As soon as the fresh air had revived us somewhat, we first of all
examined Ariadne. She still lay unconscious, very pale, and alarmingly
limp. I picked her up and carried her into the next room, where
there was a sofa, while Jerome went for water and Charlotte brought
smelling-salts.
Neither of these had any effect. Ariadne seemed to be scarcely
breathing; her heart beat only faintly, and there was no response to
such other methods as friction, slapping, or pinching of fingernails.
“We had better call a doctor,” decided Charlotte promptly, and went to
the phone.
I picked up the card which the Rhamda had left. It contained simply his
name, together with one other word--the name of a morning newspaper.
Evidently he meant for us to insert an advertisement as soon as we were
ready to capitulate.
“Not yet!” the three of us decided, after talking it over. And we waited
as patiently as we could during the fifteen minutes that elapsed before
the telephoning got results.
It brought Dr. Hansen, who, it may be remembered, was closely identified
with the Chick Watson disappearance. He made a rapid but very careful
examination.
“It has all the appearance of a mild electric shock. What caused it,
Fenton?”
I told him. His eyes narrowed when I mentioned Avec, then widened in
astonishment and incredulity as I related the man's inexplicable effect
upon the girl, and his strange immunity to the poison gas. But the
doctor asked nothing further about our situation, proceeding at once to
apply several restoratives. All were without result. As a final resort,
he even rigged up an electrical connection, making use of some coils
which I had upstairs, and endeavoured to arouse the girl in that
fashion. Still without result.
“Good Lord, Hansen!” I finally burst out, when he stood back, apparently
baffled. “She's simply GOT to be revived! We can't allow her to succumb
to that scoundrel's power, whatever it is!”
“Why not a blood transfusion?” I asked eagerly, as an idea came to me.
“I'm in perfect condition. What about it? Go to it, doc!”
He slowly shook his head. And beyond a single searching glance into
my eyes, wherein he must have read something more than I had said, he
regretfully replied:
“This is a case for a specialist, Fenton. Everything considered, I
should say that she is suffering from a purely mental condition; but
whether it had a physical or a psychic origin, I can't say.”
In short, he did not feel safe about going ahead with any really heroic
measures until a brain specialist was called in.
I had a good deal of confidence in Hansen. And what he said sounded
reasonable. So we agreed to his calling in a Dr. Higgins--the same man,
in fact, who was too late in reaching the house to save Chick on that
memorable night a year before.
His examination was swift and convincingly competent. He went over the
same ground that Hansen had covered, took the blood pressure and other
instrumental data, and asked us several questions regarding Ariadne's
mentality as we knew it. Scarcely stopping to think it over, Higgins
decided:
“The young woman is suffering from a temporary dissociation of brain
centres. Her cerebrum does not co-act with her cerebellum. In other
words, her conscious mind, for lack of means to express itself, is for
the time being dormant as in sleep.
“But it is not like ordinary sleep. Such is induced by fatigue of the
nerve channels. This young woman's condition is produced by shock; and
since there was no physical violence, we must conclude that the shock
was psychic.
“In that case, the condition will last until one of two things occurs;
either she must be similarly shocked back into sensibility--and I can't
see how this can happen, Fenton, unless you can secure the co-operation
of the man to whom you attribute the matter--or she must lie that way
indefinitely.”
“Indefinitely!” I exclaimed, sensing something ominous. “You mean--”
“That there is no known method of reviving a patient in such a
condition. It might be called psychic catalepsy. To speak plainly,
Fenton, unless this man revives her, she will remain unconscious until
her death.”
I shuddered. What horrible thing had come into our lives to afflict us
with so dreadful a prospect?
“Is--is there no hope, Dr. Higgins?”
“Very little”--gently but decisively. “All I can assure you is that she
will not die immediately. From the general state of her health, she will
live at least seventy-two hours. After that--you must be prepared for
the worst at any moment.”
I turned away quickly, so that he could not see my face. What an awful
situation! Unless we could somehow lay hands on the Rhamda--