THE PROFESSOR IS PUZZLED
In spite of the sceptical attitude which Gastineau seemed inclined
to maintain towards it, the evidence of the man Campion, having been
closely sifted and tested, was regarded on all hands as practically
conclusive, and certain to win the case for the Countess Alexia.
The mouthpieces of public opinion, as is usual in such cases, hastened
to hedge, and the vane of prejudice showed signs of swinging round. The
defendants and their advisers were now concentrating their energies
upon getting out of an awkward position with least damage to their
purses and reputations: and it was generally admitted that this new
evidence, although it went but a little way towards proving who was the
slayer of Captain Martindale, must at least, if unshaken, exonerate the
Countess.
Still the mystery remained almost as deep as ever. Who, every one now
began to ask, was the mysterious man whom Campion saw? A scrutiny
among the list of the guests failed to give any hopeful clue, and only
served to increase the puzzle. For there had been a great crowd at
Vaux House that night. The ball had been one of those entertainments
which great hostesses give periodically to include all who can have
any sort of claim upon their hospitality. Cards had been sent out to
every one of the Lancashires’ acquaintance, social, political, and
casual; there had been the usual crush, a constant stream of incomers
and outgoers, and no record kept of those who actually were present.
How could the identity of one man be discovered? Campion was confident
that he would recognize him; but where was the chance of bringing into
review before him the hundreds of men who had been included in that big
social sweeping-up? The dead man might be supposed to have had enemies,
disappointed rivals of the notorious supplanter: but that was only
vague conjecture; nothing definite of any one was known.
But one evening Herriard rushed up to the house in Mayfair with a great
piece of news. To his discomfiture Gastineau was, for the second time
during their acquaintance, denied him. Hencher had the same tale as
before to tell. Mr. Murray had had a very bad day; had been and still
was in great pain; the seizure would surely go off soon, and then he
would see Mr. Herriard, but not now; he was sure Mr. Herriard would
understand and would be kind enough to return in an hour or two.
Herriard turned away from the door, his disappointment at the delay
merged in remorse for what he told himself was cruelty and vile
ingratitude. Here was this man who had been to him more than a friend
or a brother, who had been, from a worldly point of view at least,
his good genius, the mainspring of his success, lying writhing in
pain, while he, selfish coward, with the healer, this great Viennese
specialist at his very door, hesitated to bring him to his succour. For
it was now some days since he had known the field of Dr. Hallamar’s
surgical skill; he had, amid great pressure of work, so much must
be admitted in his excuse, debated the question with himself, and
hesitated as to his course. Why had he delayed? His conscience told
him that it was because Gastineau’s recovery meant his own ruin. With
an active life again open to him it was not to be supposed that his
master would care to continue the strange partnership. Besides, would
he not at once become his rival, and, with the shining forth again of
the stronger natural light, must not his artificial beam be effectually
paled? Still, these considerations were not, he told himself, those
which a man of honour could entertain. His duty to his friend and
helper was clear. He must do it, and chance the consequences, relying
upon Gastineau’s generosity and, perhaps, gratitude.
He was not so certain of these. There came at times into Gastineau’s
eyes an ugly, wolfish look, a cold, merciless gleam that seemed to say
that nothing but the physical strength was lacking for him to fall upon
and rend any one who might stand in his way. And on such occasions
Herriard had, in spite of himself, experienced a kind of satisfaction
from the thought that the man lying before him with the fierce,
pitiless will was crippled; that the bitter, unscrupulous soul was
fettered in that prison of the half-dead body. At times Gastineau would
almost frighten his pupil when for a moment he unleashed the hounds of
his almost Satanic spite; then he would laugh off the outburst, and
ascribe it to his condition. But there was no doubt that fear, though
scarcely acknowledged, had something to do with Herriard’s hesitation
in the matter of calling in Dr. Hallamar.
Impatient and self-reproachful, Herriard went into the Park. He was in
no mood to go home or to the House of Commons, he would wait about
near at hand for an hour or so until he could see Gastineau. The news
he had to tell him was momentous, and then he was resolved to broach
the subject of the Austrian specialist without further delay. He could
not bear to think of his friend lying there helpless in paroxysms of
agony while he, who owed him everything, was inhuman enough to withhold
the healing hand.
As he paced up and down the stretches of path, chafing and remorseful,
it occurred to him that just across the way was Green Street, where
he could get Dr. Hallamar’s address and so save time, for he was
determined that, with Gastineau’s consent, not an hour more should be
lost in calling in the great surgeon. As he waited to cross the drive,
whom should he see coming towards him but the very man who was in his
mind.
“Ah, Doctor, well met!” he greeted him. “I was just on my way to our
friends the von Rohnburgs to ask for your address.”
Hallamar bowed. “For the few days longer I remain in England I am
staying at the _Hotel Britannia_. Can I be of service to you? You are
interested in my work, yes?”
“You are very good, Doctor. I was going to propose that you should
visit a dear friend of mine. I only wish that I had known of your work
sooner.”
The Doctor bowed again. “Your friend suffers from a spinal affection?”
“Yes. The result of a railway accident. He is, poor fellow, a helpless
cripple. I should almost fear beyond even your powers of healing. He
was terribly hurt, and for days after the accident it was thought he
could not possibly live.”
Hallamar, beneath his professional reticence, was evidently interested.
“A bad case, doubtless,” he observed. “But bad cases are not
necessarily the least curable. It may seem brutal to a layman, but we
rather rejoice in bad cases.”
“Then I think this one ought to delight you,” Herriard suggested with a
laugh. “It seems to me as bad a case as you could have in a patient who
continues to live. And it must be a bad symptom, at least for him, poor
fellow, that he suffers at times a martyrdom of pain.”
Hallamar’s face suddenly changed from an expression of sympathetic
interest to one of surprise and polite incredulity. “Pain?” he
repeated, “not as the result of spinal paralysis?”
“Yes,” Herriard replied, “so he tells me. He suffers terrible paroxysms
of pain at times. Why, is that a rare symptom?”
“Unheard of,” the Professor answered, beginning now to regard Herriard
as a witness, whose testimony was too inexact and irresponsible to be
accepted. “Certainly,” he added reflectively, “the pain you speak of
may result from some other cause, some lesion in a part of the body
unaffected by the spinal shock. Your friend was perhaps hurt elsewhere
in the accident?”
“No,” Herriard replied. “I am pretty sure of that. At least the doctors
said so at the time.”
“H’m!” Hallamar could not understand it, but was scarcely inclined
to accept the symptoms on hearsay, “The pain your friend complains
of is in the head perhaps?” he suggested, interested in spite of the
untrustworthiness of the report.
“The head! No, the back,” Herriard corrected. “He told me so.”
The Professor shook his head. “It could not be.”
“A man,” Herriard objected, “be he ever so shattered and paralyzed,
would scarcely mistake a pain in the head for one in the back, would
he?”
Hallamar evidently thought it not worth while to pursue the argument.
“Hardly,” he agreed. “Still in the absence of any other injury a
headache is all that we could prognose.” Then, in answer to the
other’s perplexed expression, he added, “You see Mr. Herriard, it is
a very simple and safe assertion to make. Shock and injury to the
spine produce paralysis of the nerve ganglions and consequent loss
of sensation; and where there is no sensation there can be no pain.
The telegraph wires, so to speak, between the brain and the supposed
seat of pain are severed; how then can the sensation of pain be
communicated? You must have misunderstood your friend. Well, this is an
unprofitable discussion. If you would like me to see the case I have
still a few days more in England, and if a cure by my treatment seemed
likely I might even arrange to extend my stay.”
“Indeed I should,” Herriard answered readily. “I have been reproaching
myself for having let the opportunity of obtaining your advice so far
slip by.”
Dr. Hallamar took out his note-book. “Will you give me your friend’s
name and address?”
In a moment the idea of caution, which Gastineau’s position imposed,
flashed upon Herriard. “Would you mind my leaving the matter for an
hour or two?” he suggested. “I hope I do not seem ungracious, but
perhaps I ought to speak to my friend first, although it is not
conceivable that he could have any objection to putting himself under
your treatment. I am going to see him directly, and will leave a
message at your hotel later in the evening.”
There was a curious look in the Professor’s eyes as he returned the
note-book to his pocket, a look into which Herriard read a little pique
at his seemingly unreasonable hesitation. But he misread it.
“I presume,” said Herriard, as they turned and walked together towards
Piccadilly, “you have found some interesting cases to have kept you
over here so long?”
“I have,” Hallamar answered with some reserve. “It has been to my
advantage to stay here.”
“Ah, bigger fees than at home,” Herriard said to himself. “You have, I
suppose, the monopoly of your treatment?” he added aloud.
“Certainly I have,” the Doctor replied, a little tartly. “Why should
I not reap the reward of my discovery? The attitude of the medical
profession, here especially, is antagonistic to innovation and novelty.
I meet them in their own spirit. They withheld recognition, I withhold
my secret.”
“One cannot blame you. But surely, Professor, they recognize the
results of your treatment?”
Hallamar gave a shrug. “Grudgingly, oh, yes. Naturally they hate a man
to succeed where they must fail. It shows up their incompetence. Now,
tell me, this friend of yours. How long has he been afflicted?”
“Between three and four years.”
“Ah, yes! He met with a railway accident, I think you said?”
“Yes.”
“In England?”
“No, abroad,” Herriard answered guardedly.
“So!” The same curious look was on Hallamar’s face. “He is in London?”
“Yes, in Mayfair.”
“In Mayfair? So! A convenient distance.” He stopped suddenly and held
out his hand. “Well, I will go across and get a cab; I have some
writing to do before dinner. You will see your friend and let me know
this evening? My time is short.”
“Certainly, in an hour or two,” Herriard replied, and they parted.
It was with a considerably lightened conscience that Herriard presently
made his way to Gastineau’s. Hencher told him that his master was now
much better and would be glad to see him. When he went up Gastineau
seemed to be dozing, but roused himself and greeted him with his usual
languid cordiality. But there was no languor in the eyes, they were
bright and alert as ever.
“I have had another bad bout,” he said apologetically. “I am so sorry,
Geof, not to have seen you just now, only I might have been more sorry
if I had. Now, you have something to tell me?”
“I have a good deal to tell you. First of all a great piece of news.
Our new witness Campion has seen and recognized the man we are after.”
Over Gastineau’s face fell the smile of half-amused interest, with
which one listens to an important trifle from a child. “Not the man
whom he saw getting out of the window?”
“Yes. The very man. He is ready to swear to it.”
“Ah, then you have him?”
“Unfortunately, no. He has been seen and recognized and that is all.”
“Ah, that’s a pity.” To Herriard in any other mood his reception of
the news would have been irritating. He seemed wilfully incapable of
anticipating any advantage from this evidence. “And why did Mr. Campion
stop there?”
“He saw the man in a cab last evening. Before he could get another to
follow him up he had lost sight of it,” Herriard explained.
“Ah, that was a pity,” Gastineau repeated, with the same sarcastic
drawl.
But the other ignored his tone. “Of course it was a terrible pity.
Still, it has established that the man we want is about, and moreover
it has refreshed Campion’s memory as to his identity.”
“Everything at the same time resting upon the said Campion’s word.”
“My dear Gastineau, why will you persist in being so sceptical?”
Herriard protested, at last a little irritated. “No one but yourself
sees any reason to doubt the fellow. He has never contradicted himself,
or swerved from the straightforward story he first told.”
“Oh, he is not a fool, I grant you.”
“And I am positive he is not a knave. I wish you could see him.”
Gastineau gave an ugly laugh. “Thank you; I don’t want to. It is
unfortunate, seeing his seems to be a pretty piece of dovetailed
evidence, but I do not believe in your Mr. Campion.”
“It is prejudice,” Herriard expostulated.
“Call it what you like,” Gastineau returned. “I think you will find
that I am right. This last move of his was exactly what circumstances
required, and is precisely what I should have expected. How does he
describe the man he saw?”
“A dark man with black hair, a pale face and piercing eyes. It is by
the eyes, he says, that he would recognize him anywhere.”
“And you have not yet found out which of the Duchess’s guests answers
to that description?”
“That is not easy,” Herriard replied, with a smile.
“No,” Gastineau returned. “I quite agree with you, it is rather vague.
And now, what is Mr. Campion himself like?”
“Campion?” Herriard repeated, with a look of surprise at the question.
“Let us have his description, as I have not seen him.”
“Oh, there is nothing remarkable about him. He is a somewhat thick-set
man of five and thirty, with rather a good, frank face.”
“You can see that? He is clean-shaven?”
“No; he wears a short brown beard.”
“Ah! Well, my dear Geof, I hope it may turn out that my scepticism is
unjustified.”
“I have every reason to think it will,” Herriard returned, in a rather
nettled tone, as he closed the subject. “And now, my dear friend,” he
proceeded, in an altered manner, “I have another matter to discuss with
you and one of which I hope you will think more favourably.”
“Why not, Geof?” Gastineau responded, with his disarming smile. “Come,
we don’t often disagree. What is it?”
“Nothing less than a great chance of your recovery.”
If he had watched the other’s face for a joyful sign, he did not find
it. He could only set down the absence of any sign of eagerness to
Gastineau’s great power of self-control. A curious gleam, which might
mean anything, flashed into his eyes, that was all.
“Ah, tell me.”
“I can’t wonder that you don’t seem to believe it,” Gastineau’s manner
forced Herriard to say. “But I have come across a great man, a Viennese
specialist, over here just now, who has performed wonderful cures in
cases like yours.” He went on to tell him all he knew of Dr. Hallamar.
Gastineau received the news with, to all appearance, a singular apathy;
only his eyes, which were fixed on Herriard, gave evidence of a curious
interest in the story.
“Yes,” he commented at length when Herriard had said all he had to
tell, “it seems wonderful, and well worth trying.”
“I am thankful to hear you say that,” Herriard exclaimed heartily. “I
was afraid from your manner that your fit of scepticism was going to
include Dr. Hallamar and his treatment.”
Gastineau smiled. “I don’t say it does not. Still, as a drowning man,
I am thankful for any straw to clutch at. How long do you say this Dr.
Hallamar has been in England?”
It was an awkward question, and none the less so from the pointed
manner of its putting. “He has been over here some little time,”
Herriard answered self-consciously. “Stupidly I never thought to
interest myself in the man or his particular line, and have only just
found out his specialty. I have been reproaching myself ever since.”
“Not for long, I hope?” Herriard told himself there was something
behind the words, but it may have been that he was unduly sensitive on
the point.
“No, not for long, happily,” he replied. “Now,” he added, rising, “you
will let me go off and fetch him round to you this very evening?”
Gastineau put out a protesting hand. “My dear Geof, don’t fly off at
a tangent. I have waited so long that a few hours can hardly make a
difference. Remember, even eminent surgical wonder-workers must dine.”
“Still,” Herriard urged, “I had better let him know without delay.”
“We will,” Gastineau returned quietly; “I will write him a note myself,
and Hencher shall take it to his hotel at once. Will you give me my
writing-flap?”
“I really think I had better go myself,” Herriard objected. “He may not
know who you are, and so delay----”
“I will tell him and mention your name,” Gastineau said, already
beginning to write. “I would rather you stayed with me: I have a little
something to say to you.”
So Herriard looked through a magazine while the other wrote. Hencher
was presently summoned and ordered to take a hansom to the _Hotel
Britannia_, to deliver the note into Dr. Hallamar’s own hands, and to
bring back an answer.
“You had something to say to me?” Herriard asked, when the man had gone.
“I had,” Gastineau replied. “It is a matter which I am sure will
be less repugnant to you than it is to me. But I am forced by
circumstances to mention it. You know, my dear Geof,” he continued,
as Herriard sat in silence, wondering what was coming, “you know I
have never asked you for any share in the more material rewards of
the success to which I may claim to have helped you. I have always
hoped that the need for any suggestion of the sort might never arise.
Unfortunately it has arisen.”
“Not unfortunately, my dear friend,” Herriard broke in responsively.
“I am only too glad if you are going to give me the opportunity of
reducing in a small degree my immense debt to you which I could never
hope to repay.”
“I know that, Geof,” Gastineau replied. “I was sure of it. Still I have
never, as you know, till now, contemplated any financial adjustment
between us. As it is, the present question of my ways and means which I
have been going into results in my being in need of a thousand pounds.”
“My dear Gastineau, I am only too delighted that you have given me
another proof of your friendship by telling me. Luckily I have quite
that at my bankers, and will draw you a cheque at once.”
“Thank you, Geof,” Gastineau said simply, and Herriard taking a blank
cheque from his letter-case proceeded to fill it in.
Presently Hencher came back with a note to say that Doctor Hallamar
would call early next morning.
“I will come round in the first half-hour I can snatch,” Herriard said,
as he took leave. “His will be to me the most anxiously awaited of all
the verdicts I have been concerned in.”
There was a strangely sarcastic smile on Gastineau’s face as he
replied, “I fear Geoffrey Herriard is not going to win his case this
time.”
So with much food for perplexity, Herriard left him.