Justin awoke with a slight headache. He seemed to be resting on some
sort of hospital cot. Even as he sat up he could feel it move slightly
beneath him. It was obviously portable. And, while the mattress was
comfortable enough, it lacked pad, pillow or covering of any kind. He
was, he noted flickeringly, still wearing the blue-piped grey nylon
pajamas in which he had gone to bed.
Nor was he in the old house on Louisburg Square. Walls, floor and
ceiling of the windowless cubicle around him were all of a neutral
composition. Such light as there was was indirect. Evidently, he
decided, some sudden sickness had landed him in a hospital room.
At first glance the man who stepped forward from a corner added to
the hospital illusion. In knee-length Prince Albert and with grave
bewhiskered countenance he looked the picture of a conservative man of
medicine. In accents only a little too British to be Bostonian he said,
"I was beginning to fear you weren't going to awaken at all."
* * * * *
But as he moved forward it became quickly apparent that this was no
twentieth century Boston physician. His hair and whiskers were of much
too full and luxurious a cut, the octagonal steel-rimmed spectacles
upon his nose much too archaic--as was the upright stiff collar that
held his black ascot tie, and his Prince Albert itself.
Justin's eyes ranged downward and froze. For his dignified companion
wore neither trousers nor shoes. Below the skirts of his long coat thin
shanks protruded, clad only in tight-fitting long drawers, to end in
blue morocco slippers with up-pointed Turkish toes. Justin said, not
wanting to be too obvious, "How long have I been asleep?"
"It is difficult to tell," said the bewhiskered one. He fumbled
beneath his Prince Albert, produced a parsnip of a silver stem-winder,
looked at it and shook his head sadly. "My timepiece seems to have
stopped utterly since my arrival here."
"All right then," said Justin, running a hand through his close-cut
hair, "Where in hell am I anyway?"
"That too is difficult. I believe it is called Belvoir. By the way, I
am Dr. Ian Phillips, at your service."
"Then you _are_ a doctor!" Justin exclaimed. "Would you mind explaining
what's happened to me?"
"A doctor of philosophy," was the gentle reply. "I was rather hoping
that _you_, sir, were a physician."
"Charles Justin, alleged banker, at your service." Justin swung
his legs over the side of his cot, tested the floor, stood up. He
discovered he was holding the spider clutched in his right hand,
dropped it unobtrusively into his pocket. He must have taken it while
falling asleep.
"You must be an American, Mr. Justin," said Dr. Phillips.