A few days later Dr Koomadhi was visited--unofficially--by Commander
Hope. The poor Commissioner was as grave as if an impetuous French naval
officer had just been reported to have insulted the British flag on some
part of the coast protected (nominally) by that variegated bunting.
He was anxious to consult the Doctor regarding the condition of Major
Minton.
“Indeed?” said the Doctor. “What do you suppose is the matter with him,
sir?”
The Commissioner tapped his forehead significantly.
“A slight touch of sunstroke, I fancy,” he replied. “He has been
behaving strangely--giving us a great deal of uneasiness, Koomadhi. Oh
yes, it’s clearly a touch of sunstroke.”
“That’s bad--but not sufficiently bad to be very grave about, sir,” said
the Doctor. “You know how these attacks pass away, leaving scarcely
a trace behind, if properly treated. You have, of course, applied the
ice?”
“We’ve applied nothing,” said the Commissioner. “He’s beyond our
control, Koomadhi. He left the Residency last evening and has not turned
up since.”
“Great heavens!”
“It’s a fact. Oh, he must be stark, staring mad”--the Commissioner was
walking up and down the Doctor’s room in a state of most unofficial
perturbation. “I found it necessary to speak to him pretty plainly a
couple’ of days ago. It was bad enough for him to climb up the mast and
nail the flag to the pole so that it could not be hauled down at sunset,
but when it conies to dropping the keys of the despatch-boxes into the
water-tank, the thing ceases to be a joke. I gave him a good slating,
and he sulked. He had an idea, his wife told me, that he understood the
simian language, and he was for ever practising his knowledge upon our
tame baboon. What on earth does that mean, if not sunstroke--tell me
that, Koomadhi?”
“It looks very like sunstroke, indeed,” said the Doctor. “But where can
he have disappeared to?”
“That’s the question that makes me feel uneasy,” said the Commissioner.
“I don’t like to make a fuss just yet, but--I’ll tell you what it is,
Koomadhi,”--he lowered his voice to a whisper,--“the man has a delusion
that he is an ape--it’s impossible to keep it a secret any longer. God
help us all! God help my poor girl--my poor girl!”
The Commissioner broke down completely, and wept with his face bowed
down to his hands. He was very unofficial--tears are not official.
“Come, sir, you must not give way like this,” said the Doctor.
“This coast is the very devil for men like Minton, who will not take
reasonable precautions. But there’s no reason to be alarmed just yet.
The _Penguin_ will be here in a few days, and the instant the steamer
drops her anchor we’ll ship him aboard. He’ll be all right, take my word
for it, when he sails a few degrees northward.”
“But where is he now?”
“He’s probably loafing around the outskirts of the jungle; but he’ll be
safe enough, and he’ll return, most likely, within the next few hours.”
“You are of that opinion?”
“Assuredly. Above all things, there must be no talk about this
business,--it might ruin him socially; and your daughter----”
“Poor girl! poor girl! I agree with you, Koomadhi,--it must be kept a
secret; no human being must know about this shocking business.”
“If he does not return before to-night, send a message to me, sir.”
“I’ll not fail. Poor girl! Oh, Koomadhi, her heart will be broken--her
heart will be broken!”
The Commissioner went away, looking at least ten years older than when
he had last been seen by Dr Koomadhi.
The Doctor watched him stumbling down the pathway: then he laughed and
opened a bottle of champagne, which he drank at a gulp--it was only when
he was alone that he allowed himself the luxury of drinking champagne in
gulps.
Shortly before midnight he paid a visit to the barracks of the Houssas,
and found that the officer who was on the sick list was very much
better. Returning by the side of the jungle, he heard the sound of steps
and a laugh behind him. It might have been the laugh of a man, but the
steps were not those of a man.
He looked round.
A shambling creature was following him--a creature with a hairy face and
matted locks--a creature whose eyes gleamed wildly in the moonlight.
“How the mischief can you walk so fast along a path like this?” came the
voice of Major Minton from the hairy jaws of the Thing.
“I’m not walking so fast, after all,” said the Doctor. He had not given
the least start on coming face to face with the Thing.
“I don’t care much about walking on roads; but I’ll back myself to cross
a forest without leaving the trees,” said the Thing. “That would beat
you, Koomadhi. Oh, by the way----” Here he emitted some guttural sounds.
The simian language was recognised by the Doctor, and replied to with a
smile, and for some time the two exchanged remarks. The Doctor was the
first to break down.
“I don’t understand that expression,” said he, when the other had
repeated some sounds.
“Why, you fool, that means, ‘Is there anything to drink handy?’” said
the voice of Major Minton. “Why, I know more of the language than you.
We’ve been talking nothing else for the past day or two.”
“Where have you been?”
“In the jungle. Where else would you have me be?”
“Where, indeed? You’d better stay with me to-night. I’ll give you
something to drink.”
“That will suit me nicely. I’m a bit thirsty, and----” Here he lapsed
into the simian jabber.
He curled himself up in a corner of the sofa, and took the tumbler that
Dr Koomadhi offered to him, drinking off the contents pretty much after
the style of the Doctor when alone. He then began talking about the
sense of freedom incidental to a life spent in the jungle, and every
now and again his words became what was long ago known as gibberish; but
nearly every utterance was intelligible to the Doctor.
After some time had passed, the Doctor took the carved stones out of the
desk drawer, and, handing one to his companion, said--
“By the way, I wonder if you are still deaf to the sound of this thing.
Try it again.”
“What’s the good? I’m not such a fool as to fancy that any sound can
come from a stone.”
“Doesn’t Shakespeare say something about ‘sermons in stones’?”
“Oh, Shakespeare? He could hear things and see things that no one else
could. Well, give me the stone.”
He put the roughly carved lips to his ear, while the Doctor raised the
other to his own mouth.
“You can hear no murmur?” said the Doctor.
“Nothing whatever. I think, if you don’t mind, I’ll go asleep.”
“I can give you a bed.”
“A bed? What rot! No, thank you, I’ll be comfortable enough here.”
He curled himself up and went asleep before the Doctor’s eyes.
When the Doctor entered his sitting-room the next morning the apartment
was empty.