THE DECISION OF THE “COMBINE”
When she agreed to look after Elsie Hobson, Constance had taken upon
herself a severe task. She found that the poor girl was practically
helpless, and it had only been by painstaking efforts that she had been
able to get her to do the most simple things.
As to her past life, she could not remember a single thing. She did not
know anyone, not even her own name, and she went about in a mechanical
sort of way, clinging to Constance like a child. At first it had been
very distressing to see her like that, but sensibly realising the
situation, Constance had devoted herself to her charge, and as far as
it was possible, improvement in her condition had been made.
Elsie occupied her attention that morning for fully an hour, by which
time it was nearly ten o’clock. She was, however, able to spend a short
time with her charge on the lawn, before a ring at the front-door bell
warned her that Mr. Shepperton and Mr. Canning had arrived.
Rising, she went quickly into the house, to find that Martha had shown
them into the drawing-room. Shepperton introduced Mr. Canning to her,
and that gentleman, bowing awkwardly, said that he hoped she was well.
Constance looked at him curiously, and wanted to laugh. He looked so
uncongenial in her pretty room, sitting in a low fancy chair, with his
long legs and great feet sprawling on the carpet. But almost the next
moment she detected something in his appearance which commanded her
respect. What it was she could not exactly define, she simply knew that
she had realised he was a strong, reliable man.
“And how is Elsie this morning?” inquired Shepperton.
“Oh, about the same, I think. You had better come and see her.”
Just then the Vicar entered, and after he had been introduced to the
detective, Constance said:
“Come along, Mr. Shepperton, I will take you to Elsie, while Philip
talks to Mr. Canning.”
When they had gone, Alletson looked silently at the detective, who
was apparently deeply interested in the design of a vase on the
mantelpiece. The Vicar did not know what to think of him, he was such
a queer-looking man. He was just about to address him, when, without
turning his head, Mr. Canning exclaimed:
“I expect you have wondered what I think about this case, sir?”
Alletson smiled genially. “That is just what I was going to ask you,
Mr. Canning.”
The detective screwed up his thin lips, and sagely nodded his head.
“Well, officially speaking, the case would, I think, be reported as
one ‘that has baffled all efforts,’ but personally”—here he turned
quickly and looked steadily at the Vicar, as though to make quite sure
he was not on wrong ground—“I feel there is either a huge hoax being
carried on, or else it is a genuine mystery, as far out of the reach of
ordinary investigation as I am from being saved.”
Alletson lifted his eyebrows in surprise at this very uncommon speech,
then he laughed genuinely.
“I think, Mr. Canning, you have summed up the situation pretty
accurately. But do you intend to deal with the matter officially or
personally?”
“Both, sir. I am interested.”
“I feel I must congratulate you on your success in finding Miss Hobson.”
“As much a matter of luck, Mr. Alletson, as anything else,” was the
modest reply.
“If we could only get her memory restored, we might discover something.”
“Perhaps,” answered the detective, “but you never can tell.”
At this juncture the other two returned, Constance with tears in her
eyes, and Shepperton looking very dejected.
“Well?” asked the Vicar sympathetically.
Shepperton shook his head gloomily, as he replied:
“It seems quite hopeless; not a vestige of recognition has she shown in
any way.”
They were all silent for a space, then Mr. Canning remarked in his
high-pitched voice:
“A case like this requires time, you cannot hope for quick results.
Give it three months.”
Shepperton smiled despairingly. “I suppose that is what it amounts to,
and perhaps I had better realise straight away that it will probably
be a long job, even if she does recover.”
“In that connection, I have something important to say,” remarked the
Vicar steadily. All eyes turned to him as he continued: “But first of
all, I wish to speak with regard to the photograph which Mr. Shepperton
found.”
“Oh yes,” answered that gentleman attentively.
“To get straight to the point, I called on the Master of Storton
yesterday, partly to inform him of Miss Hobson’s return. When I had
finished, he produced a similar photograph to the one Mr. Shepperton
found, and asked me if I had seen anything like it before. Of course I
was surprised, but not half so much as I was when he told me the story
of it.” Here the Vicar related in detail what he had learned from Mr.
Brentwood. Then he continued:
“Now I think that pretty well absolves the Master of Storton from
any suspicions which may have been formed against him, so far as the
photograph is concerned. What do you say, Mr. Shepperton?”
Thus addressed, the latter gave a short unsatisfied laugh, and answered:
“If what Mr. Brentwood told you is true, I don’t see how we can come to
any other conclusion.”
“There is no doubt about the scar on his throat, and there is little
doubt that it corresponds in shape to the wound found on the body of
poor Thornton,” replied Alletson with a little heat.
“Quite so,” returned Shepperton. “What do you think, Canning?”
“I agree that it clears the gentleman from suspicion in a direct
way, and, if what he says took place in Afghanistan can be verified,
certainly from any suspicion as regards the photograph, but—” he
paused, and they all looked at him inquiringly. It was Constance who
put the question to him:
“How else could it affect him?”
The detective pursed his thin lips, and half-closed his eyes, before he
replied:
“Has it not occurred to anyone that if Mr. Brentwood’s story is true,
he is indirectly the cause of this mysterious something coming to this
district? It has never before been heard of in England!”
They stared blankly at the detective, then Shepperton slapped his
thigh, and exclaimed:
“So simple, too, yet it never struck me.”
“And,” continued Canning, addressing the Vicar, “is it not probable
that he never told you about this before, because he realised that you
would come to such a conclusion?”
“Not necessarily so,” rejoined the Vicar. “If the Master of Storton
were conscious of the fact that he had unknowingly brought this evil
to England, I do not see any possible reason why he should try to hide
anything connected with it. The simple fact that he may have been
instrumental in the matter does not make him guilty!”
“Your argument can be turned another way, reverend sir,” replied the
detective a little grimly. “The gentleman has on his own showing
withheld certain important information, which tends to show that he
does know he brought the evil to England, and that he is guilty in
endeavouring to cover up his traces.”
“Then why did he tell me yesterday about the photograph, if he intended
to deceive us? Why did he not still keep silent?” answered Alletson a
little triumphantly.
“What you say seems good enough, Mr. Alletson, but you must remember
that this gentleman deliberately told you yesterday about the
footprints, when he heard that Miss Hobson had been discovered, and
suddenly realising that if Miss Hobson recovered her memory, the whole
thing would come out, he did it with a view to change of plans.”
Shepperton looked at the Vicar with a wry sort of smile, as much as to
say, “Now then!”
“Just so,” replied the Vicar quickly. “My answer to you is here,
contained in this letter.” He started to open it with nervous fingers,
and was about to hand it to the detective, when Constance said in an
undertone:
“You had better read it, Philip.”
Her brother nodded, and began:
“‘+Storton Manor, Storton+,
_May, 19—_.
“‘+Dear Alletson+,—Further to our conversation this afternoon,
either my friend Agar Halfi or myself would be very willing to
deal with Miss Hobson’s malady, and attempt to restore her memory,
should it be agreeable to all.
“‘I suggest this, partly because a lot of money may be wasted in
useless advice, and partly because I know that there is only one
reliable method of dealing with such cases, and that I learnt in
the East.—Yours sincerely,
+H. A. Brentwood.+’”
“Now if your last surmise is correct, Mr. Canning, why should the
Master of Storton write this letter, offering to help to bring about
the very result that would be his undoing?”
“Simply that he has no intention of really trying to restore Elsie’s
memory, and would conduct some tom-fool experiment just to deceive us,”
blurted out Shepperton.
The Vicar’s face flushed a little, but he restrained himself admirably,
and for a time no one spoke. The silence was getting a little
uncomfortable, when Constance remarked coldly:
“Don’t you think we are straining the point somewhat?”
Her remark brought Canning’s eyes to her face, and a sort of a smile
wrinkled his countenance as he replied:
“Perhaps we are getting a little into the clouds. I think that your
brother is justified in his argument, though of course there is the
possibility of what has been said on the other side. But apart from
both points of view, we have, I understand, a very serious piece of
evidence from Miss Alletson, which is to my mind of great value in
this particular case, in fact it comprises the only evidence we at
present have against the Master of Storton; and on that alone—speaking
professionally—I should be bound to watch the gentleman, until his
innocence was proved beyond doubt.”
“And it is because of that evidence, and what I have gone through, that
I cannot recommend that Mr. Brentwood be allowed to deal with Elsie,”
exclaimed Constance, in a steady voice.
Shepperton gave her a grateful glance. “And I certainly should not care
about it,” he added.
“Have you thought that you may be throwing away the means of restoring
Miss Hobson’s memory?” ejaculated the Vicar.
“I have, Philip,” replied Constance, “and because of that, I suggest
that there could scarcely be any harm in allowing Mr. Agar Halfi to
treat the case!”
“Really, Miss Alletson—” began Shepperton, but she interrupted him
defiantly:
“Why not? If we are all there at the time, I don’t see that any harm
can be done.”
With a sigh, he looked appealingly at the detective, who was coolly
examining a piece of china which he had picked up from a small table at
his elbow.
“Mr. Canning, please!” he exclaimed a little shortly.
Without looking up from what he was doing, the detective answered:
“The lady’s reasoning is good, Mr. Shepperton.”
Here he nearly lost his temper. In a sense he felt at bay; they were
all three of an opinion contrary to his own, and he was mortified as
well as angry.
“But I most emphatically protest!” he said heatedly.
No one answered his remark, and in his annoyance Shepperton felt ready
to rush out of the room and never speak to any of them again. But it
did not take him long to crush that impulse.
Things were again beginning to get painful, when the detective calmly
said:
“Of course, Mr. Shepperton, you can try other means of restoration,
but I am bound to say that what Mr. Brentwood insinuated in his letter
about waste of money is probably correct. Are you aware that cases of
lost memory in the ordinary course of things have to right themselves,
or not at all? Nobody seems to know how to deal with them. Judging from
what Mr. Alletson told me a short time ago, it may be worth trying,
provided conditions satisfactory to ourselves could be obtained.”
“There is no doubt about their skill in these matters,” exclaimed the
Vicar.
Shepperton could hardly suppress a sneer as he said to himself, “No,
there isn’t!”
He did not like the idea at all, and fought against it for some time,
but eventually the weight of the detective’s reasoning influenced him,
and he acquiesced, though reluctantly.
“Shall I make the arrangements, Mr. Shepperton?”
“Please, if you don’t mind,” returned the latter. “I hope sincerely
that it will turn out a success, though I really cannot bring myself to
think so.”
“From what I know of Mr. Agar Halfi, I am sanguine of success,” said
Constance encouragingly.
“Thank you, Miss Alletson,” he returned quickly, then added:
“Please do not think me ungrateful; nobody could have done, nor is
doing, more for me than you and your brother, and I fully appre——”
“Don’t,” said Alletson warmly, putting his hand on the other’s arm. “We
quite understand.”
They shook hands, and Constance and her brother watched the two men go
down the path, until they disappeared outside the gate.
Turning to her brother, she said in a low voice:
“I wonder what will be the end of all this?”
He shook his head gravely, as he replied:
“It is difficult to say, but I trust God will guide our actions, and
lead us into clear waters.” Saying which, he went slowly to his own
room, and for several minutes stood looking out of the window across
the garden. Then going to his desk, he sat down and wrote the following
letter:
“+The Vicarage, Worlstoke.+
_May 19—_.
“+Dear Brentwood+,—It has been agreed to entrust Elsie Hobson’s
case to your Hindoo friend. If you will be so kind as to let me
know when you can arrange for the experiment to take place, I will
inform the others. So that there shall be no doubt about your
presence (I, personally, should strongly object to your absence) I
suggest that the place selected be the Manor. Please forgive the
liberty I take; candidly, I think it best, and I know I can talk
frankly to you.
“For your guidance, I had better say that there will be present
from here: Mr. Shepperton; a friend of his, Mr. Canning; my sister
Constance and myself; and of course there will be yourself, Mr.
Agar Halfi, and Miss Hobson.
“With every earnest wish that things may soon straighten themselves
out,—Believe me, your sincere friend,
+Philip Alletson+.”
After reading it over carefully, he addressed an envelope, and put the
letter in it. He was about to seal it, when he hesitated, and taking
the letter out, went to find Constance. She read it over twice and
handed it back in silence. Then she gave vent to a queer little laugh.
“Won’t it do?” he asked abruptly.
“Oh yes, Philip,” she answered; “it is not that, but I can’t help
thinking that while we suspect Mr. Brentwood of such terrible things,
it is a bit mean to make all the use of him we can. If he is innocent,
I shall never be able to look him in the face, for very shame.”
Her brother silently sealed the letter, he did not know what to
answer—and taking a stamp from his pocket-book, fixed it on the
envelope with a determined blow of his fist. At last he exclaimed:
“Constance, I know he is innocent!”
“Philip, I know he is not!”
They looked at each other almost defiantly, then they both smiled, and
Constance impulsively kissed him, a thing which was not customary with
her.
“We cannot afford to quarrel, Philip, even though we hold different
opinions, but I wish I could think the same as you do!”