He left the room as gracefully as he had entered it. I remained in a

state of doubt. It was curious that Ralph Carriston turned out to be

the man whom I had met in the train; but the evidence offered by the

coincidence was not enough to convict him of the crime of endeavoring to

drive his cousin mad by such a far-fetched stratagem as the inveigling

away of Madeline Rowan. Besides, even in wishing to prove Charles

Carriston mad he had much to say on his side. Supposing him to be

innocent of having abducted Madeline, Carriston's violent behavior on

the preceding evening must have seemed very much like insanity. In

spite of the aversion with which Ralph Carriston inspired me, I scarcely

knew which side to believe.

Carriston still slept; so when I went out on my afternoon rounds I left

a note, begging him to remain in the house until my return. Then I found

him up, dressed, and looking much more like himself. When I entered,

dinner was on the table; so not until that meal was over could we talk

unrestrainedly upon the subject which was uppermost in both our minds.

As soon as we were alone I turned toward my guest. "And now," I said,

"we must settle what to do. There seems to me to be but one course open.

You have plenty of money, so your best plan is to engage skilled police

assistance. Young ladies can't be spirited away like this without

leaving a trace."

To my surprise Carriston flatly objected to this course. "No," he said,

"I shall not go to the police. The man who took her away has placed her

where no police can find her. I must find her myself."

"Find her yourself! Why, it may be months, years, before you do that!

Good heavens, Carriston! She may be murdered, or worse--"

"I shall know if any further evil happens to her--then I shall kill

Ralph Carriston."

"But you tell me you have no clew whatever to trace her by. Do talk

plainly. Tell me all or nothing."

Carriston smiled very faintly. "No clew that you, at any rate, will

believe in," he said. "But I know this much, she is a prisoner

somewhere. She is unhappy, but not, as yet, ill-treated. Heavens! do

you think if I did not know this I should keep my senses for an hour?"

"How can you possibly know it?"

"By that gift--that extra sense or whatever it is--which you deride. I

knew it would come to me some day, but I little thought how I should

welcome it. I know that in some way I shall find her by it. I tell you

I have already seen her three times. I may see her again at any moment

when the strange fit comes over me."

All this fantastic nonsense was spoken so simply and with such an air of

conviction that once more my suspicions as to the state of his mind were

aroused. In spite of the brave answers which I had given Mr. Ralph

Carriston, I felt that common-sense was undeniably on his side.

"Tell me what you mean by your strange fit," I said, resolved to find

out the nature of Carriston's fancies or hallucinations. "Is it a kind

of trance you fall into?"

He seemed loath to give any information on the subject, but I pressed

him for an answer.

"Yes," he said at last. "It must be a kind of trance. An indescribable

feeling comes over me. I know that my eyes are fixed on some

object--presently that object vanishes, and I see Madeline."

"How do you see her?"

"She seems to stand in a blurred circle of light as cast by a magic

lantern. That is the only way that I can describe it. But her figure

is plain and clear--she might be close to me. The carpet on which she

stands I can see, the chair on which she sits, the table on which she

leans her hand, anything she touches I can see; but no more. I have

seen her talking. I knew she was entreating some one, but that some one

was invisible. Yet, if she touched that person, the virtue of her touch

would enable me to see him."

So far as I could see, Carriston's case appeared to be one of

over-wrought, or unduly-stimulated imagination. His I had always

considered to be a mind of the most peculiar construction. In his

present state of love, grief, and suspense these hallucinations might

come in the same way in which dreams come. For a little while I sat

in silence, considering how I could best combat with and dispel his

remarkable delusions. Before I had arrived at any decision I was called

away to see a patient. I was but a short time engaged. Then I returned

to Carriston, intending to continue my inquiries.

Upon re-entering the room I found him sitting, as I had left

him--directly opposite to the door. His face was turned fully toward

me, and I trembled as I caught sight of it. He was leaning forward; his

hands on the table-cloth, his whole frame rigid, his eyes staring in one

direction, yet, I knew, capable of seeing nothing that I could see. He

seemed even oblivious to sound, for I entered the room and closed the

door behind me without causing him to change look or position. The

moment I saw the man I knew that he had been overtaken by what he called

the strange fit.

My first impulse--a natural one--was to arouse him; but second thoughts

told me that this was an opportunity for studying his disease which

should not be lost--I felt that I could call it by no other name

than disease--so I proceeded to make a systematic examination of his

symptoms.

I leaned across the table; and, with my face about a foot from his,

looked straight into his eyes. They betrayed no sign of recognition--no

knowledge of my presence. I am ashamed to say I could not divest myself

of the impression that they were looking through me. The pupils were

greatly dilated. The lids were wide apart. I lighted a taper and held it

before them, but could see no expansion of the iris. It was a case, I

confess, entirely beyond my comprehension. I had no experience which

might serve as a guide as to what was the best course to adopt. All I

could do was to stand and watch carefully for any change.

Save for his regular breathing and a sort of convulsive twitching of his

fingers, Carriston might have been a corpse or a statue. His face could

scarcely grow paler than it had been before the attack. Altogether, it

was an uncomfortable sight: a creepy sight--this motionless man, utterly

regardless of all that went on around him, and seeing, or giving one the

idea that he saw something far away. I sighed as I looked at the strange

spectacle, and foresaw what the end must surely be. But although I

longed for him to awake, I determined on this occasion to let the

trance, or fit, run its full course, that I might notice in what manner

and how soon consciousness returned.

I must have waited and watched some ten minutes--minutes which seemed to

me interminable. At last I saw the lips quiver, the lids flicker once or

twice, and eventually close wearily over the eyes. The unnatural tension

of every muscle seemed to relax, and, sighing deeply, and apparently

quite exhausted, Carriston sank back into his chair with beads of

perspiration forming on his white brow. The fit was over.

In a moment I was at his side and forcing a glass of wine down his

throat. He looked up at me and spoke. His voice was faint, but his words

were quite collected.

"I have seen her again," he said. "She is well; but so unhappy. I saw

her kneel down and pray. She stretched her beautiful arms out to me. And

yet I know not where to look for her--my poor love! my poor love!"

I waited until I thought he had sufficiently recovered from his

exhaustion to talk without injurious consequences. "Carriston," I said,

"let me ask you one question: Are these trances or visions voluntary or

not?"

He reflected for a few moments. "I can't quite tell you," he said; "or,

rather, I would put in this way. I do not think I can exercise my power

at will; but I can feel when the fit is coming on me, and, I believe,

can if I choose stop myself from yielding to it."

"Very well. Now listen. Promise me you will fight against these seizures

as much as you can. If you don't you will be raving mad in a month."

"I can't promise that," said Carriston, quietly. "See her at times I

must, or I shall die. But I promise to yield as seldom as may be. I

know, as well as you do, that the very exhaustion I now feel must be

injurious to any one."

In truth, he looked utterly worn out. Very much dissatisfied with his

concession, the best I could get from him, I sent him to bed, knowing

that natural rest, if he could get it, would do more than anything else

toward restoring a healthy tone to his mind.

VIII.

Although Carriston stated that he came to me for aid, and, it may be,

for protection, he manifested the greatest reluctance in following

any advice I offered him. The obstinacy of his refusal to obtain the

assistance of the police placed me in a predicament. That Madeline Rowan

had really disappeared I was, of course, compelled to believe. It might

even be possible that she was kept against her will in some place of

concealment. In such a case it behooved us to take proper steps to trace

her. Her welfare should not depend upon the hallucinations and eccentric

ideas of a man half out of his senses with love and grief. I all but

resolved, even at the risk of forfeiting Carriston's friendship, to put

the whole matter in the hands of the police, unless in the course of a

day or two we heard from the girl herself, or Carriston suggested some

better plan.

Curiously enough, although refusing to be guided by me, he made no

suggestion on his own account. He was racked by fear and suspense, yet

his only idea of solving difficulties seemed to be that of waiting. He

did nothing. He simply waited, as if he expected that chance would bring

what he should have been searching for high and low.

Some days passed before I could get a tardy consent that aid should be

sought. Even then he would not go to the proper quarter; but he allowed

me to summon to our councils a man who advertised himself as being a

private detective. This man, or one of his men, came at our call, and

heard what was wanted of him. Carriston reluctantly gave him one of

Madeline's photographs. He also told him that only by watching and

spying on Ralph Carriston's every action could he hope to obtain the

clew. I did not much like the course adopted, nor did I like the look of

the man to whom the inquiry was intrusted; but at any rate something was

being done.

A week passed without any news from our agent. Carriston, in truth, did

not seem to expect any. I believe he only employed the man in deference

to my wishes. He moved about the house in a disconsolate fashion. I had

not told him of my interview with his cousin, but had cautioned him on

the rare occasions upon which he went out of doors to avoid speaking to

strangers, and my servants had strict instructions to prevent any one

coming in and taking my guest by surprise.

For I had during those days opened a confidential inquiry on my own

account. I wanted to learn something about this Mr. Ralph Carriston. So

I asked a man who knew everybody to find out all about him.

He reported that Ralph Carriston was a man well known about London. He

was married and had a house in Dorsetshire; but the greater part of his

time was spent in town. Once he was supposed to be well-off; but now it

was the general opinion that every acre he owned was mortgaged, and that

he was much pressed for money. "But," my informant said, "there is but

one life between him and the reversion to large estates, and that life

is a poor one. I believe even now there is talk about the man who stands

in his way being mad. If so, Ralph Carriston will get the management of

everything."

After this news I felt it more than ever needful to keep a watchful

eye on my friend. So far as I knew there had been no recurrence of

the trance, and I began to hope that proper treatment would effect a

complete cure, when, to my great alarm and annoyance, Carriston, while

sitting with me, suddenly and without warning fell into the same strange

state of body and mind as previously described. This time he was sitting

in another part of the room. After watching him for a minute or two, and

just as I was making up my mind to arouse him and scold him thoroughly

for his folly, he sprung to his feet, and shouting, "Let her go! Loose

her, I say!" rushed violently across the room--so violently, that I had

barely time to interpose and prevent him from coming into contact with

the opposite wall.

Upon returning to his senses he told me, with great excitement, that

he had again seen Madeline; moreover, this time he had seen a man with

her--a man who had placed his hand upon her wrist and kept it there; and

so, according to Carriston's wild reasoning, became, on account of the

contact, visible to him.

He told me he had watched them for some moments, until the man,

tightening his grip on the girl's arm, endeavored, he thought, to lead

her or induce her to follow him somewhere. At this juncture, unaware

that he was gazing at a vision, he had rushed to her assistance in the

frantic way I have described--then he awoke.

He also told me he had studied the man's features and general appearance

most carefully with a view to future recognition. All these ridiculous

statements were made as he made the former ones, with the air of one

relating simple, undeniable facts--one speaking the plain, unvarnished

truth, and expecting full credence to be given to his words.

It was too absurd! too sad! It was evident to me that the barrier

between his hallucinations, dreams, visions, or what he chose to call

them, and pure insanity, was now a very slight and fragile one. But

before I gave up his case as hopeless I determined to make another

strong appeal to his common-sense. I told him of his cousin's visit to

me--of his intentions and proposition. I begged him to consider what

consequences his extraordinary beliefs and extravagant actions must

eventually entail. He listened attentively and calmly.

"You see now," he said, "how right I was in attributing all this to

Ralph Carriston--how right I was to come to you, a doctor of standing,

who can vouch for my sanity."

"Vouch for your sanity! How can I when you sit here and talk such arrant

nonsense, and expect me to believe it? When you jump from your chair and

rush madly at some visionary foe? Sane as you may be in all else, any

evidence I could give in your favor must break down in cross-examination

if an inkling of these things got about. Come, Carriston, be reasonable,

and prove your sanity by setting about this search for Miss Rowan in a

proper way."

He made no reply, but walked up and down the room apparently in deep

thought. My words seemed to have had no effect upon him. Presently he

seated himself; and, as if to avoid returning to the argument, drew a

book at hazard from my shelves and began to read. He opened the volume

at random, but after reading a few lines seemed struck by something

that met his eyes, and in a few minutes was deeply immersed in the

contents of the book. I glanced at it to see what had so awakened his

interest. By a curious fatality he had chosen a book the very worst for

him in his present frame of mind--Gilchrist's recently published life of

William Blake, that masterly memoir of a man who was on certain points

as mad as Carriston himself. I was about to remonstrate, when he laid

down the volume and turned to me.

"Varley, the painter," he said, "was a firm believer in Blake's

visions."

"Varley was a bigger fool than Blake," I retorted. "Fancy his sitting

down and watching his clever but mad friend draw spectral heads, and

believing them to be genuine portraits of dead kings whose forms

condescended to appear to Blake!"

A sudden thought seemed to strike Carriston. "Will you give me some

paper and chalk?" he asked. Upon being furnished with these materials he

seated himself at the table and began to draw. At least a dozen times he

sketched, with his usual rapidity, some object or another, and a dozen

times, after a moment's consideration, threw each sketch aside with an

air of disappointment and began a fresh one. At last one of his attempts

seemed to come up to his requirements. "I have it now, exactly!" he

cried with joy--even triumph--in his voice. He spent some time in

putting finishing touches to the successful sketch, then he handed me

the paper.

"That is the man I saw just now with Madeline," he said. "When I find

him I shall find her." He spoke with all sincerity and conviction. I

looked at the paper with, I am bound to say, a great amount of

curiosity.

No matter from what visionary source Carriston had drawn his

inspiration, his sketch was vigorous and natural enough. I have already

mentioned his wonderful power of drawing portraits from memory, so was

willing to grant that he might have reproduced the outline of some face

which had somewhere struck him. Yet why should it have been this one?

His drawing represented the three quarter face of a man--an ordinary

man--apparently between forty and fifty years of age. It was a

coarse-featured, ill-favored face, with a ragged ruff of hair round

the chin. It was not the face of a gentleman, nor even the face of a

gentle-nurtured man; and the artist, by a few cunning strokes, had made

it wear a crafty and sullen look. The sketch, as I write this, lies

before me, so that I am not speaking from memory.

Now, there are some portraits of which, without having seen the

original, we say, "What splendid likenesses these must be." It was so

with Carriston's sketch. Looking at it you felt sure it was exactly like

the man whom it was intended to represent. So that, with the certain

amount of art knowledge which I am at least supposed to possess, it

was hard for me, after examining the drawing and recognizing the true

artist's touch in every line, to bring myself to accept the fact that it

was but the outcome of a diseased imagination. As, at this very moment,

I glance at that drawing, I scarcely blame myself for the question

that faintly frames itself in my innermost heart. "Could it be

possible--could there be in certain organizations powers not yet

known--not yet properly investigated?"

My thought, supposing such a thought was ever there--was not discouraged

by Carriston, who, speaking as if his faith in the bodily existence of

the man whose portrait lay in my hand was unassailable, said,

"I noticed that his general appearance was that of a countryman--an

English peasant; so in the country I shall find my love. Moreover, it

will be easy to identify the man, as the top joint is missing from the

middle finger of his right hand. As it lay on Madeline's arm I noticed

that."

I argued with him no more. I felt that words would be but wasted.

IX.

A day or two after I had witnessed what I must call Carriston's second

seizure we were favored with a visit from the man whose services we had

secured to trace Madeline. Since he had received his instructions we had

heard nothing of his proceeding until he now called to report progress

in person. Carriston had not expressed the slightest curiosity as to

where the man was or what he was about. Probably he looked upon the

employment of this private detective as nothing more useful than a salve

to my conscience. That Madeline was only to be found through the power

which he professed to hold of seeing her in his visions was, I felt

certain, becoming a rooted belief of his. Whenever I expressed my

surprise that our agent had brought or sent no information, Carriston

shrugged his shoulders, and assured me that from the first he knew the

man's researches would be fruitless. However, the fellow had called at

last, and, I hoped, had brought us good news.

He was a glib-tongued man, who spoke in a confident, matter-of-fact way.

When he saw us he rubbed his hands as one who had brought affairs to a

successful issue, and now meant to reap praise and other rewards. His

whole bearing told me he had made an important discovery; so I begged

him to be seated, and give us his news.

Carriston gave him a careless glance, and stood at some little distance

from us. He looked as if he thought the impending communication scarcely

worth the trouble of listening to. He might, indeed, from his looks,

have been the most disinterested person of the three. He even left me to

do the questioning.

"Now, then, Mr. Sharpe," I said, "let us hear if you have earned your

money."

"I think so, sir," replied Sharpe, looking curiously at Carriston, who,

strange to say, heard this answer with supreme indifference.

"I think I may say I have, sir," continued the detective--"that is if

the gentlemen can identify these articles as being the young lady's

property."

Thereupon he produced from a thick letter-case a ribbon in which was

stuck a silver pin, mounted with Scotch pebbles, an ornament that

I remembered having seen Madeline wear. Mr. Sharpe handed them to

Carriston. He examined them, and I saw his cheeks flush and his eyes

grow bright.

"How did you come by this?" he cried, pointing to the silver ornament.

"I'll tell you presently, sir. Do you recognize it?"

"I gave it to Miss Rowan myself."

"Then we are on the right track," I cried, joyfully. "Go on, Mr.

Sharpe."

"Yes, gentlemen, we are certainly on the right track; but after all, it

isn't my fault if the track don't lead exactly where you wish. You see,

when I heard of this mysterious disappearance of the lady, I began to

concoct my own theory. I said to myself, when a young and beautiful--"

"Confound your theories!" cried Carriston fiercely. "Go on with your

tale."

The man gave his interrupter a spiteful glance. "Well, sir," he said,

"as you gave me strict instructions to watch a certain gentleman

closely, I obeyed those instructions, of course, although I knew I was

on a fool's errand."

"Will you go on?" cried Carriston. "If you know where Miss Rowan is, say

so; your money will be paid you the moment I find her."

"I don't say I exactly know where to find the lady, but I can soon know

if you wish me to."

"Tell your tale your own way, but as shortly as possible," I said,

seeing that my excitable friend was preparing for another outburst.

"I found there was nothing to be gained by keeping watch on the

gentleman you mentioned, sir, so I went to Scotland and tried back from

there. As soon as I worked on my own lay I found out all about it. The

lady went from Callendar to Edinburgh, from Edinburgh to London, from

London to Folkestone, and from Folkestone to Boulong."

I glanced at Carriston. All his calmness seemed to have returned. He was

leaning against the mantelpiece, and appeared quite unmoved by Mr.

Sharpe's clear statement as to the route Madeline had taken.

"Of course," continued Mr. Sharpe, "I was not quite certain I was

tracking the right person, although her description corresponded with

the likeness you gave me. But as you are sure this article of jewelry

belonged to the lady you want, the matter is beyond a doubt."

"Of course," I said, seeing that Carriston had no intention of speaking.

"Where did you find it?"

"It was left behind, in a bedroom of one of the principal hotels in

Folkestone. I did go over to Boulong, but after that I thought I had

learned all you would care to know."

There was something in the man's manner which made me dread what was

coming. Again I looked at Carriston. His lips were curved with contempt,

but he still kept silence.

"Why not have pursued your inquiries past Boulong?" I asked.

"For this reason, sir. I had learned enough. The theory I had concocted

was the right one after all. The lady went to Edinburgh alone, right

enough: but she didn't leave Edinburgh alone, nor she didn't leave

London alone, nor she didn't stay at Folkestone--where I found the

pin--alone, nor she didn't go to Boulong alone. She was accompanied by

a young gentleman who called himself Mr. Smith; and what's more, she

called herself Mrs. Smith. Perhaps she was; as they lived like man and

wife."

Whether the fellow was right or mistaken, this explanation of Madeline's

disappearance seemed to give me what I can only compare to a smack in

the face. I stared at the speaker in speechless astonishment. If the

tale he told so glibly and circumstantially was true, farewell, so far

as I was concerned, to belief in the love or purity of women. Madeline

Rowan, that creature of a poet's dream, on the eve of her marriage with

Charles Carriston to fly, whether wed or unwed mattered little, with

another man! And yet, she was but a woman. Carriston--or Carr, as she

only knew him--was in her eyes poor. The companion of her flight might

have won her with gold. Such things have been. Still--

My rapid and wrongful meditations were cut short in an unexpected way.

Suddenly I saw Mr. Sharpe dragged bodily out of his chair and thrown

on the floor, while Carriston, standing over him, thrashed the man

vigorously with his own ash stick--a convenient weapon, so convenient

that I felt Mr. Sharpe could not have selected a stick more appropriate

for his own chastisement. So Carriston seemed to think, for he laid on

cheerfully some eight or ten good cutting strokes.

Nevertheless, being a respectable doctor and a man of peace, I was

compelled to interfere. I held Carriston's arm while Mr. Sharpe

struggled to his feet, and after collecting his hat and his pocket-book,

stood glaring vengefully at his assailant, and rubbing the while such

of the weals on his back as he could reach. Annoyed as I felt at the

unprofessional _fracas_, I could scarcely help laughing at the man's

appearance. I doubt the possibility of any one looking heroic after such

a thrashing.

"I'll have the law for this," he growled. "I ain't paid to be beaten by

a madman."

"You're paid to do my work, not another's," said Carriston. "Go to the

man who has over-bribed you and sent you to tell me your lies. Go to

him, tell him that once more he has failed. Out of my sight."

As Carriston showed signs of recommencing hostile operations, the man

flew as far as the door-way. There, being in comparative safety, he

turned with a malignant look.

"You'll smart for this," he said; "when they lock you up as a raving

lunatic I'll try and get a post as keeper."

I was glad to see that Carriston paid no attention to this parting

shaft. He turned his back scornfully, and the fellow left the room and

the house.

"Now are you convinced?" asked Carriston, turning to me.

"Convinced of what? That his tale is untrue, or that he has been misled,

I am quite certain."

"Tush! That is not worth consideration. Don't you see that Ralph has

done all this? I set that man to watch him; he found out the espionage;

suborned my agent, or your agent, I should say; sent him here with a

trumped-up tale. Oh, yes; I was to believe that Madeline had deserted

me--that was to drive me out of my senses. My cousin is a fool after

all!"

"Without further proof I cannot believe that your suspicions are

correct," I said; but I must own I spoke with some hesitation.

"Proof! A clever man like you ought to see ample proof in the fact of

that wretch having twice called me a madman. I have seen him but once

before--you know if I then gave him any grounds for making such an

assertion. Tell me, from whom could he have learned the word except

from Ralph Carriston?"

I was bound, if only to save my own reputation for sagacity, to confess

that the point noted by Carriston had raised certain doubts in my mind.

But if Ralph Carriston really was trying by some finely-wrought scheme

to bring about what he desired, there was all the more reason for great

caution to be exercised.

"I am sorry you beat him," I said. "He will now swear right and left

that you are not in your senses."

"Of course he will. What do I care?"

"Only remember this. It is easier to get put into an asylum than to get

out of it."

"It is not so very easy for a sane man like myself to be put in,

especially when he is on his guard. I have looked up the law. There

must be a certificate signed by two doctors, surgeons--or, I believe,

apothecaries will do--who have seen the supposed lunatic alone and

together. I'll take very good care I speak to no doctor save yourself,

and keep out of the way of surgeons and apothecaries."

It quite cheered me to hear him speaking so sensibly and collectedly

about himself, but I again impressed upon him the need of great caution.

Although I could not believe that his cousin had taken Madeline away, I

was inclined to think, after the affair with the spy, that, as Carriston

averred, he aimed at getting him, sane or insane, into a mad-house.

But after all these days we were not a step nearer to the discovery of

Madeline's whereabouts. Carriston made no sign of doing anything to

facilitate that discovery. Again I urged him to intrust the whole affair

to the police. Again he refused to do so, adding that he was not quite

ready. Ready for what, I wondered!

X.

I must confess, in spite of my affection for Carriston, I felt inclined

to rebel against the course which matters were taking. I was a prosaic

matter-of-fact medical man; doing my work to the best of my ability and

anxious when that work was done that my hours of leisure should be as

free from worry and care as possible. With Carriston's advent several

disturbing elements entered into my quiet life.

Let Ralph Carriston be guilty or innocent of the extraordinary crime

which his cousin laid at his door, I felt that he was anxious to obtain

possession of the supposed lunatic's person. It would suit his purposes

for his cousin to be proved mad. I did not believe that even if the

capture was legally effected Carriston's liberation would be a matter of

great difficulty so long as he remained in his present state of mind; so

long as I, a doctor of some standing, could go into the witness-box and

swear to his sanity. But my old dread was always with me--the dread that

any further shock would overturn the balance of his sensitive mind.

So it was that every hour that Carriston was out of my sight was fraught

with anxiety. If Ralph Carriston was really as unscrupulous as my friend

supposed; if he had really, as seemed almost probable, suborned our

agent; he might by some crafty trick obtain the needful certificate, and

some day I should come home and find Carriston had been removed. In such

a case I foresaw great trouble and distress.

Besides, after all that had occurred, it was as much as I could do to

believe that Carriston was not mad. Any doctor who knew what I knew

would have given the verdict against him.

After dismissing his visions and hallucinations with the contempt which

they deserved, the fact of a man who was madly, passionately in love

with a woman, and who believed that she had been entrapped and was

still kept in restraint, sitting down quietly, and letting day after day

pass without making an effort toward finding her, was in itself _prima

facie_ evidence of insanity. A sane man would at once have set all the

engines of detection at work.

I felt that if once Ralph Carriston obtained possession of him he could

make out a strong case in his own favor. First of all, the proposed

marriage out of the defendant's own sphere of life; the passing under a

false name; the ridiculous, or apparently ridiculous, accusation made

against his kinsman; the murderous threats; the chastisement of his own

paid agent who brought him a report which might not seem at all untrue

to any one who knew not Madeline Rowan. Leaving out the question what

might be wrung from me in cross-examination, Ralph Carriston had a

strong case, and I knew that, once in his power, my friend might

possibly be doomed to pass years, if not his whole life, under

restraint. So I was anxious--very anxious.

And I felt an anxiety, scarcely second to that which prevailed on

Carriston's account, as to the fate of Madeline. Granting for sake of

argument that Carriston's absurd conviction that no bodily harm had as

yet been done her, was true, I felt sure that she with her scarcely less

sensitive nature must feel the separation from her lover as much as he

himself felt the separation from her. Once or twice I tried to comfort

myself with cynicism--tried to persuade myself that a young woman

could not in our days be spirited away--that she had gone by her own

free-will--that there was a man who had at the eleventh hour alienated

her affections from Carriston. But I could not bring myself to believe

this. So I was placed between the horns of a dilemma.

If Madeline had not fled of her own free-will, some one must have taken

her away, and if so our agent's report was a coined one, and, if a

coined one, issued at Ralph's instance; therefore Ralph must be the

prime actor in the mystery.

But in sober moments such a deduction seemed an utter absurdity.

Although I have said that Carriston was doing nothing toward clearing up

the mystery, I wronged him in so saying. After his own erratic way he

was at work. At such work too! I really lost all patience with him.

He shut himself up in his room, out of which he scarcely stirred for

three days. By that time he had completed a large and beautiful drawing

of his imaginary man. This he took to a well-known photographer's, and

ordered several hundred small photographs of it, to be prepared as

soon as possible. The minute description which he had given me of his

fanciful creation was printed at the foot of each copy. As soon as the

first batch of these precious photographs was sent home, to my great

joy he did what he should have done days ago; yielded to my wishes, and

put the matter into the hands of the police.

I was glad to find that in giving details of what had happened he said

nothing about the advisability of keeping a watch on Ralph Carriston's

proceedings. He did, indeed, offer an absurdly large reward for the

discovery of the missing girl; and, moreover, gave the officer in charge

of the case a packet of photographs of his phantom man, telling him

in the gravest manner that he knew the original of that likeness had

something to do with the disappearance of Miss Rowan. The officer, who

thought the portrait was that of a natural being, took his instructions

in good faith, although he seemed greatly surprised when he heard

that Carriston knew neither the name nor the occupation, in fact,

knew nothing concerning the man who was to be sought for. However, as

Carriston assured him that finding this man would insure the reward as

much as if he found Madeline, the officer readily promised to combine

the two tasks, little knowing what waste of time any attempt to perform

the latter must be.

Two days after this Carriston came to me. "I shall leave you to-morrow,"

he said.

"Where are you going?" I asked. "Why do you leave?"

"I am going to travel about. I have no intention of letting Ralph get

hold of me. So I mean to go from place to place until I find Madeline."

"Be careful," I urged.

"I shall be careful enough. I'll take care that no doctors, surgeons, or

even apothecaries get on my track. I shall go just as the fit seizes me.

If I can't say one day where I shall be the next, it will be impossible

for that villain to know."

This was not a bad argument. In fact, if he carried out his resolve of

passing quickly from place to place I did not see how he could plan

anything more likely to defeat the intentions with which we credited his

cousin. As to his finding Madeline by so doing, that was another matter.

His idea seemed to be that chance would sooner or later bring him in

contact with the man of his dream. However, now that the search had been

intrusted to the proper persons his own action in the matter was not

worth troubling about. I gave him many cautions. He was to be quiet and

guarded in words and manner. He was not to converse with strangers. If

he found himself dogged or watched by any one he was to communicate at

once with me. But, above all, I begged him not to yield again to his

mental infirmity. The folly of a man who could avoid it, throwing

himself into such a state ought to be apparent to him.

"Not oftener than I can help," was all the promise I could get from him.

"But see her I must sometimes, or I shall die."

I had now given up as hopeless the combat with his peculiar

idiosyncrasy. So, with many expressions of gratitude on his part, we

bade each other farewell.

During his absence he wrote to me nearly every day, so that I might know

his whereabouts in case I had any news to communicate. But I had none.

The police failed to find the slightest clew. I had been called upon

by them once or twice in order that they might have every grain of

information I could give. I took the liberty of advising them not to

waste their time in looking for the man, as his very existence was

problematical. It was but a fancy of my friend's, and not worth thinking

seriously about. I am not sure but what after hearing this they did

not think the whole affair was an imagined one, and so relaxed their

efforts.

Once or twice, Carriston, happening to be in the neighborhood of London,

came to see me, and slept the night at my house. He also had no news to

report. Still, he seemed hopeful as ever.

The weeks went by until Christmas was over and the New Year begun; but

no sign, word, or trace of Madeline Rowan. "I have seen her," wrote

Carriston, "several times. She is in the same place--unhappy, but not

ill-treated."

Evidently his hallucinations were still in full force.

* * * * *

At first I intended that the whole of this tale should be told by

myself; but upon getting so far it struck me that the evidence of

another actor who played an important part in the drama would give

certain occurrences to the reader at first instead of at second hand,

so I wrote to my friend Dick Fenton, of Frenchay, Gloucestershire, and

begged him, if he found himself capable of so doing, to put in simple

narrative form his impressions of certain events which happened in

January, 1866: events in which we two were concerned. He has been good

enough to comply with my request. His communication follows.

PART II.

TOLD BY RICHARD FENTON, OF FRENCHAY, GLOUCESTERSHIRE, ESQUIRE.

I.

As my old friend Phil Brand has asked me to do this, I suppose I must.

Brand is a right good fellow and a clever fellow, but has plenty of

crotchets of his own. The worst I know of him is that he insists upon

having his own with people. With those who differ from him he is as

obstinate as a mule. Anyhow, he has always had his own way with me. This

custom, so far as I am concerned, commenced years ago when we were boys

at school together, and I have never been able to shake off the bad

habit of giving in to him. He has promised to see that my queen's

English is presentable: for, to tell the truth, I am more at home across

country than across foolscap, and my fingers know the feel of the reins

or the trigger better than that of the pen.

All the same I hope he won't take too many liberties with my style, bad

though it may be; for old Brand at times is apt to get--well, a bit

prosy. To hear him on the subject of hard work and the sanctity thereof

approaches the sublime!

What freak took me to the little God-forsaken village of Midcombe in the

depth of winter is entirely between myself and my conscience. The cause

having no bearing upon the matters I am asked to tell you about, is no

one's business but mine. I will only say that now I would not stay in

such a place at such a time of the year for the sake of the prettiest

girl in the world, let alone the bare chance of meeting her once or

twice. But one's ideas change. I am now a good bit older, ride some two

stones heavier, and have been married ever so many years. Perhaps, after

all, as I look back I can find some excuse for being such an ass as to

endure for more than a fortnight all the discomforts heaped upon me in

that little village inn.

A man who sojourns in such a hole as Midcombe must give some reason for

doing so. My ostensible reason was hunting. I had a horse with me, and a

second-rate subscription pack of slow-going mongrels did meet somewhere

in the neighborhood, so no one could gainsay my explanation. But if

hunting was my object, I got precious little of it. A few days after my

arrival a bitter, biting frost set in--a frost as black as your hat and

as hard as nails. Yet still I stayed on.

From private information received--no matter how, when or where--I knew

that some people in the neighborhood had organized a party to go skating

on a certain day at Lilymere, a fine sheet of water some distance from

Midcombe. I guessed that some one whom I particularly desired to meet

would be there, and as the skating at Lilymere was free to any one who

chose to take the trouble of getting to such an out-of-the-way place, I

hired a horse and an apology for a dog-cart, and at ten in the morning

started to drive the twelve miles to the pond. I took no one with me. I

had been to Lilymere once before, in bright summer weather, so fancied

I knew the way well enough.

The sky when I started was cloudy; the wind was chopping round in a way

which made the effete rustic old hostler predict a change of weather. He

was right. Before I had driven two miles light snow began to fall, and

by the time I reached a little wretched wayside inn, about a mile from

the Mere, a film of white covered the whole country. I stabled my horse

as well as I could, then taking my skates with me walked down to the

pond.

Now, whether I had mistaken the day, or whether the threatening fall of

snow had made certain people change their minds, I don't know; but, to

my annoyance and vexation, no skaters were to be seen, and moreover,

the uncut, white surface told me that none had been on the pond that

morning. Still hoping they might come in spite of the weather, I put on

my skates and went outside-edging and grape-vining all over the place.

But as there was no person in particular--in fact, no one at all--to

note my powers, I soon got tired. It was, indeed, dreary, dreary work.

But I waited and hoped until the snow came down so fast and furiously

that I felt sure that waiting was in vain, and that I had driven to

Lilymere for nothing.

Back I went to the little inn, utterly disgusted with things in general,

and feeling that to break some one's head would be a relief to me in my

present state of mind. Of course a sensible man would at once have got

his horse between the shafts and driven home. But whatever I may be now,

in those days I was not a sensible man--Brand will, I know, cordially

indorse this remark--the accommodation of the inn was not such as to

induce one to linger within its precincts; but the fire was a right good

one, and a drink, which I skilfully manufactured out of some hot beer,

not to be despised, and proved warming to the body and soothing to the

ruffled temper. So I lingered over the big fire until I began to feel

hungry, and upon the landlady assuring me that she could cook a rasher,

decided it would be wiser to stay where I was until the violence of the

snowstorm was over; for coming down it was now, and no mistake.

And it kept on coming down. About half-past three, when I sorrowfully

decided I was bound to make a move, it was snowing faster than ever. I

harnessed my horse, and laughing at the old woman's dismal prophecy that

I should never get to Midcombe in such weather, gathered up the reins,

and away I went along the white road.

I thought I knew the way well enough. In fact I had always prided myself

upon remembering any road once driven over by me; but does any one who

has not tried it really know how a heavy fall of snow changes the aspect

of the country, and makes landmarks snares and delusions? I learned all

about it then, once and for all. I found, also, that the snow lay much

deeper than I thought could possibly be in so short a time, and it still

fell in a manner almost blinding. Yet I went on bravely and merrily for

some miles. Then came a bit of uncertainty--

Which of those two roads was the right one? This one, of course--no, the

other. There was no house near; no one was likely to be passing in such

weather, so I was left to exercise my free, unbiased choice; a privilege

I would willingly have dispensed with. However, I made the best

selection I could, and followed it for some two miles. Then I began to

grow doubtful, and soon persuading myself that I was on the wrong track,

retraced my steps. I was by this time something like a huge white

plaster of Paris figure, and the snow which had accumulated on the old

dog-cart made it run heavier by half-a-ton, more or less. By the time I

came to that unlucky junction of roads at which my misfortune began it

was almost dark; the sky as black as a tarpaulin, yet sending down the

white feathery flakes thicker and faster than ever. I felt inclined to

curse my folly in attempting such a drive, at any rate I blamed myself

for not having started two or three hours earlier. I'll warrant that

steady-going old Brand never had to accuse himself of such foolishness

as mine.

Well, I took the other road; went on some way; came to a turning which

I seemed to remember; and, not without misgivings, followed it. My

misgivings increased when, after a little while, I found the road grew

full of ruts, which the snow and the darkness quite concealed from me

until the wheels got into them. Evidently I was wrong again. I was just

thinking of making the best of my way out of this rough and unfrequented

road, when--there, I don't know how it happened, such things seldom

occur to me--a stumble, a fall on the part of my tired horse sent me

flying over the dashboard, with the only consoling thought that the

reins were still in my hand.

Luckily the snow had made the falling pretty soft. I soon picked myself

up and set about estimating damages. With some difficulty I got the

horse out of the harness, and then felt free to inspect the dog-cart.

Alas! after the manner of the two-wheel kind whenever a horse thinks fit

to fall, one shaft had snapped off like a carrot; so here was I, five

miles apparently from anywhere, in the thick of a blinding snow-storm,

left standing helpless beside a jaded horse and a broken cart--I should

like to know what Brand would have done under the circumstances.

As for me, I reflected for some minutes--reflection in a snow-storm is

weary work. I reasoned, I believe logically, and at last came to this

decision: I would follow the road. If, as I suspected, it was but a

cart-track, it would probably soon lead to a habitation of some kind.

Anyway I had better try a bit further. I took hold of the wearied horse,

and with snow under my feet, snow-flakes whirling round me, and a wind

blowing right into my teeth, struggled on.

It was a journey! I think I must have been three-quarters of an hour

going about a quarter of a mile. I was just beginning to despair, when I

saw a welcome gleam of light. I steered toward it, fondly hoping that my

troubles were at an end. I found the light stole through the ill-fitting

window-shutters of what seemed, so far as I could make out in the

darkness, to be a small farm-house. Tying to a gate the knotted reins

by which I had been leading the horse, I staggered up to the door and

knocked loudly. Upon my honor, until I leaned against that door-post I

had no idea how tired I was--until that moment I never suspected that

the finding of speedy shelter meant absolutely saving my life. Covered

from head to foot with snow, my hat crushed in, I must have been a

pitiable object.

No answer came to my first summons. It was only after a second and more

imperative application of my heel that the door deigned to give way a

few inches. Through the aperture a woman's voice asked who was there?

"Let me in," I said. "I have missed my way to Midcombe. My horse has

fallen. You must give me shelter for the night. Open the door and let me

in."

"Shelter! You can't get shelter here, mister," said a man's gruff voice.

"This ain't an inn, so you'd best be off and go elsewhere."

"But I must come in," I said, astonished at such inhospitality; "I can't

go a step further. Open the door at once!"

"You be hanged," said the man. "'Tis my house, not yours."

"But, you fool, I mean to pay you well for your trouble. Don't you know

it means death wandering about on such a night as this? Let me in."

"You won't come in here," was the brutal and boorish reply. The door

closed.

That I was enraged at such incivility may be easily imagined; but if I

said I was thoroughly frightened I believe no one would be surprised.

As getting into that house meant simply life or death to me, into that

house I determined to get, by door or window, by fair means or by foul.

So, as the door closed, I hurled myself against it with all the might I

could muster. Although I ride much heavier now than I did then, all my

weight at that time was bone and muscle. The violence of my attack tore

from the lintel the staple which held the chain; the door went back with

a bang, and I fell forward into the house, fully resolved to stay there

whether welcome or unwelcome.

II.

The door through which I had burst like a battering ram opened straight

into a sort of kitchen, so although I entered in a most undignified way,

in fact on my hands and knees, I was well-established in the centre of

the room before the man and woman emerged from behind the door, where my

successful assault had thrown them. I stood up and faced them. They were

a couple of ordinary, respectably-attired country people. The man, a

sturdy, strong-built, bull-necked rascal, stood scowling at me, and, I

concluded, making up his mind as to what course to pursue.

"My good people," I said, "you are behaving in the most unheard-of

manner. Can't you understand that I mean to pay you well for any trouble

I give you? But whether you like it or not, here I stay to-night. To

turn me out would be sheer murder."

So saying I pulled off my overcoat, and began shaking the snow out of my

whiskers.

I dare say my determined attitude, my respectable, as well as my

muscular appearance, impressed my unwilling hosts. Anyway, they gave

in without more ado. Whilst the woman shut the door, through which the

snow-flakes were whirling, the man said sullenly:

"Well, you'll have to spend the night on a chair. We've no beds here for

strangers. 'Specially those as ain't wanted."

"Very well, my friend. Having settled the matter you may as well make

yourself pleasant. Go out and put my horse under cover, and give him a

feed of some sort--make a mash if you can."

After giving the woman a quick glance as of warning, my scowling host

lit a horn lantern, and went on the errand I suggested. I gladly sank

into a chair, and warmed myself before a cheerful fire. The prospect of

spending the night amid such discomfort was not alluring, but I had, at

least, a roof over my head.

As a rule, the more churlish the nature, the more avaricious it is found

to be. My promise of liberal remuneration was, after all, not without

its effect upon the strange couple whose refusal to afford me refuge had

so nearly endangered my life. They condescended to get me some tea and

rough food. After I had disposed of all that, the man produced a bottle

of gin. We filled our glasses, and then, with the aid of my pipe, I

settled down to make the best of a night spent in a hard wooden chair.

I had come across strange people in my travels, but I have no hesitation

in saying that my host was the sullenest, sulkiest, most boorish

specimen of human nature I had as yet met with. In spite of his recent

ill-treatment of me I was quite ready to establish matters on a friendly

footing, and made several attempts to draw him into conversation. The

brute would only answer in monosyllables, or often not answer at all. So

I gave up talking as a bad job, and sat in silence, smoking and looking

into the fire, thinking a good deal, it may be, of some one I should

have met that morning at Lilymere had the wretched snow but kept off.

The long clock--that cumbrous eight-day machine which inevitably

occupies one corner of every cottager's kitchen--struck nine. The woman

rose and left us. I concluded she was going to bed. If so, I envied her.

Her husband showed no sign of retiring. He still sat over the fire,

opposite me. By this time I was dreadfully tired: every bone in my body

ached. The hard chair which an hour or two ago, seemed all I could

desire, now scarcely came up to my ideas of the comfort I was justly

entitled to claim. My sulky companion had been drinking silently but

steadily. Perhaps the liquor he had poured into himself might have

rendered his frame of mind more pleasant and amenable to reason.

"My good fellow," I said, "your chairs are excellent ones of the kind,

but deucedly uncomfortable. I am horribly tired. If the resources of

your establishment can't furnish a bed for me to sleep in, couldn't you

find a mattress or something to lay down before the fire?"

"You've got all you'll get to-night," he answered, knocking the ashes

out his pipe.

"Oh, but I say!"

"So do I say. I say this: If you don't like it you can leave it. We

didn't ask you to come."

"You infernal beast," I muttered--and meant it too--I declare had I not

been so utterly worn out, I would have had that bullet-headed ruffian up

for a few rounds on his own kitchen floor, and tried to knock him into a

more amiable frame of mind.

"Never mind," I said; "but, remember, civility costs nothing, and often

gets rewarded. However, if you wish to retire to your own couch don't

let your native politeness stand in your way. Pray don't hesitate on my

account. Leave plenty of fuel, and I shall manage until morning."

"Where you stay, I stay," he answered. Then he filled his pipe, and once

more relapsed into stony silence.

I bothered about him no more. I dozed off for a few minutes--woke--dozed

off again for some hours. I was in an uncomfortable sort of half sleep,

crammed full of curious dreams--dreams from which I started, wondering

where I was and how I got there. I even began to grow nervous. All sorts

of horrible travellers' tales ran through my head. It was in just such

places as this that unsuspecting voyagers were stated to have been

murdered and robbed, by just such unmitigated ruffians as my host--I

can tell you that altogether I spent a most pleasant night.

To make matters worse and more dismal the storm still raged outside. The

wind moaned through the trees, but it had again changed, and I knew from

the sound on the window-panes that heavy rain had succeeded snow. As the

big drops of water found their way down the large old-fashioned chimney,

the fire hissed and spluttered like a spiteful vixen. Everything

combined to deprive me of what dog's sleep I could by sheer persistency

snatch.

I think I tried every position which an ordinary man, not an acrobat, is

capable of adopting with the assistance of a common wooden chair. I even

lay down on the hard flags. I actually tried the table. I propped up the

upper half of my body against the corner walls of the room; but found no

rest. At last I gave up all idea of sleeping, and fully aroused myself.

I comforted myself by saying that my misery was only temporary--that the

longest night must come to an end.

My companion had by now succumbed to fatigue, or to the combined effects

of fatigue and gin-and-water. His head was hanging sideways, and he

slept in a most uncomfortable attitude. I chuckled as I looked at him,

feeling quite sure that if such a clod was capable of dreaming at all,

his dreams must be worse even than mine. I filled another pipe, poked

the smoldering logs into a blaze, and sat almost nose and knees over the

fire, finding some amusement in speculating upon the condition of the

churl before me, and thanking the Lord I was not like unto this man.

Suddenly an idea flashed across me.

I had seen this fellow before. But when or where I could not remember.

His features, as I looked at them with keener interest, seemed to grow

more and more familiar to me. Where could I have met him? Somewhere or

other, but where? I racked my brain to associate him with some scene,

some event. Although he was but an ordinary countryman, such as one sees

scores of in a day's ride, only differing from his kind on account of

his unpleasant face, I felt sure we were old acquaintances. When he

awoke for a moment and changed his strained attitude, my feeling grew

stronger and stronger. Yet puzzle and puzzle as I would I could not call

to mind a former encounter; so at last I began to think the supposed

recognition was pure fancy on my part.

Having smoked out several pipes, I thought that a cigar would be a

slight break to the monotony of the night's proceedings. So I drew out

my case and looked at its contents. Among the weeds was one of a lighter

color than the others. As I took it out I said to myself, "Why, old

Brand gave me that one when I was last at his house." Curiously enough

that cigar was the missing link in the chain of my memory. As I held it

in my hand I knew at once why my host's ugly face seemed familiar to

me.

About a fortnight before, being in town, I had spent the evening with

the doctor. He was not alone, and I was introduced to a tall pale young

man named Carriston. He was a pleasant, polite young fellow, although

not much in my line. At first I judged him to be a would-be poet of the

fashionable miserable school; but finding that he and Brand talked so

much about art I eventually decided that he was one of the doctor's many

artist friends. Art is a hobby he hacks about on grandly. (Mem. Brand's

own attempt at pictures are simply atrocious!)

Just before I left, Carriston, the doctor's back being turned, asked me

to step into another room. There he showed me the portrait of a man. It

seemed very cleverly drawn, and I presumed he wanted me to criticise it.

"I am a precious bad judge," I said.

"I am not asking you to pass an opinion," said Carriston. "I want

to beg a favor of you. I am almost ashamed to beg it on so short an

acquaintance."

He seemed modest, and not in want of money, so I encouraged him to

proceed.

"I heard you say you were going into the country," he resumed. "I want

to ask you if by any chance you should meet the original of that drawing

to telegraph at once to Dr. Brand."

"Whereabouts does he live?"

"I have no idea. If chance throws him in your way please do as I ask."

"Certainly I will," I said, seeing the young man made the request in

solemn earnest.

He thanked me, and then gave me a small photograph of the picture. This

photograph he begged me to keep in my pocket-book, so that I might

refer to it in case I met the man he wanted. I put it there, went my

way, and, am sorry to say, forget all about it. Had it not been for the

strange cigar in my case bringing back Carriston's unusual request to my

mind, the probabilities are that I should not have thought again of the

matter. Now, by a remarkable coincidence, I was spending the night with

the very man, who, so far as my memory served me, must have sat for the

portrait shown me at Brand's house.

"I wonder what I did with the photo," I said. I turned out my

letter-case. There it was, right enough! Shading it with one hand, I

carefully compared it with the sleeper.

Not a doubt about it! So far as a photograph taken from a picture can

go, it was the man himself. The same ragged beard, the same coarse

features, the same surly look. Young Carriston was evidently a wonderful

hand at knocking off a likeness. Moreover, in case I had felt any doubt

in the matter, a printed note at the bottom of the photograph said that

one joint was missing from a right-hand finger. Sure enough, my friend

lacked that small portion of his misbegotten frame.

This discovery threw me in an ecstasy of delight. I laughed so loudly

that I almost awoke the ruffian. I guessed I was going to take a

glorious revenge for all the discomforts I had suffered. No one, I felt

sure, could be looking for such a fellow as this to do any good to him.

I was quite happy in the thought, and for the remainder of the night

gloated over the idea of putting a spoke in the wheel of one who had

been within an ace of causing my death. I resolved, the moment I got

back to civilization, to send the desired intelligence to Brand, and

hope for the best.

III.

The end of that wretched night came at last. When the welcome morning

broke I found that a great change had taken place out-of-doors. The

fierce snow-storm had been the farewell of the frost. The heavy rain

that followed had filled the roads with slushy and rapidly-thawing snow.

I managed to extort some of a breakfast from my host, then, having

recompensed him according to my promise, not his deserts, started, as

soon as I could, on the bare back of my unfortunate steed, for Midcombe,

which place, after my night's experience, seemed gifted with merits not

its own.

I was surprised upon leaving the house to find it was of larger

dimensions than, from the little I saw of it during the night, I had

imagined. It was altogether a better class of residence than I had

supposed. My surly friend accompanied me until he had placed me on the

main road, where I could make no possible mistake. He was kind enough to

promise to assist any one I might send out in getting the dog-cart once

more under way. Then, with a hearty wish on my part that I might never

again meet with his like, we parted.

I found my way to Midcombe without much trouble. I took off my things,

had a wash, and, like a sensible man for once, went to bed. But I did

not forget to send a boy straight off to the nearest telegraph station.

My message to Brand was a brief one. It simply said: "Tell your friend I

have found his man." This duty done, I dismissed all speculation as to

the result from my mind, and settled down to make up arrears of sleep.

I was surprised at the reply received that same evening from Brand:

"We shall be with you as soon as we can get down to-morrow. Meet

us at station." From this it was clear that my friend was wanted

particularly--all the better! I turned to the time-table and found that,

owing to changes and delays, they could not get to C----, the nearest

station to Midcombe, until three o'clock in the afternoon. I inquired

about the crippled dog-cart. It had been brought in; so I left strict

instructions that a shaft of some sort was to be rigged in time for me

to drive over the next day and meet the doctor and his friend.

They came as promised. It was a comfort to see friends of any

description, so I gave them a hearty welcome. Carriston took hold of

both my hands, and shook them so warmly that I began to feel I had

discovered a long-lost father of his in my friend. I had almost

forgotten the young fellow's appearance, or he looked a very different

man to-day from the one I had seen when last we met. Then he was a wan,

pensive, romantic, poetical-looking sort of fellow; now he seemed full

of energy, vitality, and grit. Poor old Brand looked as serious as an

undertaker engaged in burying his own mother.

Carriston began to question me, but Brand stopped him. "You promised I

should make inquiries first," he said. Then he turned to me.

"Look here, Richard,"--when he calls me Richard I know he is fearfully

in earnest--"I believe you have brought us down on a fool's errand; but

let us go to some place where we can talk together for a few minutes."

I lead them across the road to the Railway Inn. We entered a room, and,

having for the sake of appearances ordered a little light refreshment,

told the waiter to shut the door from the outside. Brand settled down

with the air of a cross-examining counsel. I expected to see him pull

out a New Testament and put me on my oath.

"Now, Richard," he said, "before we go further I want to know your

reasons for thinking this man, about whom you telegraphed, is

Carriston's man, as you call him."

"Reasons! Why of course he is the man. Carriston gave me his photograph.

The likeness is indisputable--leaving the finger-joint out of the

question."

Here Carriston looked at my cross-examiner triumphantly. The meaning of

that look I have never to this hour understood. But I laughed because I

knew old Brand had for once made a mistake, and was going to be called

to account for it. Carriston was about to speak, but the doctor waved

him aside.

"Now, Richard, think very carefully. You speak of the missing

finger-joint. We doctors know how many people persuade themselves into

all sorts of thing. Tell me, did you notice the likeness before you saw

the mutilated finger, or did the fact of the finger's being mutilated

bring the likeness to your mind?"

"Bless the man!" I said; "one would think I had no eyes. I tell you

there is no doubt about this man being the original of the photo."

"Never mind; answer my question."

"Well, then, I am ashamed to confess it, but I put the photo in my

pocket, and forgot all about it until I had recognized the man, and

pulled out the likeness to make sure. I didn't even know there was a

printed description at the foot, nor that any member was wanting.

Confound it, Brand! I'm not such a duffer as you think."

Brand did not retaliate. He turned to his friend and said gravely, "To

me the matter is inexplicable. Take your own course, as I promised you

should." Then he sat down, looking deliciously crest-fallen, and wearing

the discontented expression always natural to him when worsted in

argument.

It was now Carriston's turn. He plied me with many questions. In fact, I

gave him the whole history of my adventure. "What kind of house is it?"

he asked.

"Better than a cottage--scarcely a farm-house. A place, I should think,

with a few miserable acres of bad land belonging to it. One of those

wretched little holdings which are simply curses to the country."

He made lots of other inquiries, the purport of which I could not then

divine. He seemed greatly impressed when I told him that the man had

never for a moment left me alone. He shot a second glance of triumph at

Brand, who still kept silent, and looked as if all the wind had been

taken out of his sails.

"How far is the place?" asked Carriston. "Could you drive me there after

dark?"

At this question the doctor returned to life. "What do you mean to do?"

he asked his friend. "Let us have no nonsense. Even now I feel sure that

Fenton is mislead by some chance resemblance--"

"Deuce a bit, old chap," I said.

"Well, whether or not, we needn't do foolish things. We must go and

swear information, and get a search-warrant, and the assistance of the

police. The truth is, Richard," he continued, turning to me, "we have

reason to believe, or I should say Carriston persists in fancying, that

a friend of his has for some time been kept in durance by the man whom

you say you recognized."

"Likely enough," I said. "He looked villain enough for anything up to

murder."

"Anyway," said Brand, "we must do everything according to law."

"Law! I want no law," answered Carriston. "I have found her, as I knew

I should find her. I shall simply fetch her, and at once. You can come

with me or stay here, as you like, doctor; but I am afraid I must

trouble your friend to drive me somewhere near the place he speaks of."

Foreseeing an adventure and great fun--moreover, not unmoved by thoughts

of revenge--I placed myself entirely at Carriston's disposal. He

expressed his gratitude, and suggested that we should start at once.

In a few minutes we were ready, and mounted the dog-cart. Brand, after

grumbling loudly at the whole proceeding, finished up by following us,

and installing himself in the back seat. Carriston placed a parcel he

carried inside the cart, and away we went.

It was now nearly dark, and raining cats and dogs. I had my lamps

lighted, so we got along without much difficulty. The roads were deep

with mud; but by this time the snow had been pretty nearly washed away

from everywhere. I don't make a mistake in a road twice, so in due

course we reached the scene of my upset. Here I drew up.

"The house lies about five hundred yards up the lane," I told Carriston;

"we had better get out here."

"What about the horse?" asked Brand.

"No chance of any one passing this way on such a night as this; so let

us put out the lamps and tie him up somewhere."

We did so; then struggled on afoot until we saw the gleam of light which

had been so welcomed by me two nights before.

It was just about as dark as pitch; but guided by the light, we went on

until we stood in front of the house, where a turf bank and a dry hedge

hid us from sight, although on such a night we had little fear of our

presence being discovered.

"What do you mean to do now?" asked Brand in a discontented whisper.

"You can't break into the house."

Carriston said nothing for a minute; then I felt him place his hand on

my shoulder.

"Are there any horses; any cows about the place?" he asked.

I told him I thought that my surly friend rejoiced in the possession of

a horse and a cow.

"Very well. Then we must wait. He'll come out to see to them before he

goes to bed," said Carriston, as decidedly as a general giving orders

just before a battle.

I could not see how Brand expressed his feelings upon hearing this order

from our commander--I know I shrugged my shoulders, and if I said

nothing, I thought a deal. The present situation was all very well for a

strongly-interested party like Carriston, but he could scarcely expect

others to relish the prospect of waiting, it might be for hours, under

that comfortless hedge. We were all wet to the skin, and although I was

extremely anxious to see the end of the expedition, and find poetical

justice meted out to my late host, Carriston's Fabian tactics lacked the

excitement I longed for. Brand, in spite of his disapproval of the whole

course of action, was better off than I was. As a doctor, he must have

felt sure that, provided he could survive the exposure, he would secure

two fresh patients. However, we made no protest, but waited for events

to develop themselves.

IV.

More than half an hour went by. I was growing numbed and tired, and

beginning to think that we were making asses of ourselves, when I heard

the rattle of a chain, and felt Carriston give my arm a warning touch.

No doubt my late host had made sure that his new door-fastenings were

equal to a stronger test than that to which I had subjected the former

ones; so we were wise in not attempting to carry his castle by force.

The door opened, and closed again. I saw the feeble glimmer of a lantern

moving toward the out-house in which my horse had been stabled. I heard

a slight rustling in the hedge, and, stretching out my arm, found that

Carriston had left my side. In the absence of any command from him I did

not follow, but resumed the old occupation--waiting.

In a few minutes the light of the lantern reappeared; the bearer stood

on the threshold of the house, while I wondered what Carriston was

doing. Just as the door was opened for the boor's readmittance, a dark

figure sprung upon him! I heard a fierce oath and cry of surprise; then

the lantern flew out of the man's hand, and he and his assailant tumbled

struggling through the narrow door-way.

"Hurrah! the door is won, anyway!" I shouted, as, followed closely by

the doctor, I jumped over the hedge and rushed to the scene of the fray.

Although Carriston's well-conceived attack was so vigorous and

unexpected that the man went down under it; although our leader utilized

the advantage he had gained in a proper and laudable manner, by bumping

that thick bullet-head as violently as he could against the flags on

which it lay; I doubt if, after all, he could have done his work alone.

The countryman was a muscular brute and Carriston but a stripling.

However, our arrival speedily settled the question.

"Bind him!" panted Carriston; "there is a cord in my pocket." He

appeared to have come quite prepared for contingencies. Whilst Carriston

still embraced his prostrate foe, and Brand, to facilitate matters,

knelt on his shoulders, sat on his head, or did something else useful, I

drew out from the first pocket I tried a nice length of half-inch line,

and had the immense satisfaction of trussing up my scowling friend in a

most workmanlike manner. He must have felt those turns on his wrists for

days afterward. Yet when we were at last at liberty to rise and leave

him lying helpless on his kitchen-floor, I considered I exercised great

self-denial in not bestowing a few kicks upon him, as he swore at us in

the broadest vernacular in a way which, under the circumstances, was no

doubt a great comfort to him.

We scarcely noticed the man's wife while we rendered her husband

helpless. As we entered she attempted to fly out, but Brand, with a

promptitude which I am glad to record, intercepted her, closed the door,

turned and pocketed the key. After that the woman sat on the floor and

rocked herself to and fro.

For some moments, while recovering his breath, Carriston stood, and

positively glared at his prostrate foe. At last he found words.

"Where is she? Where is the key, you hound?" he thundered out, stooping

over the fellow, and shaking him with a violence which did my heart

good. As he received no answers save the unrecordable expressions above

mentioned, we unbuttoned the wretch's pockets, and searched those greasy

receptacles. Among the usual litter we did certainly find a key.

Carriston snatched at it, and shouting "Madeline! Madeline! I come!"

rushed out of the room like a maniac, leaving Brand and me to keep guard

over our prisoners.

I filled a pipe, lit it, and then came back to my fallen foe.

"I say, old chap!" I said, stirring him gently with the toe of my boot,

"this will be a lesson to you. Remember, I told you that civility costs

nothing. If you had given me Christian bed accommodation instead of

making me wear out my poor bones on that infernal chair, you could have

jogged along in your rascality quite comfortably, so far as I am

concerned."

He was very ungrateful--so much so that my desire to kick him was

intensified. I should not like to swear I did not to a slight degree

yield to the temptation.

"Push a handkerchief in his mouth," cried Brand, suddenly. "A lady is

coming."

With right good-will I did as the doctor suggested.

Just then Carriston returned. I don't want to raise home tempests, yet

I must say he was accompanied by the most beautiful creature my eyes

have ever lighted upon. True, she was pale as a lily--looked thin and

delicate, and her face bore traces of anxiety and suffering, but for all

that she was beautiful--too beautiful for this world, I thought, as I

looked at her. She was clinging in a half-frightened, half-confiding way

to Carriston, and he--happy fellow!--regardless of our presence, was

showering down kisses on her sweet pale face. Confound it! I grow quite

romantic as I recall the sight of those lovers.

A most curious young man, that Carriston! He came to us, the lovely girl

on his arm, without showing a trace of his recent excitement.

"Let us go now," he said, as calmly as if he had been taking a quiet

evening drive. Then he turned to me.

"Do you think, Mr. Fenton, you could without much trouble get the

dog-cart up to the house?"

I said I would try to do so.

"But what about these people?" asked Brand.

Carriston gave them a contemptuous glance. "Leave them alone," he said.

"They are but the tools of another--him I cannot touch. Let us go."

"Yes, yes. But why not verify your suspicions while you can?"

Just like Brand! He's always wanting to verify everything.

In searching for the key we had found some papers on our prisoner. Brand

examined them, and handed to Carriston an envelope which contained what

looked like bank-notes.

Carriston glanced at it. "The handwriting is, of course, disguised," he

said, carelessly; "but the postmark shows whence it came. It is as I

always told you. You agree with me now?"

"I am afraid I must," said Brand, humbly. "But we must do something

about this man," he continued.

Hereupon Carriston turned to our prisoner. "Listen, you villain," he

said. "I will let you go scot-free if you breathe no word of this to

your employer for the next fortnight. If he learns from you what has

happened before that time, I swear you shall go to penal servitude.

Which do you choose?"

I pulled out the gag, and it is needless to say which the fellow chose.

Then I went off, and recovered the horse and cart. I relighted the

lamps, and with some difficulty got the dog-cart up to the house,

Carriston having exactly anticipated the events of the night. The parcel

he had brought with him contained a bonnet and a thick, warm cloth

cloak. His beautiful friend was equipped with these; then leaving the

woman of the house to untie her husband at her leisure and pleasure,

away we started; the doctor sitting by me; Carriston and the lady

behind.

We just managed to catch the last train from C----. Not feeling sure

as to what form inquiries might take to-morrow, I thought it better to

go up to town with my friends; so, as we passed through Midcombe, I

stopped, paid my bill, and gave instructions for my luggage to be

forwarded to me. By six o'clock the next morning we were all in London.

DR. BRAND IN CONCLUSION.

When I asked Fenton to relate his experiences I did not mean him to do

so at such length. But there, as he has written it, and as writing is

not a labor of love with him, let it go.

When Madeline Rowan found the bed by the side of which she had thrown

herself in an ecstasy of grief untenanted, she knew in a moment that she

was the victim of a deep-laid plot. Being ignorant of Carriston's true

position in the world she could conceive no reason for the elaborate

scheme which have been devised to lure her so many miles from her home,

and make a prisoner of her.

A prisoner she was. Not only was the door locked upon her, but a slip of

paper lay on the bed. It bore these words, "No harm is meant you, and

in due time you will be released. Ask no questions, make no foolish

attempts at escape, and you will be well-treated."

Upon reading this the girl's first thought was one of thankfulness.

She saw at once that the reported accident to her lover was but an

invention. The probabilities were that Carriston was alive, and in

his usual health. Now that she felt certain of this, she could bear

anything.

From the day on which she entered that room, to that on which we rescued

her, Madeline was to all intents and purposes as close a prisoner in

that lonely house on the hill-side as she might have been in the deepest

dungeon in the world. Threats, entreaties, promises of bribes availed

nothing. She was not unkindly treated--that is, suffered no absolute

ill-usage. Books, materials for needle-work, and other little aids to

while away time were supplied. But the only living creatures she saw

were the women of the house who attended to her wants, and, on one

or two occasions, the man whom Carriston asserted he had seen in his

trance. She had suffered from the close confinement, but had always felt

certain that sooner or later her lover would find her, and effect her

deliverance. Now that she knew he was alive she could not be unhappy.

I did not choose to ask her why she had felt so certain on the above

points. I wished to add no more puzzles to the one which, to tell the

truth, exercised, even annoyed me, more than I care to say. But I did

ask her if, during her incarceration, her jailer had ever laid his hand

upon her.

She told me that some short time after her arrival a stranger had gained

admittance to the house. Whilst he was there the man had entered her

room, held her arm, and threatened her with violence if she made any

outcry. After hearing this, I did not pursue the subject.

Carriston and Madeline were married at the earliest possible moment,

and left England immediately after the ceremony. A week after their

departure, by Carriston's request, I forwarded the envelope found upon

our prisoner to Mr. Ralph Carriston. With it I sent a few lines stating

where and under what peculiar circumstances we had become possessed

of it. I never received any reply to my communication; so, wild and

improbable as it seems, I am bound to believe that Charles Carriston's

surmise was right--that Madeline was decoyed away and concealed, not

from any ill-will toward herself, but with a view to the possible

baneful effect which her mysterious disappearance might work upon her

lover's strange and excitable organization; and I firmly believe that

had he not in some inexplicable way been firmly convinced that she was

alive and faithful to him, the plot would have been a thorough success,

and Charles Carriston would have spent the rest of his days in an

asylum.

Both Sir Charles--he succeeded to his title shortly after his

marriage--and Lady Carriston are now dead, or I should not have ventured

to relate these things concerning them. They had twelve years of

happiness. If measured by time the period was but a short one; but I

feel sure that in it they enjoyed more true happiness than many others

find in the course of a protracted life. In word, thought, and deed they

were as one. She died in Rome of fever, and her husband, without so far

as I know any particular complaint, simply followed her.

I was always honored with their sincerest friendship, and Sir Charles

left me sole trustee and guardian to his three sons; so there are now

plenty of lives between Ralph Carriston and his desire. I am pleased to

say that the boys, who are as dear to me as my own children, as yet show

no evidence of possessing any gifts beyond nature.

I know that my having made this story public will cause two sets of

objectors to fall equally foul of me--the matter-of-fact prosaic man who

will say that the abduction and subsequent imprisonment of Madeline

Rowan was an absurd impossibility, and the scientific man, like myself,

who cannot, dare not believe that Charles Carriston, from neither memory

nor imagination, could draw a face, and describe peculiarities, by

which a certain man could be identified. I am far from saying there may

not be a simple natural explanation of the puzzle, but I, for one, have

failed to find it, so close this tale as I began it by saying I am a

narrator, and nothing more.

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Transcriber's Note

Words in italics were surrounded by _underscores_, and small capitals

changed to all capitals.

A table of contents has been added.

In the original the pagenumbers started again from the second story,

this has been changed for reader convenience.

Obvious errors in punctuation have been corrected. Also the following

corrections have been made, on page

55 "anb" changed to "and" (and up towards the dizzy crown)

68 "out" changed to "but" (understood and enjoyed at home, but

foreigners, especially)

117 "proprosition" changed to "proposition" (applause of her

proposition.)

135 "Cattelton" changed to "Cattleton" (Cattleton sprung to his

feet)

150 "come" changed to "came" (Mr. Herbert came to the rescue.)

153 "pursuade" changed to "persuade" (you would only persuade my

father)

156 "insistance" changed to "insistence" (Miss Herbert's insistence

that two or three roses)

157 double "to" removed (one of his many boys to take Jerry's

place.)

158 "striken" changed to "stricken" (were stricken with a great

wonder.)

160 "despict" changed to "depict" (that face might depict passions

stronger than those)

172 "XIII." changed to "III." (CHAPTER III.)

172 "neice" changed to "niece" (whilst driving with her niece)

177 "Ht" changed to "At" (At last he could bear)

182 "prom-" changed to "promise" (if you will promise to be)

185 "is" added (it is as well you cannot)

195 "tarning" changed to "turning" (listlessly turning the leaves

of)

200 "Bettwsy-Coed" changed to "Bettws-y-Coed" (and made

Bettws-y-Coed my headquarters.)

213 "with out" changed to "without" (possessed them without due

trial)

215 "apearance" changed to "appearance" (no less than his

appearance.)

220 "Cowan's" changed to "Rowan's" (inquiries as to Miss Rowan's

parentage.)

223 "augument" changed to "augmented" (embellished and augmented by

each one)

231 "stared" changed to "started" (before he started for France)

235 "neice" changed to "niece" (had left her niece all of which she

died possessed.)

257 "gibly" changed to "glibly" (If the tale he told so glibly and

circumstantially)

260 "Carrisson" changed to "Carriston" (as Carriston averred)

263 double "was" removed (of these precious photographs was sent

home)

267 "habi tof" changed to "habit of" (to shake off the bad habit of

giving in)

280 "misbegotton" changed to "misbegotten" (that small portion of

his misbegotten frame.)

282 "Midcomb" changed to "Midcombe" (nearest station to Midcombe,

until three o'clock)

288 "faciliate" changed to "facilitate" (to faciliate matters)

288 "immence" changed to "immense" (and had the immense satisfaction

of)

293 "rereived" changed to "received" (I never received any reply).

Otherwise the original has been preserved, including inconsistencies in

spelling, hyphenation and punctuation.

End of Project Gutenberg's A Fortnight of Folly, by Maurice Thompson