Lois could hardly believe her ears.
“Me?” she said in amazement. “I think I am the Countess of Moron? How
absurd! I think nothing of the kind!”
“Yes, you do,” nodded Mrs. Rooks. “The doctor said you think you’re
the countess. You tried to murder Lady Moron because you wanted the
title!”
The suggestion was so ludicrous that Lois laughed.
“How ridiculous! Such an idea has never entered my head. Lady Moron!
Why, I am a secretary--where did you hear this?”
“The doctor told me,” said the woman stubbornly. “He never tells
lies--except to people he owes money to, but that’s natural, ain’t
it?”
She went out of the room soon after and was gone for half an hour,
apparently attending to the needs of the other prisoner, for when she
came back she had something to say about discontented people.
“She’s had all she wants to eat and all she wants to drink and still
she’s not satisfied. That shows she’s mad. I never knew a crazy woman
that was satisfied.”
Lois thought it was a weakness, not entirely confined to the crazy.
“When are we leaving here?”
“I don’t know--to-night I guess,” said the other, vaguely. “Anyway,
the doctor will be here to take my place and I’ll get some sleep. I’m
nearly dead.”
Mrs. Rooks was not disposed for further conversation and as the day
progressed she grew more taciturn and irritable. When night fell, she
seemed to be spending her time either at the door of the cottage or
outside. Lois heard her walking under her window, talking to herself.
She was dozing in her chair when she heard the doctor’s voice and was
instantly wide awake.
“You take the other, I’ll bring this one along. You can leave all the
truck here. We may want to come back. I don’t think it is likely, but
we may.”
The room was in darkness when he came stamping in and flashed his lamp
upon her.
“You’ve had an uncomfortable day, but you’ve got your friend to
blame,” he said. “You’ll be able to sleep to-night in your own bed,
which is more than he will do!”
She did not answer him; the reference to Michael’s bed was too cryptic
to follow.
“Clever fellow, Dorn, eh? Brilliant detective? He’s got all his wits
about him, don’t you think?”
Still she did not answer.
“Oh yes, he’s clever,” said Tappatt. He was in a cheerful, almost a
rollicking mood, and she guessed with a sinking heart that if Michael
Dorn had come back, he had been outwitted. “Look at this.” He flashed
his lamp on an object which lay in his palm. It was a heavy-calibred
automatic pistol and she uttered an “Oh!” of surprise.
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to kill you, my girl. We don’t kill
people, we cure ’em! That is what they are here for.”
As he patted her shoulder, she shrank back from him.
“No, I wanted to show you that, because it is Dorn’s. I took it away
from him as easily as you might take money from a child. I just took
it out of his pocket and he said nothing! And he’s clever.”
“Is he dead?” she asked, and the question tickled him.
“No, he’s not dead,” he said jovially. “Nothing so dramatic. I don’t
kill people, I tell you. I cure ’em! He’s cured! The mania for
investigation has been entirely eradicated!”
Mrs. Rooks and her prisoner had, by this time, left the house. Lois
heard them swishing through the undergrowth and saw a momentary
flicker of light through the window, as the old woman sought for the
path.
“We’ll give them a start,” said the doctor, “and then we’ll follow
them. Rooks is slow; getting old, I guess.”
“Who is the other woman?”
“A patient of mine,” said the doctor casually. “She’s got some strange
delusions.”
“Why did you tell Mrs. Rooks that I was mad?”
“Because you are,” was the calm reply. “I have diagnosed you as
suffering from delusions, with suicidal tendencies. And my diagnosis
has never been questioned, my dear. And now, if you’re ready----?”
“Why do you say that I think I’m the Countess of Moron?”
“Because you do! I’ve put that in my case book and case books are
evidence!”
And he roared with laughter as if he had made a good joke.
They returned to the other cottage, and even in her weariness Lois
looked forward to the walk across the fields, for her legs were
cramped and she ached in every limb. As they mounted the last gentle
slope, the long wall of Gallows Farm came into view. The gate was open
and they passed through. Half-way across the yard he caught her arm
and they stopped. She heard the rattle of the chained dogs and
wondered if he was about to warn her again of the dangers that
attended an escape. Instead:
“There’s a nice little place down there,” he pointed into the
darkness--“a room that has been described as airy, though it is a
little below the level of the ground. I must show it to you some
day--it has an interesting story.”
“Are you going to put me there?” she asked, her courage almost failing
her.
“You? My dear, you’re the last person in the world I should put
there.” Again the hateful encouragement of his caressing hand. “Go
ahead, your own handsome apartment is ready for you.”
He took up the lamp that was waiting in the passage and showed her to
the landing. Glancing at the room opposite, she saw that a new staple
had been fixed in the doorway and guessed that the other woman was now
her neighbour. Tappatt followed the direction of her eyes.
“You’ll have company,” he said. “The old home is filling up rapidly!
All you require in any mental establishment is a start. Satisfied
clients are the best advertisements!”
“Where is Mr. Dorn?” she asked as he was leaving the room.
“He has gone back to London with a flea in his ear. That fellow won’t
bother me again in a hurry.”
“Do you ever speak the truth?”
For some reason the question infuriated him and his manner changed in
an instant.
“I’ll tell you the truth one of these days, my young lady, and it
won’t be pleasant to hear!” he stormed.
With that he slammed the door and turned the key on her.