Ill-omened Chances.
Karl Andinnian was tempted bitterly to ask of his own heart whether he
could have fallen under the displeasure of Heaven, so persistently did
every fresh movement of his, intended for good, turn into an increased
bank of danger. Poor Sir Adam had more need to question it than he;
for nothing but ill-omened chances seemed to pursue him.
It is quite probable that when Ann Hopley and her flurried mistress
decided to telegraph for Dr. Cavendish of Basham, they had thought,
and hoped, that the doctor would come back by train, pass quietly on
foot into the Maze, so pass out again, and the public be none the
wiser. Dr. Cavendish, however, who was out when the telegram arrived,
drove over later in his gig; and the gig, with the groom in it, paced
before the Maze gate while the doctor was inside, engaged with his
patient.
Just then there occurred one of those unhappy chances. Mr. Moore, the
surgeon, happened to walk by with his daughter, Jemima, and saw the
gig--which he knew well--waiting about. It took him by surprise, as he
had not heard that anyone was ill in the vicinity. The groom touched
his hat, and Mr. Moore went up to him.
"Waiting for your master, James? Who is he with? Who is ill?"
"It's somebody down yonder, sir," replied the man, pointing back over
his shoulder to indicate the Maze; but which action was not
intelligible to the surgeon.
"Down where? At the Court?"
"No, sir. At the Maze."
"At the Maze! Why, who can be ill there?'" cried Mr. Moore.
"I don't know, sir. Master had a telegram, telling him to come."
At that moment Dr. Cavendish was seen to leave the gate and come
towards his gig. Mr. Moore walked quickly forward to meet him, and the
gig turned.
"I suppose you have been called to Mrs. Grey, doctor," observed the
surgeon, as he shook hands. "Has she had a relapse? I wonder she did
not send for me. I have but just given up attending her."
"Mrs. Grey!" returned the Doctor. "Oh, no. It is a gentleman I have
been called to see."
"What gentleman?" asked the surgeon in surprise. "There's no gentleman
at the Maze."
"One is there now. I don't know who it is. Some friend or relative of
the lady's, probably. Ah, Miss Jemima! blooming as ever, I perceive,"
he broke off, as the young lady came slowly up. "Could you not give
some of us pale, over-worked people a receipt for those roses on your
cheeks?"
"What is it that's the matter with him?" interposed the surgeon,
leaving his daughter to burst into her giggle.
Dr. Cavendish put his arm within his friend's, led him beyond the
hearing of Miss Jemima, and said a few words in a low tone.
"Why, the case must be a grave one!" exclaimed Mr. Moore aloud.
"_I_ think so. I don't like the symptoms at all. From some cause or
other, too, it seems he has not had advice till now, which makes it
all the more dangerous."
"By the way, doctor, as you are here, I wish you would spare five
minutes to see a poor woman with me," said Mr. Moore, passing from the
other subject. "It won't hinder you much longer than that."
"All right, Moore. Who is it?"
"It's the widow of that poor fellow who died from sun-stroke in the
summer, Whittle. The woman has been ailing ever since, and very grave
disease has now set in. I don't believe I shall save her; only
yesterday it crossed my mind to wish you could see her. She lives just
down below there; in one of the cottages beyond Foxwood Court."
They got into the gig, the physician taking the reins, and telling his
groom to follow on foot. Miss Jemima was left to make her own way
home. She was rather a pretty girl, with a high colour, and a quantity
of light brown curls, and her manners were straightforward and
decisive. When the follies and vanities of youth should have been
chased away by sound experience, allowing her naturally good sense
to come to the surface, she would, in all probability, be as
strong-minded as her Aunt Diana, whom she already resembled in many
ways.
The autumn evening was drawing on: twilight had set in. Miss Jemima
stood a moment, deliberating which road she should take; whether
follow the gig, and go home round by the Court, or the other way. Of
the two, the latter was the nearer, and the least lonely; and she
might--yes, she might--encounter Mr. Cattacomb on his way to or from
St. Jerome's. Clearly it was the one to choose. Turning briskly round
when the decision was made, she nearly ran against Mr. Strange. That
gentleman had just got back from London, sent down again by the
authorities at Scotland Yard, and was on his way from the station. The
Maze had become an object, of so much interest to him as to induce him
to choose the long way round that would cause him to pass its gates,
rather than take the direct road to the village. And here was another
of those unfortunate accidents apparently springing out of chance; for
the detective had seen the gig waiting, and halted in a bend of the
hedge to watch the colloquy of the doctors.
"Good gracious, is it you, Mr. Strange?" cried the young lady,
beginning to giggle again. "Why, Mother Jinks declared this afternoon
you had gone out for the day!"
"Did she? Well, when I stroll out I never know when I may get back:
the country is more tempting in autumn than at any other season. That
was a doctor's gig, was it not, Miss Jemima?"
"Dr. Cavendish's of Basham," replied Miss Jemima, who enjoyed the
honour of a tolerable intimacy with Mrs. Jinks's lodger--as did most
of the other young ladies frequenting the parson's rooms.
"He must have come over to see some one. I wonder who is ill?"
"Papa wondered, too, when he first saw the gig. It is somebody at the
Maze."
"Do you know who?"
"Well, they seemed to talk as if it were a gentleman. I did not much
notice."
"A gentleman?"
"I think so. I am sure they said 'he' and 'him.' Perhaps Mrs. Grey's
husband has arrived. Whoever it is he must be very ill, for I heard
papa say the case must be 'grave,' and the doctor called it
'dangerous.' They have gone on together now to see poor Hannah
Whittle."
Not since he had had the affair in hand had the detective's ears been
regaled with so palatable a dish. That Philip Salter had been taken
ill with some malady or another sufficiently serious to necessitate
the summoning of a doctor, he fully believed. Miss Jemima resumed.
"I must say, considering that papa is the medical attendant there,
Mrs. Grey might have had the good manners to consult him first."
"It may be the old gardener that's ill," observed the detective
slowly, who had been turning his thoughts about.
"So it may," acquiesced Miss Jemima. "He's but a poor, creaky old
thing by all accounts. But no--they would hardly go to the expense of
telegraphing for a physician for him with papa at hand."
"Oh, they telegraphed, did they?"
"So the groom said."
"The girl is right," thought the detective. "They'd not telegraph for
Hopley. It is Salter. And they have called in a stranger from a
distance in preference to Mr. Moore close by. The latter might have
talked to the neighbourhood. You have done me a wonderful service,
young lady, if you did but know it."
Mr. Strange did not offer to attend her home, but suffered her to
depart alone.
Miss Jemima, who was rather fond of a little general flirtation,
though she did perhaps favour one swain above all others, resented the
slight in her heart. She consoled herself after the manner of the fox
when he could not reach the grapes.
"He's nothing but a bear," said she, tossing her little vain head as
she tripped away in the deepening gloom of the evening. "It is all for
the best. We might have chanced to meet Mr. Cattacomb, and then he
would have looked daggers at me. Or--my goodness me!--perhaps Aunt
Diana."
Mr. Strange strolled on, revolving the aspect of affairs in his
official mind. His next object must be to get to speak to Dr.
Cavendish and learn who it really was that he had been to see. Of
course it was not absolutely beyond the cards of possibility that the
sick man was Hopley. It was not impossible that Mrs. Grey might have
some private and personal objection to the calling in again of Mr.
Moore; or that the old man had been seized with some illness so
alarming as to necessitate the services of a clever physician in
preference to those of a general practitioner. He did not think any of
this likely, but it _might_ be; and only Dr. Cavendish could set it at
rest.
Perhaps some slight hope animated him that he might obtain an
immediate interview with Dr. Cavendish on the spot, as he returned
from Mrs. Whittle's cottage. If so, he found it defeated. The gig came
back with the two gentlemen in it, and it drove off direct to the
village, not passing Foxwood Court at all, or the detective; but the
latter was near enough to see it travel along. Mr. Moore was dropped
at his own house, and the groom--who had been sent on there--taken up;
and then the gig went on to Basham.
"I must see him somehow," decided the detective--"and the less time
lost over it, the better. Of course a man in the dangerously sick
state this one is represented to be, cannot make himself scarce
as quickly as one in health could; but Salter has not played at
hide-and-seek so long to expose himself unnecessarily. He would make
superhuman efforts to elude us, and rather get away dying than wait to
be taken. Better strike while the iron is hot. I must see the doctor
to-night."
He turned back to the station; and was just in time to watch the train
for Basham go puffing out.
"That train has gone on before its time!" he cried in anger.
After reference to clocks and watches, it was found that it had gone
on before its time by more than a minute. The station-master
apologised: said the train was up three or four minutes too early;
and, as no passengers were waiting to go on by it, he had given the
signal to start rather too soon. Mr. Strange gave the master in return
a bit of his mind; but he could not recall the train, and had to wait
for the next.
The consequence of this was, that he did not reach Basham until past
nine o'clock. Enquiring for the residence of Dr. Cavendish, he was
directed to a substantial-looking house near the market-place. A boy
in buttons, who came to the door, said the Doctor was not at home.
"I particularly wish to see him," said Mr. Strange. "Will he be long?"
"Well, I don't know," replied the boy, indifferently; who, like the
rest of his tribe, had no objection to indulge in semi-insolence when
it might be done with safety. "Master don't never hardly see patients
at this hour, None of 'em cares to come at night-time."
"I am not a patient. My business with Dr. Cavendish is private and
urgent. I will wait until he comes in."
The boy, not daring to make objection to this, ushered the visitor
into a small room that he called the study. It had one gaslight
burning; just enough to illumine the book-shelves and a white bust or
two that stood in the corners on pedestals. Here Mr. Strange was left
to his reflections.
He had plenty of food for them. That Salter was at the Maze, he felt
as sure of as though he had already seen him. Superintendent Game
had informed him who Smith the agent had acknowledged himself to
be--Salter's cousin--and stated his own views of the motives that
induced his residence at Foxwood. This was an additional thread in the
web of belief Mr. Strange was weaving; a confirmatory link that seemed
all but conclusive. In the short period that elapsed between his
interview with Nurse Chaffen, chez elle, and his run up to London, he
had seen his friend Giles, the footman, and by dint of helping that
gentleman to trace days back and recall events, had arrived at a fact
that could neither be disputed nor controverted--namely, that it could
not have been Sir Karl Andinnian who was seen at the Maze by her and
the surgeon. On that evening, Sir Karl, his wife, and Miss Blake had
gone to a dinner party at a few miles distance. At the self-same
minute of time that the event at the Maze took place, they were seated
with the rest of the company at the dinner table, Mr. Giles himself
standing behind in waiting. This was a fact: and had Miss Blake taken
a little trouble to ascertain from Nurse Chaffen _which_ evening it
was the mysterious gentleman had presented himself to view, and then
recalled the day of the dinner, she would have discovered the fallacy
of her belief in supposing him to have been Sir Karl.
Mr. Strange had, however, discovered it, and that was unfortunately
more to the purpose. Whatever might be the object of Sir Karl's
private visits to the Maze--and upon that point Mr. Strange's opinion
did not change, and he had laughed quietly over it with the
superintendent--it was not Sir Karl who was seen that night. It was a
great point to have ascertained: and the detective thought he had
rarely held stronger cards at any game of chance than were in his
hands now. That Mrs. Grey would prove to be Salter's sister, he
entertained no doubt of.
But the waiting was somewhat weary. Ten o'clock. Unless Dr. Cavendish
made his appearance shortly, Mr. Strange would lose the last train,
and have the pleasure of walking all the way from Basham. He was
standing before one of the busts--the late Sir Robert Peel's--when the
door opened, and there entered a quiet lady-like woman, with cordial
manners and-a homely face. It was Mrs. Cavendish.
"I am so sorry you should have to wait so long for my husband," she
said. "If I knew where he was gone, I would send to him: but he did
not happen to tell me before he went out. Your business with him is of
importance, I hear."
"Yes, madam: of importance to myself. Perhaps he will not be much
longer now."
"I should think not. Will you allow me to send you in a glass of
wine?"
He thanked her, but declined it; and she went away again. A short
while, and a latch-key was heard in the house door, denoting the
return of its master. Some few words were exchanged in the hall
between Dr. Cavendish and his wife--and the former entered: a short,
quick-speaking man, with grey whiskers.
As a matter so much of course that it hardly needs mentioning, the
detective had to be no less crafty in conducting this interview than
he was in some other matters. To have said to Dr. Cavendish, "I want
from you a description of the patient you were called to see to-day,
that I may ascertain whether it be indeed an escaped criminal of whom
I am in search," would have been to close the doctor's mouth. It was
true that he might open his cards entirely and say, "I am Detective
Tatton from Scotland Yard, and I require you in the name of the law to
give me all the information you can about the patient;" and, in that
case it was possible that the doctor might deem himself obliged to
give it. But he preferred to keep that master-stroke in hand, and try
another way.
He possessed pleasant manners, and had a winning way with him--it has
been already said; he spoke as a gentleman. Sitting down close to the
doctor, he began enquiring in an earnest tone after the new patient at
the Maze, and spoke so feelingly about patients in general, that he
half gained the physician's heart.
"You are some close friend of the gentleman's?" observed Dr.
Cavendish. And the word "gentleman" set the one great doubt at rest.
"I am most deeply interested in him," said the detective: and the
unsuspicious doctor never noticed the really sophistical nature of the
answer.
"Well, I am sorry to tell you that I think him very ill. I don't know
what they can have been about not to call in advice before." And in a
few short words he stated what disease the symptoms seemed to
threaten.
It startled the detective. He was sufficiently acquainted with surgery
to know that it was one of difficulty and danger.
"Surely, Dr. Cavendish, he is not threatened with _that?_"
"I fear he is."
"Why, it will kill him! It is not curable, is it?"
"Rarely, if ever, when once it has certainly set-in."
"And it kills soon."
"Generally."
Mr. Strange looked very blank. To hear that his prize might escape him
by death--or might die close upon his capture, was eminently
unsatisfactory. It would be a termination to the great affair he had
never thought of; would tarnish all the laurels in a business point of
view: and he was, besides, not a hard-hearted man.
"He is very young for that kind of thing, is he not, doctor?"
"Yes. Rather so."
"What brings it on, sir, in general?"
"Oh, various causes."
"Will trouble induce it?--I mean _great_ trouble; anxiety; care?"
"Sometimes. Especially if there should be any hereditary tendency to
it in the system."
"Well, I did not expect to hear this."
"Are you his brother?" asked the Doctor, seeing how cut-up the visitor
looked. "Not that I detect any likeness."
"No, I am not his brother; or any other relative. Do you consider it a
hopeless case, Dr. Cavendish?"
"I have not said that. I should not be justified in saying it. In
fact, I have not yet formed a positive opinion on the case, and cannot
do so until I shall have examined further into it. All I say at
present is, that I do not like the symptoms."
"And--if the symptoms turn out to be what you fear; to threaten the
malady you speak of--what then?"
"Why then there will be very little hope for him."
"You are going over to him again, then?"
"Of course. To-morrow. He is not in a state to be left without medical
attendance."
"How long do you think it has been coming on, doctor?"
"I cannot tell you that. Not less than a twelvemonth, if it be what I
fear."
Mr. Strange played with his watch-chain. He wanted the description of
the man yet--though, in fact he felt so sure as hardly to need it,
only that detectives do not leave anything to chance.
"Would you mind telling me what you think of his looks, Dr.
Cavendish?"
"Oh, as to his looks, they are the best part about him. His face is
somewhat worn and pallid, but it is a very handsome face. I never saw
a nicer set of teeth. His hair and short beard seem to have gone grey
prematurely, for I should scarcely give him forty years."
"He is only five-and-thirty," spoke the detective, thinking of Salter.
And that, as the reader may recall, was also about the age of Sir
Adam.
"Only that? Then in looks he has prematurely aged."
"In his prime, say two or three years ago, he was as good-looking a
man as one would wish to see," observed the detective, preparing to
give a gratuitous description of Salter. "A fine, tall, upright
figure, strongly-built withal; and a pleasant, handsome, frank face,
with fine dark eyes and hair, and a colour fresh as a rose."
"Ay," acquiesced the physician: "I only saw him in bed, and he is now
much changed, but I should judge that would be just the description
that once applied to him. You seem to hint at some great trouble or
sorrow that he has gone through: he gives me just that idea. Of what
nature was it?--if I may ask."
"It was trouble that was brought on by himself--and that is always the
most trying to bear. As to its nature--you must pardon me for
declining to particularise it, Dr. Cavendish, but I am really not at
liberty to do so. Do not put the refusal down to discourtesy. It is
not yet over: and the chances are that you will certainly hear all
about it in a day or two."
Dr. Cavendish nodded. He assumed the words to imply that the patient
himself would enlighten him. As to the detective, his mission was
over; and well over. He had learnt all he wanted: what he had
suspected was confirmed.
"That beautiful young woman, living alone at the Maze--what relative
is she of his?" asked the doctor, as his visitor rose and took up his
hat.
"His sister," was the rather hazardous answer.
"Oh, his sister. Mr. Moore could not make out who the patient was. He
thought it might be the husband who had returned. When I asked his
name, to write a prescription for the chemist, Mrs. Grey said I might
put it in hers--Grey."
"I thank you greatly for your courtesy, Dr. Cavendish."
"You are welcome," said the doctor. "Mind, I have not expressed any
certain opinion as to his non-recovery. Don't go and alarm him. What I
have said to you was said in confidence."
"You may depend upon me. Good night."
Mr. Detective Strange had to walk from Basham, for the last train was
gone and his return half-ticket useless. Basham police station was
nearly opposite the doctor's, and he stepped in there to leave a
message on his way. In the satisfaction his visit had afforded him, he
did not at all mind the night-walk: on the morrow, the long-sought-for
Salter, who had dodged them so vexatiously, would be in their hands,
the prey would have fallen. A satisfaction, however, that was not
without alloy, in the damping circumstances that encompassed the man's
state of health. And for that he could but feel compassion.
Midnight was chiming from the clock at Foxwood as he reached the
Maze--for he preferred to take that roundabout way. Halting at the
gate, he looked about and listened for a minute or two. Then he let
himself in with his master-key, and went through the labyrinth.
The house lay in silence. All seemed still as the grave. There was no
light, no sound, no token of illness inside; no, nor even of inmates.
He gently put the said key in the entrance-door to see if it would
yield. No: the door was not only locked but bolted and barred. He went
to the summer-house, leading up from the underground places, and found
the trapdoor there also bolted and barred within. All was as secure as
wary hands could make it.
"And it is welcome to remain so until to-morrow," breathed the
detective as he turned to thread his silent steps back through the
maze; "but then, Mr. Philip Salter, you are mine. Neither bolts nor
bars can save you then."
And he finally let himself out again at the gate with that ingenious
instrument, the key. To be polite, we will apply a French name to it,
and call it a passe-partout.
But Dr. Cavendish, reflecting afterwards upon the interview, rather
wondered who the stranger was, and whence he had come; and remembered
then that he had totally omitted to ask his name.