"Very well," I replied. "I'll be down at once;" and, rising, I slipped
on my things hastily, glancing at my watch and finding it to be five
o'clock--four o'clock in English time, as I had not altered my watch
since leaving Italy.
In the grey of dawn at the door below I met Enrico, who, speaking
excitedly in Italian, said:
"Something has happened, signore. I do not know what it is; but half an
hour ago a little old lady came out of the house hurriedly, and called a
doctor named Barton, who has a surgery in Theobald's Road, next the
fire-engine station. She seemed greatly excited, and the doctor hurried
back with her. He's there now, I expect."
In an instant the truth became apparent. Someone had attempted to open
The Closed Book as I had done, and had become envenomed.
I explained but little to Enrico; but together we hurried back through
the dim, silent thoroughfares to Harpur Street.
I felt a certain amount of satisfaction that the thieves should suffer
as I had suffered. Like myself, they had opened The Closed Book at
their own risk and peril.
The house, like its neighbours, was in total darkness, save a flickering
candle-flame showing through the dingy fanlight, denoting that Doctor
Barton was still within. I asked the young Italian how he knew the
doctor's name, and he replied that it was engraved on the brass-plate on
the door.
Within myself I reconstructed the whole story. An unknown inmate of the
house had been poisoned, and the doctor--a friend most probably--had
been hurriedly summoned. Was he aware of the antidote, as Pellegrini in
Leghorn had been? Poisoning is not the usual recreation of the
law-abiding Londoner, and few general practitioners, even Harley Street
specialists, would care to undergo an examination upon Tanner's
"Memoranda on Poisons," nearly out of date as it may be.
My chief object was to regain possession of my property. I had
discovered at least two persons interested in it--namely the old
gentleman and the sweet-faced young woman who had entered that smart
house in Grosvenor Street. There only remained for me to fix the
identity of the unknown person within that dingy old house in Harpur
Street.
The doctor emerged at last when near five o'clock, and it was quite
daylight. He was shown out by my fellow-passenger from Calais, who
thanked him profusely for his efforts, evidently successful.
For an hour or two I saw nothing could be done; therefore we both
relinquished our vigil: Enrico returning to his home behind Saffron Hill
to snatch an hour's sleep and some breakfast, and I back to the hotel.
In thinking over all the curious events, I resolved that it was
necessary to confide in one or other of my friends in London. At
present no one knew that I was back in town; but when they did I knew
that a flood of invitations would pour upon me.
As I have already said, it was now my intention to settle down in
England, and I was eager to begin house-hunting, so as to have a fitting
place ready to receive my antiquarian collection when it arrived from
Italy. Some months must elapse before I could be settled in a country
house, which I intended; therefore, on reflection, I resolved to accept
the hospitality of one of my best friends of the old London days,
Captain Walter Wyman, the well-known traveller and writer. He was about
my own age, and had earned success and popularity by dint of
perseverance and intrepid exploration. Inheriting an ample income from
his father, the late Sir Henry Wyman, Knight, the great Wigan
ironmaster, he had after a bitter disappointment in love devoted himself
to the pursuit of geographical knowledge, and as a result of his travels
in Asia and Africa the world had been considerably enriched by
information. Fever, however, had seriously impaired his health, and he
was at present back in his comfortable chambers in Dover Street, where
he had only a few weeks ago invited me to stay if I came to town.
I decided to accept his hospitality in preference to the comfortless
hotel life, which, after some years of it in various places on the
Continent, I abominate. Of all men in whom I might confide, Walter
Wyman would be the best. He lived for adventure, and as the world is
well aware had had a considerable amount of it during his travels.
At ten o'clock that morning his white-headed old valet Thompson admitted
me.
"Why, my dear Allan!" my friend cried, jumping from his chair, where he
was enjoying his after-breakfast cigarette, "this is a surprise! You're
back, then?"
"Yes," I replied. "I came back suddenly last night, and am going to
accept your invitation to stay."
"Of course. You know we wouldn't be friends any longer if you went
elsewhere. How long are you over for?"
"For good. I'm going to look out for a cottage or something in the
country. I'm sick of Italy at last."
Wyman smiled, offered me a cigarette, and ordered Thompson to bring
brandy and soda. Careless, easy-going cosmopolitan that he was, it
never struck him that strong drink so early in the morning was unusual.
He was dark, with a rather reddish complexion, tall, well-groomed,
well-dressed in a suit of dark blue, and well set-up altogether.
Although several touches of fever had played havoc with him, he
nevertheless looked the pink of condition--a fine specimen of English
manhood.
When I had lit my cigarette I spoke to him confidentially, and he
listened to my story with the utmost attention. In that cozy room, the
walls of which were hung with savage arms and trophies of the chase, and
the floor covered with the skins of animals that had fallen to his gun,
I told him the whole of the strange circumstances, relating briefly the
incomplete story as written in The Closed Book and the remarkable
conspiracy that was apparently in progress.
When I had described the mysterious visit of the tall old gentleman and
the young woman to Harpur Street, and had related how I had followed
them to the Earl of Glenelg's house in Grosvenor Street, he jumped up,
exclaiming:
"Why, from your description, my dear fellow, he must have been the Earl
himself, and the girl was evidently his daughter, Lady Judith Gordon!
They've been abroad this two years, and to half London their whereabouts
has been a mystery. I had no idea they had returned. By Jove! what you
tell me is really most puzzling. It seems to me that you ought to get
back that book at any cost."