THE LETHAL CHAMBER
A young and newly-qualified doctor, emerging for the first time into
private practice, is apt to be somewhat surprised and disconcerted by
the new conditions. Accustomed to the exclusively professional and
scientific atmosphere of the hospital, the sudden appearance of the
personal element as the predominant factor rather takes him aback. He
finds himself in a new and unexpected position. No longer a mere,
impersonal official, a portion of a great machine, he is the paid
servant of his patients: who are not always above letting him feel the
conditions of his service. The hospital patient, drilled into a
certain respectful submissiveness by the discipline of the wards, has
given place to an employer, usually critical, sometimes truculent and
occasionally addicted to a disagreeable frankness of speech.
The _locum tenens_, moreover, is peculiarly susceptible to these
conditions, especially if, as in my case, his appearance is youthful.
Patients resent the substitution of a stranger for the familiar
medical attendant and are at no great pains to disguise the fact. The
“old woman with the liver” (to adopt Batson’s pellucid phrase) hinted
that I was rather young, adding encouragingly that I should get the
better of that in time; while the more morose typhoid bluntly informed
me that he hadn’t bargained for being attended by a medical student.
Taken as a whole, I found private practice disappointing and soon
began to wish myself back in the wards and to sigh for my quiet,
solitary rambles on Hampstead Heath.
Still, there were rifts in the cloud. Some of the patients appreciated
the interest that I took in their cases, evidently contrasting it with
the rather casual attitude of my principal, and some were positively
friendly. But, in general, my reception was such as to make me
slightly apprehensive whenever a new patient appeared.
On the fourth evening after Batson’s departure, Mrs. Samway was
announced and I prepared myself for the customary snub. But I was
mistaken. Nothing could be more gracious than her manner towards me,
though the object of her visit occasioned me some embarrassment.
“I have called, Dr. Jardine,” she said, “to ask you if you could let
me have the account for poor Mr. Maddock. My husband is the executor,
you know, and, as we shall be going back to Paris quite shortly, he
wants to get everything settled up.”
I was in rather a quandary. Of the financial side of practice I was
absolutely ignorant and I thought it best to say so. “But,” I added,
“Dr. Batson will be back on Friday evening, if you can wait so long.”
“Oh, that will do quite well,” she replied, “but don’t forget to tell
him that we want the account at once.”
I promised not to forget, and then remarked that she would, no doubt,
be glad to be back in Paris.
“No,” she answered, “I shall be rather sorry. Of course Camden Town is
not a very attractive neighbourhood, but it is close to the heart of
London; and then there are some delightful places near and quite
accessible. There is Highgate, for instance.”
“Yes; but it is getting very much built over, isn’t it?”
“Unfortunately it is; but yet there are some very pleasant places
left. The old village is still charming. So quaint and old world. And
then there is Hampstead. What could be more delightful than the Heath?
But perhaps you don’t know Hampstead?”
“Oh, yes I do,” said I; “my rooms are at Gospel Oak, quite near the
Heath, and I think I know every nook and corner of the neighbourhood.
I am pining for a stroll on the Heath at this very moment.”
“I daresay you are,” she said sympathetically. “This is a depressing
neighbourhood if you can’t get away from it. We found it very dismal,
at first, after Paris.”
“Do you live in Paris?” I asked.
“Not permanently,” she replied. “But we spend a good deal of time
there. My husband is a dealer in works of art, so he has to travel
about a good deal. That is how we came to know Mr. Maddock.”
“He was a dealer too, wasn’t he?” I enquired.
“Yes, in a way. But he had means of his own and his dealing was a mere
excuse for collecting things that he was not going to keep. He had a
passion for buying, and then he used to sell the things in order to
buy more. But I am afraid I am detaining you with my chatter?”
“No, not at all,” I said eagerly, only too glad to have an
intelligent, educated person to talk to; “you are the last caller, and
I hope I have finished my day’s work.”
Accordingly she stayed quite a long time, chatting on a variety of
subjects and finally on that of cremation.
“I daresay,” she said, “it is more sanitary and wholesome than burial,
but there is something rather dreadful about it. Perhaps it is because
we are not accustomed to the idea.”
“Did you go to the funeral?” I asked.
“Yes. Mr. Maddock had no friends in England but my husband and me, so
we both went. It was very solemn and awesome. The coffin was laid on
the catafalque while a short service was read, and then two metal
doors opened and it was passed through out of our sight. We waited
some time and presently they brought us a little terra-cotta urn with
just a handful or two of white ash in it. That was all that was left
of our poor friend Septimus Maddock. Don’t you think it is rather
dreadful?”
“Death is always rather dreadful,” I answered. “But when we look at
the ashes of a dead person, we realize the total destruction of the
body; whereas the grave keeps its secrets. If we could look down
through the earth and see the changes that are taking place, we should
probably find the slow decay more shocking than the swift consumption
by fire. Fortunately we cannot. But we know that the final result is
the same in both.”
Mrs. Samway shuddered slightly, and drew her wraps more closely about
her.
“Yes,” she said with a faint sigh; “the same end awaits us all--but it
is better not to think about it.”
We were both silent for awhile. I sat with my gaze bent rather
absently on the case-book before me, turning over her last somewhat
gloomy utterance, until, chancing to look up, I found her pale,
penetrating eyes fixed on me with the same strange intentness that I
had noticed when she had looked at me as I sat by the body of Maddock.
As she met my glance, she looked down quickly but without confusion,
and with a return to her habitual reposefulness.
Half-unconsciously I returned her scrutiny. She was a
remarkable-looking woman. A beautiful woman, too, but of a type that
is, in our time and country, rare: an ancient or barbaric type in
which womanly beauty and grace are joined to manifest physical
strength. I felt that some unusual racial mixture spoke in her
inconsistent colouring; her clear, pink skin, her pale eyes and the
jet-black hair that rippled down either side of her low forehead in
little crimpy waves, as regular and formal as the “archaic curls” of
early Greek sculpture.
But predominant over all other qualities was that of strength. Full
and plump, soft and almost ultra-feminine, lissom and flexible in
every pose and movement, yet, to me, the chief impression that her
appearance suggested was strength--sheer, muscular strength; not the
rigid bull-dog strength of a strong man, but the soft and supple
strength of a leopard. I looked at her as she sat almost limply in her
chair, with her head on one side, her hands resting in her lap and a
beautiful, soft, womanly droop of the shoulders; and I felt that she
could have started up in an instant, active, strong, formidable, like
a roused panther.
I was going on, I think, to make comparisons between her and that
other woman who was wont to trip so daintily down Millfield Lane, when
she raised her eyes slowly to mine; and suddenly she blushed scarlet.
“Am I a _very_ remarkable-looking person, Dr. Jardine?” she asked
quietly, as if answering my thoughts.
The rebuke was well merited. For an instant a paltry compliment
fluttered on my lips; but I swallowed it down. She wasn’t that kind of
woman.
“I am afraid I have been staring you out of countenance, Mrs. Samway,”
I said apologetically.
“Hardly that,” she replied with a smile; “but you certainly were
looking at me very attentively.”
“Well,” I said, recovering myself, “after all, a cat may look at a
king, you know.”
She laughed softly--a very pretty, musical laugh--and rose, still
blushing warmly.
“And so,” she retorted, “by the same reasoning, you think a king may
look at a cat. Very well, Dr. Jardine. Good-night.”
She held out her hand; a beautifully-shaped hand, though rather
large--but, as I have said, she was not a small woman; and as it
clasped mine, though the pressure was quite gentle, it conveyed, like
her appearance, an impression of abundant physical strength.
I accompanied her to the door and watched her as she walked up the
dingy street with an easy, erect, undulating gait; even as might have
walked those women who are portrayed for the wonder of all time on the
ivory-toned marble of the Parthenon frieze. I followed with my eyes
the dignified, graceful figure until it vanished round the corner, and
then went back to the consulting-room dimly wondering why a woman of
such manifest beauty and charm should offer so little attraction to
me.
Batson’s practice, among its other drawbacks, suffered from a deadly
lack of professional interest. Whether this was its normal condition,
or whether his patients had got wind of me and called in other and
more experienced practitioners, I know not; but certainly, after the
stirring work of the hospital, the cases that I had to deal with
seemed very small beer. Hence the prospect of a genuine surgical case
came as a grateful surprise and I hailed it with enthusiasm.
It was on the day before Batson’s expected return that I received the
summons; which was delivered to me in a dirty envelope as I sat by the
bedside of the last patient on my list.
“Is the messenger waiting?” I asked, tearing open the envelope.
“No, Doctor. He just handed in the note and went off. He seemed to be
in a hurry.”
I ran my eye over the message, scrawled in a rather illiterate hand on
a sheet of common notepaper, and read:
“Sir,
“Will you please come at once to the Mineral Water Works in Norton
Street. One of our men has injured himself rather badly.
“Yours truly,
“J. Parker.
“P.S.--He is bleeding a good deal, so please come quick.”
The postscript gave a very necessary piece of information. An injury
which bled would require certain dressings and surgical appliances
over and above those contained in my pocket case; and to obtain these
I should have to take Batson’s house on the way. Slipping the note
into my pocket, I wished my patient a hasty adieu and strode off at a
swinging pace in the direction of Jacob Street.
The housemaid, Maggie, helped me to find the dressings and pack the
bag--for she was a handy, intelligent girl though no beauty; and
meanwhile I questioned her as to the whereabouts of Norton Street and
the mineral water factory.
“Oh, I know the place well enough, sir,” said she, “though I didn’t
know the works were open. Norton Street is only a few minutes’ walk
from here. It’s quite close to Gayton Street, in fact these works are
just at the back of the Samways’ house. You go up to the corner by the
market and take the second on the right and then--”
“Look here, Maggie,” I interrupted, “you’d better come and show me the
way, as you know the place. There’s no time to waste on fumbling for
the right turning.”
“Very well, sir,” she replied, and the bag being now packed with all
necessary instruments and dressings, we set forth together.
“Is this a large factory?” I asked, as she trotted by my side, to the
astonished admiration of Jacob Street, and the neighbourhood in
general.
“No, sir,” she replied. “It’s quite a small place. The last people
went bankrupt and the works were empty and to let for a long time. I
thought they were still to let, but I suppose somebody has taken them
and started the business afresh. It’s round here.”
She piloted me round a corner into a narrow by-street, near the end of
which she halted at the gate of a yard or mews. Above the entrance was
a weather-beaten board bearing the inscription, “International Mineral
Water Company” and a half-defaced printed bill offering the premises
to let; and at the side was a large bell-pull. A vigorous tug at the
latter set a bell jangling within, and, as Maggie tripped away up the
street, a small wicket in the gate opened, disclosing the dimly-seen
figure of a man standing in the inner darkness.
“Are you the doctor?” he inquired.
I answered “Yes,” and, being thereupon bidden to enter, stepped
through the opening of the wicket, which the man immediately closed,
shutting out the last gleam of light from the street lamp outside.
“It’s rather dark,” said the unseen custodian, taking me by the arm.
“It is indeed,” I replied, groping with my feet over the rough
cobbles; “hadn’t you better get a light of some kind?”
“I will in a minute,” was the reply. “You see, all the other men have
gone home. We close at six sharp. This is the way. I’ll strike a
match. The man is down in the bottling-room.”
My conductor struck a match by the light of which he guided me through
a doorway, along a passage or corridor and down a flight of stone
steps. At the bottom of the steps was a flagged passage, out of which
opened what looked like a range of cellars. Along the passage I walked
warily, followed by the stranger and lighted, very imperfectly, by the
matches that he struck; the glimmer of which threw a gigantic and
ghostly shadow of myself on the stone floor, but failed utterly to
pierce the darkness ahead. I was exactly opposite the yawning doorway
of one of the cellars when the match went out, and the man behind me
exclaimed:
“Wait a moment, Doctor! Don’t move until I strike another light.”
I halted abruptly; and the next moment I received a violent thrust
that sent me staggering through the open doorway into the cellar.
Instantly, the massive door slammed and a pair of heavy bolts were
shot in succession on the outside.
“What the devil is the meaning of this?” I roared, battering and
kicking furiously at the door. Of course, there was no answer, and I
quickly stopped my demonstrations, for it dawned on me in a moment
that the factory was untenanted save by the ruffian who had admitted
me; that I had been decoyed here of a set purpose, though what that
purpose was I could not imagine.
But it was not long before I received a pretty broad hint as to the
immediate intentions of my host. A gentle thumping at the door of my
cellar attracted my attention and caused me to lay my ear against the
wood. The sound that I heard was quite unmistakable. The crevices of
the door were being filled, apparently with pieces of rag, which my
friend was ramming home, presumably with a chisel. In fact the door
was being “caulked” to make the joints airtight.
The object of this proceeding was clear enough. I was shut up in an
air-tight cavity in which I was to be slowly suffocated. That was
quite obvious. Why was I to be suffocated, I could form no sort of
guess excepting that I had fallen into the hands of a homicidal
lunatic. But I was not greatly alarmed. The air in a good-sized cellar
will last a considerable time, and I could easily poke out anything
that my friend might stuff into the keyhole. Then, when the men
arrived in the morning, I could kick on the cellar door, and they
would come and let me out. There was nothing to be particularly
frightened about.
But stay! Were there any men? The injured man was evidently a myth.
Supposing the other men were a myth too! I recalled Maggie’s remark,
that she “had thought the place was to let still.” Perhaps it was.
That would be rather more serious.
At this point my cogitations were broken in upon by sounds from the
adjoining cellar; the sound of someone moving about and dragging some
heavy body. And it struck me at once as strange that I should hear
these sounds so distinctly, seeing the massive door of my own cellar
was closely sealed and the walls were of solid brick, as I ascertained
by rapping at them with my knuckles. But I had no time to consider
this circumstance, for there suddenly arose a new sound, whereat, I
must confess my heart fairly came into my mouth; a loud, penetrating
hiss like the shriek of escaping steam. It seemed to come from some
part of the cellar in which I was immured; from a spot nearly
overhead; and it was immediately echoed by a similar sound in the
adjoining cellar and then by a third. Even as the last sound broke
forth, the door of the adjoining cellar slammed, the bolts were shot
and then faintly mingled with the discordant hissing, I could hear the
dull thumping that told me that the cracks of that door, too, were
being caulked.
It was a frightful situation. The hissing sound was obviously caused
by the escape of gas under high pressure, and that gas must be
entering my cellar through some opening. I felt for my match-box, and,
groping along the wall towards the point whence the loudest
sound--and, indeed, all the sounds--proceeded, I struck a match. The
glimmer of the wax vesta made everything clear. Close to the ceiling,
about seven feet from the ground, was an opening in the wall about six
inches square; and pouring through this in a continuous stream was a
cloud of white particles that glistened like snowflakes. As I stood
under the opening, some of them settled on my face; and the more than
icy coldness of the contact, told the whole, horrible tale in a
moment.
This white powder _was_ snow--carbonic acid snow. The hissing sound
came from three of those great iron bottles, charged under pressure
with liquefied carbonic acid, which are used by mineral water
manufacturers for aërating the water. The miscreant (or lunatic) who
had imprisoned me had turned on the taps, and the liquid was escaping
and congealing into snow with the cold produced by its own rapid
evaporation and expansion. Of course the snow would quickly absorb
heat, and, without again liquefying, evaporate into the gaseous form.
In a very short time both cellars would be full of the poisonous gas,
and I--well, in a word, I was shut up in a lethal chamber.
It has taken me some time to write this explanation, which, however,
flashed through my brain in the twinkling of an eye as the light of
the match fell on that sinister cloud of snowflakes. In a moment I had
my coat off, and was stuffing it for dear life into the opening. It
was but a poor protection against the gas, which would easily enough
find its way through the interstices of the fabric; but it would stop
the direct stream of snow and give me time to think.
On what incalculable chances do the great issues of our lives depend!
If I had been a short man I must have been dead in half an hour; for
the opening through which the cloud of snow was pouring was well over
seven feet above the floor and would have been quite out of my reach.
Even as it was, with my six feet of stature and corresponding length
of arm, it was impossible to ram my coat into the opening with the
necessary force, for I had to stand close to the wall with my arm
upraised at a great mechanical disadvantage. Still, as I have said,
imperfect as the obstruction was, it served to stop the inrushing
cloud of snow. It would take some time for the heavy gas in the
adjoining cellar to rise to the level of the opening, and, meanwhile,
I could be devising other measures.
I lit another match and looked about me. The cellar was much smaller
than I had thought and was absolutely empty. The floor was of
concrete, the walls of rough brickwork and the ceiling of plaster, all
cracked and falling in. There was plenty of ventilation there, but
that was of no interest to me. Carbonic acid gas is so heavy that it
behaves almost like a liquid, and it would have filled the cellar and
suffocated me even if the top of my prison had been open to the sky.
The adjoining cellar was already filling rapidly, and when the gas in
it reached the level of the opening, it would percolate through my
coat and come pouring down into my cellar. But that, as I have said,
would take some time--if the dividing wall was moderately sound. This
important qualification, as soon as it occurred to me, set me
exploring the wall with the aid of another match; and very
unsatisfactory was the result. It was a bad wall, built of inferior
brick and worse mortar, and was marked by innumerable holes where
wall-hooks and other fastenings had been driven in between the bricks.
My brief survey convinced me that, so far from being gas-tight, the
wall was as pervious as a sponge, and that whatever I meant to do to
preserve my life, I must set about without delay.
But what was I to do? That was the urgent, the vital question. Escape
was evidently impossible. There were no means of stopping up the
numberless holes and weak places in the wall. The only vulnerable spot
was the door. If I could establish some communication with the outer
air, I could, for a time at least, disregard the poisonous gas with
which I should presently be surrounded.
The first thing to be considered was the keyhole. That must be
unstopped at once. Fumbling in my bag--for I had grown of a sudden
niggardly with my matches--I found a good-sized probe, which I
insinuated into the keyhole; and, in a moment, my hopes in that
direction were extinguished. For the end of the probe impinged upon
metal. The keyhole was not stopped with rag, but with a plate of metal
fixed on the outside. With rapidly-growing alarm, but with a tidiness
born of habit, I put the probe back in the bag and began feverishly to
review the situation and consider my resources. And then I had an
idea, only a poor, forlorn hope, but still an idea.
There is a certain ingenious type of pocket-knife, devised principally
in the interest of the cutlery trade, that innocent persons (usually
of the female persuasion) are wont to bestow as presents on their
masculine friends. Such a knife I chanced to possess. It had been
given to me by an aunt, and sentimental considerations had induced me
to give it an amount of room in my trousers’ pocket that I continually
grudged. However, there it was at this critical moment, with its
corkscrew, gimlet, its bewildering array of blades, its hoof-pick,
tooth-pick, tweezers, file, screw-driver and assorted unclassifiable
tools; a ponderous lump of pocket-destroying uselessness--and yet, the
appointed means of saving my life.
The gimlet was the first tool that I called into requisition. Very
gingerly--for these tools are commonly over-tempered and brittle--I
bored in the thick plank a hole at about the level of my mouth; and as
I worked I turned over my further plans. When the gimlet was through
the door, I selected a tool on whose use I had often speculated--a
sharp-edged spike, like a diminutive and very stumpy bayonet--which I
proceeded to use broach-wise to enlarge the hole. When this tool
worked loose, I exchanged it for the screw-driver, with which I
managed to broach the hole out to about half an inch in width. And
this was as large as I could make it, and it was not large enough.
True, one could breathe fairly comfortably through a half-inch hole,
but, with the deadly gas circulating around, a freer opening was very
desirable.
Then I bethought me that the magic knife contained a saw--a wretched,
thick-bladed affair, but still a saw--which would actually cut wood if
you gave it time. This implement suggested a simple plan which I
forthwith put into execution, working as rapidly as I could without
running the risk of breaking the tools. My plan was to make a second
hole some two inches diagonally below the first, and from each hole to
carry two saw-cuts at right angles to one another. The two pairs of
cuts would intersect and take a square piece out of the door, giving
me a little window through which I could breathe in comfort.
It was a trifling task, but yet, with the miserable tools I had, it
took a considerable time to execute; the more since the saw blade was
wider than the holes, excepting at its point. However, it was
accomplished at last, and I had the satisfaction of pushing out the
little separated square of wood and feeling that I now had free access
to the pure air outside my dungeon.
But it was none too soon. As I rested from my labours, it occurred to
me to test the condition of the air inside. Lighting a wax match, I
held the little taper so that the flame ascended steadily, and then
lowered it slowly. As it descended the flame changed colour somewhat,
and about eighteen inches from the floor it went out quite suddenly.
There was, then, a layer of the pure gas about eighteen inches deep
covering the floor, and, no doubt, rising pretty rapidly.
This was rather startling, and it warned me to have recourse without
delay to my breathing hole. For though carbonic acid gas behaves
somewhat as a liquid, it is not a liquid: like other gases, it has the
power of diffusing upwards, and the air of the cellar must be already
getting unsafe. Accordingly, after carefully wiping the surface of the
door with my handkerchief, I applied my mouth, with some distaste, to
the opening and took in a deep draught of undoubtedly pure air.
The position in which I had to stand with my mouth to the hole was an
irksome one, and I foresaw that it would presently become very
fatiguing. Moreover, when the gas reached the level of my head, it
would be difficult to prevent some of it from finding its way into my
mouth and nostrils; and if it did, I should most assuredly be
poisoned. This consideration suggested the necessity of making another
hole at a lower level to let out the gas and allow me to rest myself
by a change of position. But this new task had to be carried out with
my mouth glued to the breathing hole; and very awkward and tiring I
found it and very slow was the progress that I made. This second hole
was smaller than the first, for time was precious, and I reflected
that I could easily enlarge it by fresh saw-cuts, each two of which
would take out a triangular piece of wood.
But it was tedious work, and its completion left me with aching arms;
indeed, I was beginning to ache all over from the constrained
position. Taking a deep breath and shutting my mouth, I stood up and
stretched myself. Then I lit a match and looked at my watch. Half-past
eight. I had been over two hours in the cellar. And meanwhile the
patients were waiting for me at the surgery, and, no doubt, murmuring
at the delay. How soon would my absence lead to enquiries? Or were
enquiries being made even now?
Looking at the match that I still held in my hand, I noticed that its
flame was pallid and bluish; and as I lowered it slowly, it went out
when it was a little over two feet from the floor. The gas, then, was
still rising, though not so rapidly as I had feared, but from the
altered colour of the flame, it was evident that the air of the
cellar, generally, contained enough diffused gas to be actively
poisonous.
After a time, the erect position began to grow insupportably
fatiguing. I felt that I must sit down for a few minutes’ rest, even
though prudence whispered that it was highly unsafe. I struggled for
awhile, but eventually, conquered by fatigue, sat down on the floor
with my mouth applied closely to the lower breathing-hole. I persuaded
myself that I would sit only just long enough to recover some of my
strength, but minute after minute sped by and still I felt an
unaccountable reluctance to rise.
Suddenly I became conscious of a vague feeling of drowsiness; of a
desire to lean back against the wall and doze. It was only slight, but
its significance was so appalling that I scrambled to my feet in a
panic, and, putting my mouth to the upper breathing-hole, took several
deep inspirations. But I soon realized that the upright position was
impossible. The drowsy feeling continued and there was growing with it
a lassitude and weakness of the limbs that threatened to leave me only
the choice between sitting or falling. A wave of furious anger swept
over me and roused me a little; a burst of hatred of the cowardly
wretch who had decoyed me, as I now suspected, to my death. Then this
feeling passed and was succeeded by chilly fear, and I sank down once
more into a sitting position with my mouth pressed to the lower
opening.
The time ran on unreckoned by me. Gradually, by imperceptible degrees,
my mental state grew more and yet more sluggish. Anger and fear and
ever-dwindling hope flitted by turns across the slowly-fading field of
my consciousness. Intervals of quiet indifference--almost of placid
comfort--began to intervene, with increasing lassitude and a growing
desire for rest. To lie down; that was what I wanted. To lay my head
upon the stony floor and sink into sweet oblivion.
At last I must have actually dozed, though, fortunately, without
removing my mouth from the breathing-hole, for I had no sense of the
passage of time, when I was suddenly aroused by the loud and
continuous jangling of a bell.
I listened with a sort of dull eagerness and keeping awake with a
conscious effort.
The bell pealed wildly and without a pause for what seemed to me quite
a long time.
Then it ceased, and again my consciousness began to grow dim. After an
interval, I know not how long, there came to me dimly and only
half-perceived, the closing of a door, the patter of quick footsteps,
and then the voice of a man calling me by name.
I struggled to get on to my feet, but could not move. But I still held
the clasp-knife and was able to rap with it feebly on the door. Again
I heard the voice--it sounded nearer now, and yet infinitely far
away--and again I rapped on the door and shouted through the
breathing-hole; a thin, muffled cry, such as one utters in a troubled
dream. And then the drowsiness crept over me again and I heard no
more.
The next thing of which I was conscious was a sounding thwack on the
cheek with something wet that felt like a dead fish. I opened my eyes
and looked vaguely into two faces that were close to mine and seemed
to be lighted by a lamp or candle. The faces were somehow familiar,
but yet I failed clearly to recognize them, and, after staring
stupidly for a few moments, I began to doze again. Then the dead fish
returned to the assault and I again opened my eyes. Another vigorous
flop caused me to open my mouth with an unparliamentary gasp.
“Ah! That’s better,” said a familiar and yet “unplaced” voice. “When a
man is able to swear, he is fairly on the road to recovery.” Flop!
The renewed attentions of the dead fish (which turned out, later, to
be merely a wet towel) evoked further demonstrations on my part of
progressing recovery, accompanied by a nervous titter in a female
voice. Gradually the clouds rolled away, and to my returning
consciousness, the faces revealed themselves as those of Maggie, the
housemaid, and Dr. Thorndyke. Even to my muddled wits, the presence of
the latter was somewhat of a puzzle, and, in the intervals of
anathematizing the deceased fish--which I had not yet identified--I
found myself hazily speculating on the problem of how my revered
teacher came to be in this place, and what place this was.
“Come, now, Jardine,” said Dr. Thorndyke, emptying a jug of water on
my face, and receiving a volley of spluttered expletives in exchange,
“pull yourself together. How did you get in that cellar?”
“Hang’ ’f I know,” said I, composing myself for another nap. But here
the wet towel came once more into requisition, and that with such
vigour that, in a fit of exasperation, I sat up and yawned.
“I think you’d better fetch a cab,” said Thorndyke, as Maggie wrung
out the towel afresh; “but leave the gate open when you go out.”
“Wasser cab for?” I asked sulkily. “Can’t I walk?”
“If you can, it will be better,” said Thorndyke. “Let us see if you
are able to stand.” He hoisted me on to my feet and he and Maggie,
taking each an arm, walked me slowly up and down the cobbled yard,
which I now began to recognize as appertaining to the Mineral Water
Works. At first I staggered very drunkenly, but by degrees the drowsy
feeling wore off and I was able to walk with Thorndyke’s assistance
only.
“I think we might venture out now,” said he, at length, piloting me
towards the gate, and when I had stumbled rather awkwardly through the
wicket, we set forth homeward.
On my arrival home, Thorndyke ordered a supply of strong coffee and a
light meal, after which--it being obvious that I was good for nothing
in a professional sense, he suggested that I should go to bed.
“Don’t worry about the practice,” said he. “I will send for my friend
Jervis, and, between us, we will see that everything is looked after.
If Maggie will give me a sheet of paper and an envelope I will write a
note to him; and then she can take a hansom to my chambers and give
the note either to Dr. Jervis or my man Polton. Meanwhile, I will stay
here and see that you don’t go to sleep prematurely.”
He wrote the note; and Maggie, having made such improvements in her
outward garb as befitted the status of a rider in hansoms, took charge
of it and departed with much satisfaction and dignity. Thorndyke made
a few enquiries of me as to the circumstances that had led to my
incarceration in the cellar, but finding that I knew no more than
Maggie--whom he had already questioned--he changed the subject; nor
would he allow me again to refer to it.
“No, Jardine,” he said. “Better think no more of it for the present.
Have a good night’s rest and then, if you are all right in the
morning, we will go into the matter and see if we can put the puzzle
together.”