DR. SCHOFIELD'S OPINION.
In ten minutes we were in the streets of Little Drayton again, and Cecil
had brought the dog cart to a standstill outside the "Rose and Crown." He
would have gone in with me, but I begged him not to. I jumped down and
walked straight into the little parlour. Milly was sitting there alone,
gazing absently into the fire. She looked up in surprise at my sudden
entrance, and half rose.
"Milly, I want to ask you a question," I said, going up to her side.
"It's about your father's disappearance."
"Yes!" she exclaimed eagerly. "What is it? Oh, do tell me quickly!"
"It's only an idea. Did Mr. Hart ever suffer from any brain disorder at
any time? That's all I want to know. Has his mind always been quite
strong?"
She did not answer for a moment and my heart beat fast. Looking at her
closely, I could see that the colour had flushed into her cheeks and
there was a troubled light in her eyes.
"He has had one or two severe illnesses," she admitted slowly; "brain
fever once; and I'm afraid he used to drink too much now and then. The
doctor told him that he must be very careful not to excite himself."
"Who was the doctor and where does he live?" I asked quickly.
"Dr. Schofield. He lives on the Lincoln Road, about a mile away. Why have
you asked me this?" she added anxiously.
I evaded a direct reply.
"Never mind now," I said. "If anything comes of it, I will let you know."
She tried to detain me with further questions, but I hurried away and she
did not follow me out of the door.
"Cis," I said, as I scrambled up to his side, "I want you to go home by
the Lincoln Road and call at Dr. Schofield's. It isn't far out of the
way."
He nodded.
"All right. You haven't found out anything about old Hart, have you? What
was the question you went back to ask Milly?"
"Only about her father's health. No; I haven't found out anything. It's
only an idea of mine I want to clear up."
Cecil looked as though he thought I might have told him what the idea
was, but he said nothing. In a few minutes he pulled up outside a neat,
red-brick house, which, as a shining brass plate indicated, was Dr.
Schofield's abode.
The doctor was in and disengaged. He came at once into the waiting-room,
where I had been shown--a respectable family practitioner, with
intelligent face and courteous manner.
I explained my position as an acquaintance of Miss Hart's, interested in
the mysterious disappearance of her father. It had occurred to me to make
inquiries as to the state of his health, or, rather, his constitution, I
added. Perhaps his prolonged absence might be accounted for by sudden and
dangerous illness. Could Dr. Schofield give me any information?
His manner was encouraging. He bade me take a seat and went into the
matter gravely.
"To tell you the truth," he said, "I am rather surprised that I have not
been appealed to before. In an ordinary case I should feel bound to
maintain a strict secrecy with regard to the ailments of my patients, but
this is different. As you have asked me this question, I feel bound to
tell you what I would not otherwise divulge. Mr. Hart was my patient on
two several occasions during the last two years for delirium tremens, and
once within my recollection he had a distinct touch of brain fever."
"His mind would not be very strong, then?" I remarked.
Dr. Schofield hesitated.
"He had a wonderful constitution," he said slowly--"a constitution of
iron. In ordinary circumstances I cannot bring myself to think that he
could suddenly and completely have lost his reason. But supposing he had
received some severe shock, such as a railway accident, or something of
that sort, why, then it would be possible, even probable, he might become
a raving lunatic in a moment."
"And would his madness be incurable?"
"If properly treated, with a knowledge of his past ailment--no," answered
Dr. Schofield; "but if he were treated just like an ordinary madman in a
pauper lunatic asylum, he would probably never recover. He would become
worse and worse and finally be incurable. I see two objections to
accepting any theory of this sort as accounting for his disappearance,"
the doctor continued, after a short pause. "In the first place the shock
would have to be violent and unexpected, and this seems improbable; in
the next place, he would surely have had some letter or something about
him which would have led to his identification!"
"If the shock were the result of foul play, these would be destroyed," I
suggested.
"Undoubtedly; but whence the foul play? Hart is known to have had only a
few pounds with him when he left."
"Perhaps he had something in his keeping more valuable than money," I
remarked.
"What?"
"A secret."
"Have you any grounds for such a belief?" the doctor asked curiously.
I hesitated. In my own mind I believed that I had; but for the present,
at any rate, this was best kept to myself. I answered quite truthfully,
however.
"I have made a few inquiries here and there," I said, "and I have heard
it hinted that he had some secret means of replenishing his purse. He has
been known more than once to leave here with only a few sovereigns in his
pocket and to come back with his sovereigns turned into banknotes."
"I remember hearing some such tale," the doctor remarked. "I'm afraid it
is all rather vague, though."
"I'm very much obliged to you, Dr. Schofield," I assured him, rising to
take my leave.
He followed me to the door and then returned to his interrupted dinner. I
mounted into the dog cart and we were soon bowling through the darkness
towards Borden Tower.
"Get anything out of the old chap?" Cecil asked.
"Not much. I'm just a little wiser than I was before, that's all. Beastly
sorry to keep you waiting so long!"
"Oh, that's all right! But I say, Phil," he added, "what is this idea of
yours? You can tell me, can't you?"
"If it comes to anything, I will," I assured him. "But at present it is
altogether too vague and you would only laugh at it. Don't ask me
anything more about it yet, there's a good fellow."
"You're very close, all of a sudden," he grumbled. "Why can't you tell
me?"
"Because I'm afraid of your letting it out to someone whom I don't want
to know anything about it," I answered.
He laughed.
"Ah, well, perhaps you're right!" he said. "I couldn't keep anything back
from Milly."
I echoed his laugh, but held my peace. It was not Milly alone from whom I
wished my present idea to be kept a secret. In fact, I had not thought of
Milly at all. I was only anxious that de Cartienne should remain
altogether in the dark as to my clue; and for a remarkably good reason.