A MEDICAL OPINION
David Steel followed his guide with the feelings of the man who has
given himself over to circumstances. There was a savour of nightmare
about the whole thing that appealed distinctly to his imagination. The
darkness, the strange situation, the vivid streaks of the crimson
blinds--the crimson blind that seemed an integral part of the
mystery--all served to stimulate him. The tragic note was deepened by
the whine and howling of the dogs.
"There is a man over there," David whispered.
"A man who is going to stay there," Enid said, with grim satisfaction.
"It is virtually necessary that Mr. Reginald Henson should not be
disturbed. The dogs have a foolish weakness for his society. So long as
he shows no signs of boredom he is safe."
David smiled with a vague grasp of the situation. Apparently the cue was
to be surprised at nothing that he saw about the House of the Silent
Sorrow. The name of Reginald Henson was more or less familiar to him as
that of a man who stood high in public estimation. But the bitter
contempt in his companion's voice suggested that there was another side
to the man's character.
"I hope you are not asking me to do anything wrong," David murmured.
"I am absolutely certain of it," the girl said. "It is a case of the end
justifying the means; and if ever the end justified the means, it does in
this case. Besides--"
Enid Henson hesitated. David's quick perception prompted him.
"Besides, it is my suggestion," he said. "When I had the pleasure of
seeing you before--"
"Pardon me, you have never had the pleasure of seeing me before."
"Ah, you would make an excellent Parliamentary fencer. I bow to your
correction and admit that I have never _seen_ you before. But your voice
reminds me of a voice I heard very recently under remarkable
circumstances. It was my good fortune to help a lady in distress a little
time back. If she had told me more I might have aided her still further.
As it is, her reticence has landed me into serious trouble."
Enid grasped the speaker's arm convulsively.
"I am deeply sorry to hear it," she whispered. "Perhaps the lady in
question was reticent for your sake. Perhaps she had confided more
thoroughly in good men before. And suppose those good men had
disappeared?"
"In other words, that they had been murdered. Who by?"
There was a snarl from one of the hounds hard by, and a deep, angry curse
from Henson. Enid pointed solemnly in his direction. No words of hers
would have been so thrilling and eloquent. David strode along without
further questions on that head.
"But there is one thing that you must tell me," he said, as they stood
together in the porch. "Is the first part of my advice going to be
carried out?"
"Yes. That is why you are here now. Stay here one moment whilst I get you
pencil and paper... There! Now will you please write what I suggest? Dr.
Bell is with my sister. At least, I suppose he is with her, as Dr. Walker
desired to have his opinion. My sister is dying--dying, you understand?"
Enid's voice had sunk to a passionate whisper. The hand that she laid on
David's shoulder was trembling strangely. At that moment he would've done
anything for her. A shaft of light filtered from the hall into the porch,
and lit up the paper that the girl thrust upon Steel.
"Now write," she commanded. "Ask no questions, but write what I ask, and
trust me implicitly."
David nodded. After all, he reflected, he could not possibly get himself
into a worse mess than he was in already. And he felt that he could trust
the girl by his side. Her beauty, her earnestness, and her obvious
sincerity touched him.
"Write," Enid whispered. "Say, 'See nothing and notice nothing, I implore
you. Only agree with everything that Dr. Walker says, and leave the room
as quickly as possible!' Now sign your name. We can go into the
drawing-room and wait till Dr. Bell comes down. You are merely a friend
of his. I will see that he has this paper at once."
Enid led the way into the drawing-room. She gave no reasons for the
weird strangeness of the place, it was no time for explanations. As for
Steel, he gazed around him in fascinated astonishment. A novelist ever
on the look-out for new scenes and backgrounds, the aspect of the room
fascinated him. He saw the dust rising in clouds, he saw the wilted
flowers, he noted the overturned table, obviously untouched and
neglected for years, and he wondered. Then he heard the babel of
discordant voices overhead. What a sad house it was, and how dominant
was the note of tragedy.
Meanwhile, with no suspicion of the path he was treading, Bell had gone
upstairs. He came at length to the door of the room where the sick girl
lay. There was a subdued light inside and the faint suggestion of illness
that clings to the chamber of the sufferer. Bell caught a glimpse of a
white figure lying motionless in bed. It was years now since he had acted
thus in a professional capacity, but the old quietness and caution came
back by instinct. As he would have entered Margaret Henson came out and
closed the door.
"You are not going in there," she said. "No, no. Everything of mine
you touch you blight and wither. If the girl is to die, let her die
in peace."
She would have raised her voice high, but a lightning glance from Bell
quieted her. It was not exactly madness that he had to deal with, and he
knew it. The woman required firm, quiet treatment. Dr. Walker stood
alongside, anxious and nervous. The man with the quiet practice of the
well-to-do doctor was not used to scenes of this kind.
"You have something to conceal," Bell said, sternly. "Open the door."
"Really, my dear sir," Walker said, fussily. "Really, I fancy that under
the circumstances--"
"You don't understand this kind of case," Bell interrupted. "I do."
Walker dropped aside with a muttered apology. Bell approached the figure
in the doorway and whispered a few words rapidly in her ear. The effect
was electrical. The figure seemed to wilt and shrivel up, all the power
and resistance had gone. She stepped aside, moaning and wringing her
hands. She babbled of strange things; the old, far-away look came into
her eyes again.
Without a word of comment or sign of triumph Bell entered the sick room.
Then he raised his head and sniffed the heavy atmosphere as an eager
hound might have done. A quick, sharp question rose to his lips, only to
be instantly suppressed as he noted the vacant glance of his colleague.
The white figure on the bed lay perfectly motionless. It was the figure
of a young and exceedingly beautiful girl, a beauty heightened and
accentuated by the dead-white pallor of her features. Still the face
looked resolute and the exquisitely chiselled lips were firm.
"Albumen," Bell muttered. "What fiend's game is this? I wonder if that
scoundrel--but, no. In that case there would be no object in concealing
my presence here. I wonder--"
He paused and touched the pure white brow with his fingers. At the
same moment Enid came into the room. She panted like one who has run
fast and far.
"Well," she whispered, "is she better, better or--Hatherly, read this."
The last words were so low that Bell hardly heard them. He shot a swift
glance at his colleague before he opened the paper. One look and he had
mastered the contents. Then the swift glance was directed from Walker to
the girl standing there looking at Bell with a world of passionate
entreaty and longing in her eyes.
"It is _your_ sister who lies there," Bell whispered, meaningly, "and
yet you--"
He paused, and Enid nodded. There was evidently a great struggle going on
in Bell's mind. He was grappling with something that he only partially
understood, but he did know perfectly well that he was being asked to do
something absolutely wrong and that he was going to yield for the sake of
the girl he loved.
He rose abruptly from the bedside and crossed over to Walker.
"You are perfectly correct," he said. "At this rate--at this rate the
patient cannot possibly last till the morning. It is quite hopeless."
Walker smiled feebly.
"It is a melancholy satisfaction to have my opinion confirmed," he said.
"Miss Henson, if you will get Williams to see me as far as the
lodge-gates ... it is so late that--er--"
Williams came at length, and the little doctor departed. Enid fairly
cowered before the blazing, searching look that Bell turned upon her. She
fell to plucking the bedclothes nervously.
"What does it mean?" he asked, hoarsely. "What fiend's plaything are you
meddling with? Don't you know that if that girl dies it will be murder?
It was only for your sake that I didn't speak my mind before the fool who
has just gone. He has seen murder done under his eyes for days, and he is
ready to give a certificate of the cause of death. And the strange thing
is that in the ordinary way he would be quite justified in doing so."
"Chris is not going to die; at least, not in that way," Enid
whispered, hoarsely.
"Then leave her alone. No more drugs; no medicine even. Give Nature a
chance. Thank Heaven, the girl has a perfect constitution."
"Chris is not going to die," Enid repeated, doggedly, "but the
certificate will be given, all the same. Oh, Hatherly, you must trust
me--trust me as you have never done before. Look at me, study me. Did you
ever know me to do a mean or dishonourable thing?"
They were down in the drawing-room again; David waiting, with a strange
sense of embarrassment under Margaret Henson's distant eyes; indeed, it
was probable that she had never noticed him at all. All the same she
turned eagerly to Bell.
"Tell me the worst," she cried. "Tell me all there is to know."
"Your niece's sufferings are over," Bell said, gravely; "I have no more
to tell you."
A profound silence followed, broken presently by angry voices outside.
Then Williams looked in at the door and beckoned Enid to him. His face
was wreathed in an uneasy grin.
"Mr. Henson has got away," he said. "Blest if I can say how. And they
dogs have rolled him about, and tore his clothes, and made such a picture
of him as you never saw. And a sweet temper he's in!"
"Where is he now?" Enid asked. "There are people here he must not see."
"Well, he came back in through the study window, swearing dreadful for so
respectable a gentleman. And he went right up to his room, after ordering
whisky and soda-water."
Enid flew back to the drawing-room. Not a moment was to be lost. At any
hazard Reginald Henson must be kept in ignorance of the presence of
strangers. A minute later, and the darkness of the night had swallowed
them up. Williams fastened the lodge-gates behind them, and they turned
their faces in the direction of Rottingdean Road.
"A strange night's work," David said, presently.
"Aye, but pregnant with result," Bell answered. There was a stern,
exulting ring in his voice. "There is much to do and much danger to be
faced, but we are on the right track at last. But why did you send me
that note just now?"
David smiled as he lighted a cigarette.
"It is part of the scheme," he said. "Part of my scheme, you understand.
But, principally, I sent you the note because Miss Enid asked me to."