“Oh,” I said, “you needn’t be afraid. Vernon does play, but I’m sure,
if you ask him, he’ll put his piano against the wall of the other
house, and keep the windows shut when he is practising. Why didn’t you
speak about it last night?”
“I’ll ask no favours of Vernon,” he said sternly.
Then he got up.
“I thought I’d just tell you,” he said. “Now I can’t stop. I’ve got a
patient to see.”
He gave me a feverish hand, and went quickly out of the room.
While he was with me, I had endeavoured to make light of his news, to
deceive him into the belief that I thought Vernon’s action a chance
one, but directly I was alone I felt, though less agitated, nearly as
angry at this affair as he did. It was a strange business—this pursuit.
Deeming had said to me at Dover that Vernon was a “black fanatic”;
what if it were so? What if my friend, so kind, so calm, even so
unusually gentle in ordinary life, well balanced and eminently sane in
his outlook upon men and affairs, really had a “screw loose”—to use
the current phrase? What if the fate of his dog had actually affected
his mind? I knew that there are men in the world who are sound on
all subjects except one. Touch upon that subject, and they show an
eccentricity that is akin to madness. It might be so with Vernon. I
began to feel as if it must be so, and a great restlessness, a great
uneasiness, beset me. Driven by it, I caught up my hat, hurried
downstairs, hailed a hansom, and went to Claridge’s.
The hall-porter informed me that Mr. Kersteven was out.
“Do you happen to know where he has gone?” I asked.
“No, sir; he didn’t leave any word.”