"A Chiel's Amang Ye Takin' Notes"
The attitude of the suspicious man tends to generate in others the kind
of conduct that seems to justify his suspicions. In most of us there
lurks a certain strain of mischief which trustfulness disarms but
distrust encourages. The inexperienced kitten which approaches us
confidingly with arched back and upright tail, soliciting caresses,
generally receives the gentle treatment that it expects; whereas the
worldly-wise tom-cat, who, in response to friendly advances, scampers
away and grins at us suspiciously from the fancied security of an
adjacent wall, impels us to accelerate his retreat with a well-directed
clod.
Now the proceedings of Mr. H. Weiss resembled those of the tom-cat
aforesaid and invited an analogous reply. To a responsible professional
man his extraordinary precautions were at once an affront and a
challenge. Apart from graver considerations, I found myself dwelling
with unholy pleasure on the prospect of locating the secret hiding-place
from which he seemed to grin at me with such complacent defiance; and I
lost no time and spared no trouble in preparing myself for the
adventure. The very hansom which bore me from the Temple to Kennington
Lane was utilized for a preliminary test of Thorndyke's little
apparatus. During the whole of that brief journey I watched the compass
closely, noted the feel and sound of the road-material and timed the
trotting of the horse. And the result was quite encouraging. It is true
that the compass-needle oscillated wildly to the vibration of the cab,
but still its oscillations took place around a definite point which was
the average direction, and it was evident to me that the data it
furnished were very fairly reliable. I felt very little doubt, after the
preliminary trial, as to my being able to produce a moderately
intelligible track-chart if only I should get an opportunity to exercise
my skill.
But it looked as if I should not. Mr. Weiss's promise to send for me
again soon was not fulfilled. Three days passed and still he made no
sign. I began to fear that I had been too outspoken; that the shuttered
carriage had gone forth to seek some more confiding and easy-going
practitioner, and that our elaborate preparations had been made in vain.
When the fourth day drew towards a close and still no summons had come,
I was disposed reluctantly to write the case off as a lost opportunity.
And at that moment, in the midst of my regrets, the bottle-boy thrust an
uncomely head in at the door. His voice was coarse, his accent was
hideous, and his grammatical construction beneath contempt; but I
forgave him all when I gathered the import of his message.
"Mr. Weiss's carriage is waiting, and he says will you come as quickly
as you can because he's took very bad to-night."
I sprang from my chair and hastily collected the necessaries for the
journey. The little board and the lamp I put in my overcoat pocket; I
overhauled the emergency bag and added to its usual contents a bottle of
permanganate of potassium which I thought I might require. Then I tucked
the evening paper under my arm and went out.
The coachman, who was standing at the horse's head as I emerged, touched
his hat and came forward to open the door.
"I have fortified myself for the long drive, you see," I remarked,
exhibiting the newspaper as I stepped into the carriage.
"But you can't read in the dark," said he.
"No, but I have provided myself with a lamp," I replied, producing it
and striking a match.
He watched me as I lit the lamp and hooked it on the back cushion, and
observed:
"I suppose you found it rather a dull ride last time. It's a longish
way. They might have fitted the carriage with an inside lamp. But we
shall have to make it a quicker passage to-night. Governor says Mr.
Graves is uncommon bad."
With this he slammed the door and locked it. I drew the board from my
pocket, laid it on my knee, glanced at my watch, and, as the coachman
climbed to his seat, I made the first entry in the little book.
"8.58. W. by S. Start from home. Horse 13 hands."
The first move of the carriage on starting was to turn round as if
heading for Newington Butts, and the second entry accordingly read:
"8.58.30. E. by N."
But this direction was not maintained long. Very soon we turned south
and then west and then south again. I sat with my eyes riveted on the
compass, following with some difficulty its rapid changes. The needle
swung to and fro incessantly but always within a definite arc, the
centre of which was the true direction. But this direction varied from
minute to minute in the most astonishing manner. West, south, east,
north, the carriage turned, "boxing" the compass until I lost all count
of direction. It was an amazing performance. Considering that the man
was driving against time on a mission of life and death urgency, his
carelessness as to direction was astounding. The tortuousness of the
route must have made the journey twice as long as it need have been
with a little more careful selection. At least so it appeared to me,
though, naturally, I was not in a position to offer an authoritative
criticism.
As far as I could judge, we followed the same route as before. Once I
heard a tug's whistle and knew that we were near the river, and we
passed the railway station, apparently at the same time as on the
previous occasion, for I heard a passenger train start and assumed that
it was the same train. We crossed quite a number of thoroughfares with
tram-lines--I had no idea there were so many--and it was a revelation to
me to find how numerous the railway arches were in this part of London
and how continually the nature of the road-metal varied.
It was by no means a dull journey this time. The incessant changes of
direction and variations in the character of the road kept me most
uncommonly busy; for I had hardly time to scribble down one entry before
the compass-needle would swing round sharply, showing that we had once
more turned a corner; and I was quite taken by surprise when the
carriage slowed down and turned into the covered way. Very hastily I
scribbled down the final entry ("9.24. S.E. In covered way"), and having
closed the book and slipped it and the board into my pocket, had just
opened out the newspaper when the carriage door was unlocked and opened,
whereupon I unhooked and blew out the lamp and pocketed that too,
reflecting that it might be useful later.
As on the last occasion, Mrs. Schallibaum stood in the open doorway with
a lighted candle. But she was a good deal less self-possessed this time.
In fact she looked rather wild and terrified. Even by the candle-light
I could see that she was very pale and she seemed unable to keep still.
As she gave me the few necessary words of explanation, she fidgeted
incessantly and her hands and feet were in constant movement.
"You had better come up with me at once," she said. "Mr. Graves is much
worse to-night. We will wait not for Mr. Weiss."
Without waiting for a reply she quickly ascended the stairs and I
followed. The room was in much the same condition as before. But the
patient was not. As soon as I entered the room, a soft, rhythmical
gurgle from the bed gave me a very clear warning of danger. I stepped
forward quickly and looked down at the prostrate figure, and the warning
gathered emphasis. The sick man's ghastly face was yet more ghastly; his
eyes were more sunken, his skin more livid; "his nose was as sharp as a
pen," and if he did not "babble of green fields" it was because he
seemed to be beyond even that. If it had been a case of disease, I
should have said at once that he was dying. He had all the appearance of
a man <i>in articulo mortis</i>. Even as it was, feeling convinced that the
case was one of morphine poisoning, I was far from confident that I
should be able to draw him back from the extreme edge of vitality on
which he trembled so insecurely.
"He is very ill? He is dying?"
It was Mrs. Schallibaum's voice; very low, but eager and intense. I
turned, with my finger on the patient's wrist, and looked into the face
of the most thoroughly scared woman I have ever seen. She made no
attempt now to avoid the light, but looked me squarely in the face, and
I noticed, half-unconsciously, that her eyes were brown and had a
curious strained expression.
"Yes," I answered, "he is very ill. He is in great danger."
She still stared at me fixedly for some seconds. And then a very odd
thing occurred. Suddenly she squinted--squinted horribly; not with the
familiar convergent squint which burlesque artists imitate, but with
external or divergent squint of extreme near sight or unequal vision.
The effect was quite startling. One moment both her eyes were looking
straight into mine; the next, one of them rolled round until it looked
out of the uttermost corner, leaving the other gazing steadily forward.
She was evidently conscious of the change, for she turned her head away
quickly and reddened somewhat. But it was no time for thoughts of
personal appearance.
"You can save him, doctor! You will not let him die! He must not be
allowed to die!"
She spoke with as much passion as if he had been the dearest friend that
she had in the world, which I suspected was far from being the case. But
her manifest terror had its uses.
"If anything is to be done to save him," I said, "it must be done
quickly. I will give him some medicine at once, and meanwhile you must
make some strong coffee."
"Coffee!" she exclaimed. "But we have none in the house. Will not tea
do, if I make it very strong?"
"No, it will not. I must have coffee; and I must have it quickly."
"Then I suppose I must go and get some. But it is late. The shops will
be shut. And I don't like leaving Mr. Graves."
"Can't you send the coachman?" I asked.
She shook her head impatiently. "No, that is no use. I must wait until
Mr. Weiss comes."
"That won't do," I said, sharply. "He will slip through our fingers
while you are waiting. You must go and get that coffee at once and bring
it to me as soon as it is ready. And I want a tumbler and some water."
She brought me a water-bottle and glass from the wash-stand and then,
with a groan of despair, hurried from the room.
I lost no time in applying the remedies that I had to hand. Shaking out
into the tumbler a few crystals of potassium permanganate, I filled it
up with water and approached the patient. His stupor was profound. I
shook him as roughly as was safe in his depressed condition, but
elicited no resistance or responsive movement. As it seemed very
doubtful whether he was capable of swallowing, I dared not take the risk
of pouring the liquid into his mouth for fear of suffocating him. A
stomach-tube would have solved the difficulty, but, of course, I had not
one with me. I had, however, a mouth-speculum which also acted as a gag,
and, having propped the patient's mouth open with this, I hastily
slipped off one of the rubber tubes from my stethoscope and inserted
into one end of it a vulcanite ear-speculum to serve as a funnel. Then,
introducing the other end of the tube into the gullet as far as its
length would permit, I cautiously poured a small quantity of the
permanganate solution into the extemporized funnel. To my great relief a
movement of the throat showed that the swallowing reflex still existed,
and, thus encouraged, I poured down the tube as much of the fluid as I
thought it wise to administer at one time.
The dose of permanganate that I had given was enough to neutralize any
reasonable quantity of the poison that might yet remain in the stomach.
I had next to deal with that portion of the drug which had already been
absorbed and was exercising its poisonous effects. Taking my hypodermic
case from my bag, I prepared in the syringe a full dose of atropine
sulphate, which I injected forthwith into the unconscious man's arm. And
that was all that I could do, so far as remedies were concerned, until
the coffee arrived.
I cleaned and put away the syringe, washed the tube, and then, returning
to the bedside, endeavoured to rouse the patient from his profound
lethargy. But great care was necessary. A little injudicious roughness
of handling, and that thready, flickering pulse might stop for ever; and
yet it was almost certain that if he were not speedily aroused, his
stupor would gradually deepen until it shaded off imperceptibly into
death. I went to work very cautiously, moving his limbs about, flicking
his face and chest with the corner of a wet towel, tickling the soles
of his feet, and otherwise applying stimuli that were strong without
being violent.
So occupied was I with my efforts to resuscitate my mysterious patient
that I did not notice the opening of the door, and it was with something
of a start that, happening to glance round, I perceived at the farther
end of the room the shadowy figure of a man relieved by two spots of
light reflected from his spectacles. How long he had been watching me I
cannot say, but, when he saw that I had observed him, he came
forward--though not very far--and I saw that he was Mr. Weiss.
"I am afraid," he said, "that you do not find my friend so well
to-night?"
"So well!" I exclaimed. "I don't find him well at all. I am exceedingly
anxious about him."
"You don't--er--anticipate anything of a--er--anything serious, I hope?"
"There is no need to anticipate," said I. "It is already about as
serious as it can be. I think he might die at any moment."
"Good God!" he gasped. "You horrify me!"
He was not exaggerating. In his agitation, he stepped forward into the
lighter part of the room, and I could see that his face was pale to
ghastliness--except his nose and the adjacent red patches on his cheeks,
which stood out in grotesquely hideous contrast. Presently, however, he
recovered a little and said:
"I really think--at least I hope--that you take an unnecessarily serious
view of his condition. He has been like this before, you know."
I felt pretty certain that he had not, but there was no use in
discussing the question. I therefore replied, as I continued my efforts
to rouse the patient:
"That may or may not be. But in any case there comes a last time; and it
may have come now."
"I hope not," he said; "although I understand that these cases always
end fatally sooner or later."
"What cases?" I asked.
"I was referring to sleeping sickness; but perhaps you have formed some
other opinion as to the nature of this dreadful complaint."
I hesitated for a moment, and he continued: "As to your suggestion that
his symptoms might be due to drugs, I think we may consider that as
disposed of. He has been watched, practically without cessation since
you came last, and, moreover, I have myself turned out the room and
examined the bed and have not found a trace of any drug. Have you gone
into the question of sleeping sickness?"
I looked at the man narrowly before answering, and distrusted him more
than ever. But this was no time for reticence. My concern was with the
patient and his present needs. After all, I was, as Thorndyke had said,
a doctor, not a detective, and the circumstances called for
straightforward speech and action on my part.
"I have considered that question," I said, "and have come to a perfectly
definite conclusion. His symptoms are not those of sleeping sickness.
They are in my opinion undoubtedly due to morphine poisoning."
"But my dear sir!" he exclaimed, "the thing is impossible! Haven't I
just told you that he has been watched continuously?"
"I can only judge by the appearances that I find," I answered; and,
seeing that he was about to offer fresh objections, I continued: "Don't
let us waste precious time in discussion, or Mr. Graves may be dead
before we have reached a conclusion. If you will hurry them up about the
coffee that I asked for some time ago, I will take the other necessary
measures, and perhaps we may manage to pull him round."
The rather brutal decision of my manner evidently daunted him. It must
have been plain to him that I was not prepared to accept any explanation
of the unconscious man's condition other than that of morphine
poisoning; whence the inference was pretty plain that the alternatives
were recovery or an inquest. Replying stiffly that I "must do as I
thought best," he hurried from the room, leaving me to continue my
efforts without further interruption.
For some time these efforts seemed to make no impression. The man lay as
still and impassive as a corpse excepting for the slow, shallow and
rather irregular breathing with its ominous accompanying rattle. But
presently, by imperceptible degrees, signs of returning life began to
make their appearance. A sharp slap on the cheek with the wet towel
produced a sensible flicker of the eyelids; a similar slap on the chest
was followed by a slight gasp. A pencil, drawn over the sole of the
foot, occasioned a visible shrinking movement, and, on looking once
more at the eyes, I detected a slight change that told me that the
atropine was beginning to take effect.
This was very encouraging, and, so far, quite satisfactory, though it
would have been premature to rejoice. I kept the patient carefully
covered and maintained the process of gentle irritation, moving his
limbs and shoulders, brushing his hair and generally bombarding his
deadened senses with small but repeated stimuli. And under this
treatment, the improvement continued so far that on my bawling a
question into his ear he actually opened his eyes for an instant, though
in another moment, the lids had sunk back into their former position.
Soon after this, Mr. Weiss re-entered the room, followed by Mrs.
Schallibaum, who carried a small tray, on which were a jug of coffee, a
jug of milk, a cup and saucer and a sugar basin.
"How do you find him now?" Mr. Weiss asked anxiously.
"I am glad to say that there is a distinct improvement," I replied. "But
we must persevere. He is by no means out of the wood yet."
I examined the coffee, which looked black and strong and had a very
reassuring smell, and, pouring out half a cupful, approached the bed.
"Now, Mr. Graves," I shouted, "we want you to drink some of this."
The flaccid eyelids lifted for an instant but there was no other
response. I gently opened the unresisting mouth and ladled in a couple
of spoonfuls of coffee, which were immediately swallowed; whereupon I
repeated the proceeding and continued at short intervals until the cup
was empty. The effect of the new remedy soon became apparent. He began
to mumble and mutter obscurely in response to the questions that I
bellowed at him, and once or twice he opened his eyes and looked
dreamily into my face. Then I sat him up and made him drink some coffee
from the cup, and, all the time, kept up a running fire of questions,
which made up in volume of sound for what they lacked of relevancy.
Of these proceedings Mr. Weiss and his housekeeper were highly
interested spectators, and the former, contrary to his usual practice,
came quite close up to the bed, to get a better view.
"It is really a most remarkable thing," he said, "but it almost looks as
if you were right, after all. He is certainly much better. But tell me,
would this treatment produce a similar improvement if the symptoms were
due to disease?"
"No," I answered, "it certainly would not."
"Then that seems to settle it. But it is a most mysterious affair. Can
you suggest any way in which he can have concealed a store of the drug?"
I stood up and looked him straight in the face; it was the first chance
I had had of inspecting him by any but the feeblest light, and I looked
at him very attentively. Now, it is a curious fact--though one that most
persons must have observed--that there sometimes occurs a considerable
interval between the reception of a visual impression and its complete
transfer to the consciousness. A thing may be seen, as it were,
unconsciously, and the impression consigned, apparently, to instant
oblivion; and yet the picture may be subsequently revived by memory with
such completeness that its details can be studied as though the object
were still actually visible.
Something of this kind must have happened to me now. Preoccupied as I
was, by the condition of the patient, the professional habit of rapid
and close observation caused me to direct a searching glance at the man
before me. It was only a brief glance--for Mr. Weiss, perhaps
embarrassed by my keen regard of him, almost immediately withdrew into
the shadow--and my attention seemed principally to be occupied by the
odd contrast between the pallor of his face and the redness of his nose
and by the peculiar stiff, bristly character of his eyebrows. But there
was another fact, and a very curious one, that was observed by me
subconsciously and instantly forgotten, to be revived later when I
reflected on the events of the night. It was this:
As Mr. Weiss stood, with his head slightly turned, I was able to look
through one glass of his spectacles at the wall beyond. On the wall was
a framed print; and the edge of the frame, seen through the
spectacle-glass, appeared quite unaltered and free from distortion,
magnification or reduction, as if seen through plain window-glass; and
yet the reflections of the candle-flame in the spectacles showed the
flame upside down, proving conclusively that the glasses were concave on
one surface at least. The strange phenomenon was visible only for a
moment or two, and as it passed out of my sight it passed also out of my
mind.
"No," I said, replying to the last question; "I can think of no way in
which he could have effectually hidden a store of morphine. Judging by
the symptoms, he has taken a large dose, and, if he has been in the
habit of consuming large quantities, his stock would be pretty bulky. I
can offer no suggestion whatever."
"I suppose you consider him quite out of danger now?"
"Oh, not at all. I think we can pull him round if we persevere, but he
must not be allowed to sink back into a state of coma. We must keep him
on the move until the effects of the drug have really passed off. If you
will put him into his dressing-gown we will walk him up and down the
room for a while."
"But is that safe?" Mr. Weiss asked anxiously.
"Quite safe," I answered. "I will watch his pulse carefully. The danger
is in the possibility, or rather certainty, of a relapse if he is not
kept moving."
With obvious unwillingness and disapproval, Mr. Weiss produced a
dressing-gown and together we invested the patient in it. Then we
dragged him, very limp, but not entirely unresisting, out of bed and
stood him on his feet. He opened his eyes and blinked owlishly first at
one and then at the other of us, and mumbled a few unintelligible words
of protest; regardless of which, we thrust his feet into slippers and
endeavoured to make him walk. At first he seemed unable to stand, and we
had to support him by his arms as we urged him forward; but presently
his trailing legs began to make definite walking movements, and, after
one or two turns up and down the room, he was not only able partly to
support his weight, but showed evidence of reviving consciousness in
more energetic protests.
At this point Mr. Weiss astonished me by transferring the arm that he
held to the housekeeper.
"If you will excuse me, doctor," said he, "I will go now and attend to
some rather important business that I have had to leave unfinished. Mrs.
Schallibaum will be able to give you all the assistance that you
require, and will order the carriage when you think it safe to leave the
patient. In case I should not see you again I will say 'good night.' I
hope you won't think me very unceremonious."
He shook hands with me and went out of the room, leaving me, as I have
said, profoundly astonished that he should consider any business of more
moment than the condition of his friend, whose life, even now, was but
hanging by a thread. However, it was really no concern of mine. I could
do without him, and the resuscitation of this unfortunate half-dead man
gave me occupation enough to engross my whole attention.
The melancholy progress up and down the room re-commenced, and with it
the mumbled protests from the patient. As we walked, and especially as
we turned, I caught frequent glimpses of the housekeeper's face. But it
was nearly always in profile. She appeared to avoid looking me in the
face, though she did so once or twice; and on each of these occasions
her eyes were directed at me in a normal manner without any sign of a
squint. Nevertheless, I had the impression that when her face was turned
away from me she squinted. The "swivel eye"--the left--was towards me as
she held the patient's right arm, and it was almost continuously turned
in my direction, whereas I felt convinced that she was really looking
straight before her, though, of course, her right eye was invisible to
me. It struck me, even at the time, as an odd affair, but I was too much
concerned about my charge to give it much consideration.
Meanwhile the patient continued to revive apace. And the more he
revived, the more energetically did he protest against this wearisome
perambulation. But he was evidently a polite gentleman, for, muddled as
his faculties were, he managed to clothe his objections in courteous and
even gracious forms of speech singularly out of agreement with the
character that Mr. Weiss had given him.
"I thangyou," he mumbled thickly. "Ver' good take s'much trouble. Think
I will lie down now." He looked wistfully at the bed, but I wheeled him
about and marched him once more down the room. He submitted
unresistingly, but as we again approached the bed he reopened the
matter.
"S'quite s'fficient, thang you. Gebback to bed now. Much 'bliged frall
your kindness"--here I turned him round--"no, really; m'feeling rather
tired. Sh'like to lie down now, f'you'd be s'good."
"You must walk about a little longer, Mr. Graves," I said. "It would be
very bad for you to go to sleep again."
He looked at me with a curious, dull surprise, and reflected awhile as
if in some perplexity. Then he looked at me again and said:
"Thing, sir, you are mistake--mistaken me--mist--"
Here Mrs. Schallibaum interrupted sharply:
"The doctor thinks it's good for you to walk about. You've been sleeping
too much. He doesn't want you to sleep any more just now."
"Don't wanter sleep; wanter lie down," said the patient.
"But you mustn't lie down for a little while. You must walk about for a
few minutes more. And you'd better not talk. Just walk up and down."
"There's no harm in his talking," said I; "in fact it's good for him. It
will help to keep him awake."
"I should think it would tire him," said Mrs. Schallibaum; "and it
worries me to hear him asking to lie down when we can't let him."
She spoke sharply and in an unnecessarily high tone so that the patient
could not fail to hear. Apparently he took in the very broad hint
contained in the concluding sentence, for he trudged wearily and
unsteadily up and down the room for some time without speaking, though
he continued to look at me from time to time as if something in my
appearance puzzled him exceedingly. At length his intolerable longing
for repose overcame his politeness and he returned to the attack.
"Surely v' walked enough now. Feeling very tired. Am really. Would you
be s'kind 's t'let me lie down few minutes?"
"Don't you think he might lie down for a little while?" Mrs. Schallibaum
asked.
I felt his pulse, and decided that he was really becoming fatigued, and
that it would be wiser not to overdo the exercise while he was so weak.
Accordingly, I consented to his returning to bed, and turned him round
in that direction; whereupon he tottered gleefully towards his
resting-place like a tired horse heading for its stable.
As soon as he was tucked in, I gave him a full cup of coffee, which he
drank with some avidity as if thirsty. Then I sat down by the bedside,
and, with a view to keeping him awake, began once more to ply him with
questions.
"Does your head ache, Mr. Graves?" I asked.
"The doctor says 'does your head ache?'" Mrs. Schallibaum squalled, so
loudly that the patient started perceptibly.
"I heard him, m'dear girl," he answered with a faint smile. "Not deaf
you know. Yes. Head aches a good deal. But I thing this gennleman
mistakes--"
"He says you are to keep awake. You mustn't go to sleep again, and you
are not to close your eyes."
"All ri' Pol'n. Keep'm open," and he proceeded forthwith to shut them
with an air of infinite peacefulness. I grasped his hand and shook it
gently, on which he opened his eyes and looked at me sleepily. The
housekeeper stroked his head, keeping her face half-turned from me--as
she had done almost constantly, to conceal the squinting eye, as I
assumed--and said:
"Need we keep you any longer, doctor? It is getting very late and you
have a long way to go."
I looked doubtfully at the patient. I was loath to leave him,
distrusting these people as I did. But I had my work to do on the
morrow, with, perhaps, a night call or two in the interval, and the
endurance even of a general practitioner has its limits.
"I think I heard the carriage some time ago," Mrs. Schallibaum added.
I rose hesitatingly and looked at my watch. It had turned half-past
eleven.
"You understand," I said in a low voice, "that the danger is not over?
If he is left now he will fall asleep, and in all human probability will
never wake. You clearly understand that?"
"Yes, quite clearly. I promise you he shall not be allowed to fall
asleep again."
As she spoke, she looked me full in the face for a few moments, and I
noted that her eyes had a perfectly normal appearance, without any trace
whatever of a squint.
"Very well," I said. "On that understanding I will go now; and I shall
hope to find our friend quite recovered at my next visit."
I turned to the patient, who was already dozing, and shook his hand
heartily.
"Good-bye, Mr. Graves!" I said. "I am sorry to have to disturb your
repose so much; but you must keep awake, you know. Won't do to go to
sleep."
"Ver' well," he replied drowsily. "Sorry t' give you all this trouble.
L' keep awake. But I think you're mistak'n--"
"He says it's very important that you shouldn't go to sleep, and that I
am to see that you don't. Do you understand?"
"Yes, I un'stan'. But why does this gennlem'n--?"
"Now it's of no use for you to ask a lot of questions," Mrs. Schallibaum
said playfully; "we'll talk to you to-morrow. Good night, doctor. I'll
light you down the stairs, but I won't come down with you, or the
patient will be falling asleep again."
Taking this definite dismissal, I retired, followed by a dreamily
surprised glance from the sick man. The housekeeper held the candle over
the balusters until I reached the bottom of the stairs, when I perceived
through the open door along the passage a glimmer of light from the
carriage lamps. The coachman was standing just outside, faintly
illuminated by the very dim lamplight, and as I stepped into the
carriage he remarked in his Scotch dialect that I "seemed to have been
makin' a nicht of it." He did not wait for any reply--none being in fact
needed--but shut the door and locked it.
I lit my little pocket-lamp and hung it on the back cushion. I even drew
the board and notebook from my pocket. But it seemed rather unnecessary
to take a fresh set of notes, and, to tell the truth, I rather shirked
the labour, tired as I was after my late exertions; besides, I wanted
to think over the events of the evening, while they were fresh in my
memory. Accordingly I put away the notebook, filled and lighted my pipe,
and settled myself to review the incidents attending my second visit to
this rather uncanny house.
Considered in leisurely retrospect, that visit offered quite a number of
problems that called for elucidation. There was the patient's condition,
for instance. Any doubt as to the cause of his symptoms was set at rest
by the effect of the antidotes. Mr. Graves was certainly under the
influence of morphine, and the only doubtful question was how he had
become so. That he had taken the poison himself was incredible. No
morphinomaniac would take such a knock-down dose. It was practically
certain that the poison had been administered by someone else, and, on
Mr. Weiss's own showing, there was no one but himself and the
housekeeper who could have administered it. And to this conclusion all
the other very queer circumstances pointed.
What were these circumstances? They were, as I have said, numerous,
though many of them seemed trivial. To begin with, Mr. Weiss's habit of
appearing some time after my arrival and disappearing some time before
my departure was decidedly odd. But still more odd was his sudden
departure this evening on what looked like a mere pretext. That
departure coincided in time with the sick man's recovery of the power of
speech. Could it be that Mr. Weiss was afraid that the half-conscious
man might say something compromising to him in my presence? It looked
rather like it. And yet he had gone away and left me with the patient
and the housekeeper.
But when I came to think about it I remembered that Mrs. Schallibaum had
shown some anxiety to prevent the patient from talking. She had
interrupted him more than once, and had on two occasions broken in when
he seemed to be about to ask me some question. I was "mistaken" about
something. What was that something that he wanted to tell me?
It had struck me as singular that there should be no coffee in the
house, but a sufficiency of tea. Germans are not usually tea-drinkers
and they do take coffee. But perhaps there was nothing in this. Rather
more remarkable was the invisibility of the coachman. Why could he not
be sent to fetch the coffee, and why did not he, rather than the
housekeeper, come to take the place of Mr. Weiss when the latter had to
go away.
There were other points, too. I recalled the word that sounded like
"Pol'n," which Mr. Graves had used in speaking to the housekeeper.
Apparently it was a Christian name of some kind; but why did Mr. Graves
call the woman by her Christian name when Mr. Weiss addressed her
formally as Mrs. Schallibaum? And, as to the woman herself: what was the
meaning of that curious disappearing squint? Physically it presented no
mystery. The woman had an ordinary divergent squint, and, like many
people, who suffer from this displacement, could, by a strong muscular
effort, bring the eyes temporarily into their normal parallel position.
I had detected the displacement when she had tried to maintain the
effort too long, and the muscular control had given way. But why had she
done it? Was it only feminine vanity--mere sensitiveness respecting a
slight personal disfigurement? It might be so; or there might be some
further motive. It was impossible to say.
Turning this question over, I suddenly remembered the peculiarity of Mr.
Weiss's spectacles. And here I met with a real poser. I had certainly
seen through those spectacles as clearly as if they had been plain
window-glass; and they had certainly given an inverted reflection of the
candle-flame like that thrown from the surface of a concave lens. Now
they obviously could not be both flat and concave; but yet they had the
properties peculiar to both flatness and concavity. And there was a
further difficulty. If I could see objects unaltered through them, so
could Mr. Weiss. But the function of spectacles is to alter the
appearances of objects, by magnification, reduction or compensating
distortion. If they leave the appearances unchanged they are useless. I
could make nothing of it. After puzzling over it for quite a long time,
I had to give it up; which I did the less unwillingly inasmuch as the
construction of Mr. Weiss's spectacles had no apparent bearing on the
case.
On arriving home, I looked anxiously at the message-book, and was
relieved to find that there were no further visits to be made. Having
made up a mixture for Mr. Graves and handed it to the coachman, I raked
the ashes of the surgery fire together and sat down to smoke a final
pipe while I reflected once more on the singular and suspicious case in
which I had become involved. But fatigue soon put an end to my
meditations; and having come to the conclusion that the circumstances
demanded a further consultation with Thorndyke, I turned down the gas to
a microscopic blue spark and betook myself to bed.