time to compose himself and then voice his answer. The man could not bring himself to retrieve his cane. He could not go near Sir Hellsing. But Van Hellsing did not allow Bernard to indulge in his desire to avoid him. With what appeared to be a proposal for peace, Van Hellsing took a step towards the cane, bent and picked it up before going to the detective and returning it to him. It hovered over the pavement for several moments as Bernard was hesitant to take it. The damage could be seen in the dim light, and once inside, Bernard knew that he would be able to see the numerous dents and scratches his cane had sustained.

Without speaking, the cane was accepted, but not as an olive branch, for the detective promptly stepped away in as cold a manner as possible just to make this clear. Bernard tried to control his breathing before he proceeded to speak in a calm voice, one that tried to obscure his lingering distress, "I would like to speak with you again after the play is finished, Sir Hellsing. Or, are you going to tell me that you do not have time for that? You have nothing more to say to me?"

"I will speak with you after the play if that is what you wish, Detective."

Calm, composed, patience and kindness… Where is the evil in this man? Where is it!

In silence they returned to the theatre house and took their seats. The play soon resumed, and again Bernard did not watch a single moment of it. The sheet had been lifted, and his eyes bore the images of other things.

However, the indecision of Lady Windermere, whom the play revolved around, as she desperately sought to understand if she had made the right choice by leaving her unfaithful husband – spoke to Bernard. It made his stomach churn as the anxiety contained in a matter in no way related to his own situation, was able to exhibit some of the turmoil the detective had experienced all his life, over the simplest and most difficult of problems. Bernard meant to look away, not to listen, to close himself to protect his fragile state. But the emotions played upon his own, and they directed the tides and currents of his thoughts and moods.

After the play, Dr. Seward had to depart – his time for pleasure had expired, as he deftly put it. Bernard was left alone with the man he suspected of murder, of harboring the devil – his nerves trembled and he could not help but fidget. Afraid, demoralized, ashamed, but also frustrated…it was the frustration, the hope that hard work is ultimately rewarded, which kept Bernard from leaving, from throwing up his hands in despair and weeping tears of bitterness.

Sir Hellsing continued to show only goodness, but the detective was uncomfortable when the man proposed that they take a late-night drive so that they could continue their 'discussion' in his coach. Hellsing knew the driver to be a man who could hold his tongue – apparently – or that it wouldn't matter if the man heard their discussion or chose not to listen.

Not in a state to disagree or come up with a better alternative – the thought of returning to the site of his shameful performance, or another similar to it, caused Bernard to shudder – he followed Sir Hellsing into the coach and sat across from him. Leather creaked with awkwardness. The battered cane lay across his knees, and Bernard was only too conscious of its appearance. Sir Hellsing glanced at it, but said nothing. Then the coach pulled away from the theatre and the clopping of hooves sounded outside.

Again Van Hellsing was the first to speak.

"I have already told you that I have not committed the crimes the police are investigating."

Bernard chose not to respond, he kept his gaze directed away from Hellsing. Nothing was said, but blue took in the form of the fatigued detective, remaining to examine the ringed eyes, the lined mouth. Van Hellsing pitied the man – he felt responsible for his pain. He liked Bernard, in some way, and respected his intentions and even his character – the faults it contained were irrelevant to the whole. He was a good man with a good heart, and selfless to a degree others only speak of becoming. It hurt Hellsing that this man perceived him as an evil figure.

"Do you think I am a man who would be capable of the things you described, Detective? …You believe that I would take human lives for my own selfish purposes?" Bernard had no reaction for Hellsing to observe, and as he refused to look at Hellsing, Bernard did not see the quiet emotion that showed in the blue eyes as they watched him.

Hellsing could not tell the man to let go of the cases that haunted him.

"Would you like to ask me any more questions, Detective? I have the time to give you what I can."

Bernard began to turn his cane, rolling it as if it were an unfurled newspaper. "Dr. Seward," his voice was quiet, but loud enough to be heard clearly, "told me that I would have my answers if I understood the meaning of the silver bullets."

Dark eyes shifted to Hellsing when he was silent, and found the man looking out the window thoughtfully. In his lap, Hellsing's hands were working, as if molding a clay form. When his head turned to Bernard again, the dark eyes darted away, finding the cane that began to be rolled meticulously, as if it needed to be thinner.

"You think the bullets are purely ornamental?"

The cane stopped and then gradually continued its rotation. Bernard swallowed and bit his lip as he took a breath to ease himself. "They are not just for appearances?"

"No. The guns that fire them work the same as any other gun might."

"…And you are the one who makes them?"

"Not myself personally, but I have a part in their production and distribution."

"…And they are simply normal guns? There is no reason that they use silver bullets?"

Van Hellsing would not answer, though Bernard looked to him expectantly. His apologetic expression told Bernard that he had entered a topic related to the man's 'business'. "Why did you give one of these guns to Dr. Seward?"

"So that he might protect himself."

Startled, Bernard frowned. "From whom?" Dark eyes were raised again and met with the cobalt gaze. "Is someone threatening Dr. Seward? Does he have many enemies?"

"No. I had no one in particular in mind when I gave it to him. He already owned another, and this gun would only improve his security."

"What would a doctor need with a gun? Would you seriously consider…that he is capable of shooting a man? Is it to protect himself from his patients?" Bernard recalled the sympathy with which Dr. Seward seemed to accept that his insane tenants were not responsible for their actions. He believed that they were innocent. Then…if he could not blame them… Could he kill them, despite this?

"No, John would not…" Van Hellsing paused, reconsidering what he had said. A strange and saddened smile altered his features, and for the time he seemed to look through Bernard. He saw other things. "No, John would be capable of killing in order to protect himself and his staff, or others, given the situation. He could shoot a man."

"Do you suggest that he has killed?"

Hellsing looked at Bernard sharply, seeing the detective again, and frowning at the question. "No. Now do you suspect him of murder as well, Detective? Can anyone become a suspect for you? John has done nothing."

"-While you have done something."

At this Van Hellsing became cold, though not hostile. Blue eyes were narrowed and searched the stone mask that had been placed over Bernard once again. The man has convinced himself that I'm the devil, and so he takes John to be the devil's helper.

Mr. Simmons excused himself and requested that the coachman stop. He then left Sir Hellsing, who had not made an effort to dissuade him from leaving, and stalked off into the night. Van Hellsing sat in silence long after the detective had disappeared, brooding for a time. Finally, he asked to be taken back to the Hellsing estate where memories of Bernard troubled him before he retired for the night.