[Illustration: "I SCREAMED THROUGH THE KEY-HOLE."]
"He is our family physician," replied the young lady. "He has attended
us for years."
"And what did your mother say when you proposed to see him?"
"She shivered violently, and said, 'No, I won't have him in the house.'
After a time she decided to bring me to you."
"And have you had that hallucination again?" I inquired.
"It was not a hallucination," she answered, pouting her lips.
"I will humour you," I answered. "Have you seen your father again?"
"No, and I am not likely to."
"Why do you think that?"
"I cannot quite tell you--I think mother is in it. Mother is very
unhappy about something, and she looks at me at times as if she were
afraid of me." Here Miss Heathcote rose. "You said I was not to stay
long," she remarked. "Now I have told you everything. You see that it
is absolutely impossible for ordinary medicines to cure me, any more
than ordinary medicines can cure mother of her awful dreams."
"I did not know that your mother dreamt badly," I said.
"She does--but she doesn't wish it spoken of. She dreams so badly,
she cries out so terribly in her sleep, that she has moved from her
old bedroom next to mine, to one in a distant wing of the house. Poor
mother, I am sorry for her, but I am glad at least that I have had
courage to tell you what I have seen. You will make it your business to
find out the truth now, won't you?"
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"Why, of course, my father is alive," she retorted. "You have got to
prove that he is, and to give him back to me again. I leave the matter
in your hands. I know you are wise and very clever. Good-bye, good-bye!"
The queer girl left me, tears rolling down her cheeks. I was obliged
to attend to other patients, but it was impossible for me to get Miss
Heathcote's story out of my head. There was no doubt whatever that she
was telling me what she firmly believed to be the truth. She had either
seen her father once more in the flesh, or she was the victim of a very
strong hallucination. In all probability the latter supposition was
the correct one. A man could not die and have a funeral and yet still
be alive: but, then, on the other hand, when Mrs. Heathcote brought
Gabrielle to see me yesterday, why had she not mentioned this central
and principal feature of her malady? Mrs. Heathcote had said nothing
whatever with regard to Gabrielle's delusions. Then why was the mother
so nervous? Why did she say nothing about her own bad dreams, dreams so
disturbing, that she was obliged to change her bedroom in order that
her daughter should not hear her scream?
"I leave the matter in your hands!" Miss Heathcote had said. Poor
child, she had done so with a vengeance. I could not get the story out
of my thoughts, and so uncomfortable did the whole thing make me that I
determined to pay Dr. Mackenzie a visit.
Mackenzie was a physician in very large practice at Brixton. His name
was already familiar to me--on one or two occasions I had met him in
consultation. I looked up his address in the Medical Directory, and
that very evening took a hansom to his house. He happened to be at
home. I sent in my card and was admitted at once.
Mackenzie received me in his consulting-room, and I was not long in
explaining the motive of my visit. After a few preliminary remarks, I
said that I would be glad if he would favour me with full particulars
with regard to Heathcote's death.
"I can easily do so," said Mackenzie. "The case was a perfectly
straightforward one--my patient was consumptive, had been so for years,
and died at last of hemoptysis."
"What aged man was he?" I asked.
"Not old--a little past forty--a tall, slight, good-looking man, with
a somewhat emaciated face. In short, his was an ordinary case of
consumption."
I told Mackenzie all about the visit which I had received from Mrs.
Heathcote, and gave him a faithful version of the strange story which
Miss Gabrielle Heathcote had told me that day.
"Miss Gabrielle is an excitable girl," replied the doctor. "I have
had a good deal to do with her for many years, and always thought her
nerves highly strung. She is evidently the victim of a delusion, caused
by the effect of grief on a somewhat delicate organism. She probably
inherits her father's disease. Mrs. Heathcote should take her from home
immediately."
"Mrs. Heathcote looks as if she needed change almost as badly as her
daughter," I answered; "but now you will forgive me if I ask you a few
more questions. Will you oblige me by describing Heathcote's death as
faithfully as you can?"
[Illustration: "I WAS PAYING THE CABMAN HIS FARE."]
"Certainly," replied the physician.
He sank down into a chair at the opposite side of the hearth as he
spoke.
"The death, when it came," he continued, "was, I must confess,
unexpected. I had sounded Heathcote's lungs about three months previous
to the time of his death seizure. Phthisis was present, but not to an
advanced degree. I recommended his wintering abroad. He was a solicitor
by profession, and had a good practice. I remember his asking me, with
a comical rise of his brows, how he was to carry on his profession
so many miles from Chancery Lane. But to come to his death. It took
place six months ago, in the beginning of September. It had been a hot
season, and I had just returned from my holiday. My portmanteau and
Gladstone bag had been placed in the hall, and I was paying the cabman
his fare, when a servant from the Heathcotes arrived, and begged of me
to go immediately to her master, who was, she said, dying.
"I hurried off to the house without a moment's delay. It is a stone's
throw from here. In fact, you can see the walls of the garden from the
windows of this room in the daytime. I reached the house. Gabrielle was
standing in the hall. I am an old friend of hers. Her face was quite
white and had a stunned expression. When she saw me she rushed to me,
clasped one of my hands in both of hers, and burst into tears.
"'Go and save him!' she gasped, her voice choking with sobs, which were
almost hysterical.
"A lady who happened to be staying in the house came and drew the
girl away into one of the sitting-rooms, and I went upstairs. I found
Heathcote in his own room. He was lying on the bed--he was a ghastly
sight. His face wore the sick hue of death itself; the sheet, his
hair, and even his face were all covered with blood. His wife was
standing over him, wiping away the blood, which oozed from his lips. I
saw, of course, immediately what was the matter. Hemoptysis had set in,
and I felt that his hours were numbered.
"'He has broken a blood vessel,' exclaimed Mrs. Heathcote. 'He was
standing here, preparing to go down to dinner, when he coughed
violently--the blood began to pour from his mouth: I got him on the bed
and sent for you. The hemorrhage seems to be a little less violent now.'
"I examined my patient carefully, feeling his pulse, which was very
weak and low; I cautioned him not to speak a single word, and asked
Mrs. Heathcote to send for some ice immediately. She did so. I packed
him in ice and gave him a dose of ergotine. He seemed easier, and I
left him, promising to return again in an hour or two. Miss Gabrielle
met me in the hall as I went out.
"'Is he any better? Is there any hope at all?' she asked, as I left the
house.
"'Your father is easier now,' I replied; 'the hemorrhage has been
arrested. I am coming back soon. You must be a good girl and try to
comfort your mother in every way in your power.'
"'Then there is no hope?' she answered, looking me full in the face.
"I could not truthfully say that there was. I knew poor Heathcote's
days were numbered, although I scarcely thought the end would come so
quickly."
"What do you mean?" I inquired.
"Why this," he replied. "Less than an hour after I got home, I received
a brief note from Mrs. Heathcote. In it she stated that fresh and very
violent hemorrhage had set in almost immediately after I left, and that
her husband was dead."
"And--" I continued.
"Well, that is the story. Poor Heathcote had died of hemoptysis."
"Did you see the body after death?" I inquired, after a pause.
"No--it was absolutely unnecessary--the cause of death was so evident.
I attended the funeral, though. Heathcote was buried at Kensal Green."