"I don't know." The doctor gave a characteristic shrug. "It's not my
job; as it was, I'd done all the detective business, which I loathe."
"I remember," cried Scarth. "I shall never forget the way you went
through that prescription, as though you had been looking over the
blighter's shoulder! Not an expert--modest fellow--pride that apes!"
And again Dollar had to laugh at the way Mr. Jingle wagged his head, in
spite of the same slightly caustic undercurrent as before.
"That was the easiest part of it," he answered, "although you make me
blush to say so. The hard part was what reviewers of novels call the
'motivation.'"
"But you had that in Schickel's spite against Alt."
"It was never quite strong enough to please me."
"Then what was the motive, doctor?"
"Young Laverick's death."
"Nonsense!"
"I wish it were, Mr. Scarth."
"But who is there in Winterwald who could wish to compass such a thing?"
"There were more than two thousand visitors over Christmas, I
understand," was the only reply.
It would not do for Mostyn Scarth. He looked less than politely
incredulous, if not less shocked and rather more indignant than he need
have looked. But the whole idea was a reflection upon his care of the
unhappy youth. And he said so in other words, which resembled those of
Mr. Jingle only in their stiff staccato brevity.
"Talk about 'motivation'!--I thank you, doctor, for that word--but I
should thank you even more to show me the thing itself in your theory.
And what a way to kill a fellow! What a roundabout, risky way!"
"It was such a good forgery," observed the doctor, "that even Alt
himself could hardly swear that it was one."
"Is _he_ your man?" asked Scarth, in a sudden whisper, leaning forward
with lighted eyes.
The crime doctor smiled enigmatically. "It's perhaps just as lucky for
him, Scarth, that at least he could have had nothing to do with the
second attempt upon his patient's life."
"What second attempt?"
"The hand that forged the prescription, Scarth, with intent to poison
young Laverick, was the one that also filed the flaw in his toboggan, in
the hope of breaking his neck."
"My dear doctor," exclaimed Mostyn Scarth, with a pained shake of the
head, "this is stark, staring madness!"
"I only hope it was--in the would-be murderer," rejoined Dollar gravely.
"But he had a lot of method; he even did his bit of filing--a burglar
couldn't have done it better--in the domino Jack Laverick had just taken
off!"
"How do you know he had taken it off? How do you know the whole job
wasn't one of Jack's drunken tricks?"
"What whole job?"
"The one you're talking about--the alleged tampering with his toboggan,"
replied Scarth, impatiently.
"Oh! I only thought you meant something more." Dollar made a pause.
"Don't you feel it rather hot in here, Scarth?"
"Do you know, I do!" confessed the visitor, as though it were Dollar's
house and breeding had forbidden him to volunteer the remark. "It's the
heat of this stove, with the window shut. Thanks so much, doctor!"
And he wiped his strong, brown, beautifully shaven face; it was one of
those that require shaving more than once a day, yet it was always
glossy from the razor; and he burnished it afresh with a silk
handkerchief that would have passed through a packing-needle's eye.
"And what are you really doing about this--monster?" he resumed, as who
should accept the monster's existence for the sake of argument.
"Nothing, Scarth."
"Nothing? You intend to do nothing at all?"
Scarth had started, for the first time; but he started to his feet,
while he was about it, as though in overpowering disgust.
"Not if he keeps out of England," replied the crime doctor, who had also
risen. "I wonder if he's sane enough for that?"
Their four eyes met in a protracted scrutiny, without a flicker on
either side.
"What I am wondering," said Scarth deliberately, "is whether this
Frankenstein effort of yours exists outside your own imagination, Doctor
Dollar."
"Oh! he exists all right," declared the doctor. "But I am charitable
enough to suppose him mad--in spite of his method _and_ his motive."
"Did he tell you what that was?" asked Scarth with a sneer.
"No; but Jack did. He seems to have been in the man's power--under his
influence--to an extraordinary degree. He had even left him a wicked sum
in a will made since he came of age. I needn't tell you that he has now
made another, revoking----"
"No, you need not!" cried Mostyn Scarth, turning livid at the last
moment. "I've heard about enough of your mares' nests and mythical
monsters. I wish you good morning, and a more credulous audience next
time."
"That I can count upon," returned the doctor at the door. "There's no
saying what they won't believe--at Scotland Yard!"