“My name? Why--what does that matter, Doctor? In an hour--perhaps
before--I won’t trouble anybody further.”
“But surely it is your duty, my friend, to let me know your name?”
argued the other. “Even if it be in confidence.”
The dying man slowly shook his head in the negative, moved uneasily, and
stretching forth his thin trembling hand, answered in indifferent
French.
“I regret that I cannot satisfy your curiosity. I have a reason--a--a
strong private reason. Here is my key,” he went on, speaking very
slowly and with great difficulty in a weak voice scarce above a whisper.
“Open my bag, doctor, and;--and you’ll find there a--a big envelope.
Will you give it to me?”
The Doctor, a queer, deformed little man shabbily dressed, with grey
hair and short grey beard, rose from the bedside and with the key
crossed to where a well-worn leather bag lay upon the floor.
As he turned his back upon his nameless patient and knelt beside the
bag, a curious look of craft and cunning overspread his hard, furrowed
countenance. But it was only for a second. Next instant it had
vanished, and given place to that serious expression of sympathy which
his face had previously worn.
He found a large blue, linen-lined envelope which he gave into the white
trembling hands of the stranger.
The prostrate man looked about fifty, his unkempt hair and moustache
just tinged with grey, unshaved, and with white drawn face betraying
long and intense suffering.
Why was he so determined to conceal his name? What secret of his life
had he to hide?
Upon his blanched features was written the history of a curious and
adventurous past. Perhaps he held some strange and amazing secret. He
was eccentric in only one particular--that though he knew himself to be
dying, he would leave no message for any relative; refusing absolutely
and stubbornly to give his name, even to the man who, now at his side,
had befriended him.
The room was a small and not over cleanly one, high up in a fourth-rate
hotel close to the Gare du Nord, in Paris, a room with a single bed, a
threadbare carpet, and a cheap wooden washstand with the grey December
light filtering through lace curtains that hung limp and yellow. The
wallpaper was greasy and faded, and the bed itself the reverse of
inviting.
To Doctor Raymond Diamond the dying man had been an entire stranger
until three days before--a chance acquaintance which adversity had
brought him. Both men were, as a matter of fact, stranded in Paris.
They had, in ascending the narrow stairs of their little hotel, wished
each other “Good-day.” Men who are hard up always form easy
acquaintanceships. The stranger had told him that he was a Dane, from
Copenhagen, but the name, Jules Blanc, which he had given to the
proprietor was certainly not Danish. Indeed, he had admitted to Diamond
that he had not given his real name. He had reasons for withholding it.
He was a mystery, and the Doctor strongly suspected him of having
absconded from his native land, and coming to the end of his resources,
was now in fear of the police.
That he was well educated had been quickly apparent. Though he spoke
French badly it was evident that he had nevertheless travelled
extensively, and had, in his better days, been possessed of considerable
means. He had been in the Near East, Asia Minor, Syria, Palestine and
Egypt, and appeared to possess an intimate knowledge of those countries.
Yet his luggage had been reduced to that one small bag containing a big
blue envelope and a change of linen.
For two days they had idled about Paris together, both practically
without a _sou_.
The Doctor, when he had discovered the true state of his friend’s
finances, had explained that he too was “temporarily embarrassed owing
to his many recent investments;” whereat they had both laughed in chorus
and with light hearts spent half the day lazily lolling upon the seats
in the Tuileries Gardens watching the children at play.
It was during those idle hungry hours that the stranger’s remarks
aroused within the Doctor the greatest curiosity. Diamond himself, an
Englishman, had in his student days taken his M.D. at Edinburgh, and was
also a scholar of no mean attainments, yet this Dane’s knowledge of many
occult matters appeared amazingly profound.
Why did he so resolutely refuse to give his name?
On the day the Doctor had met the Dane, his financial resources
consisted of one solitary franc and a twenty-five centime nickel piece.
His newly found friend had less. Hence the food they had had was not
very abundant. The two men, however, brothers in adversity, faced the
hunger problem gaily. It was not the first time that either of them had
been face to face with the streets and starvation, therefore it was no
new experience.
Yet the stranger ever and anon seemed deeply depressed. He knit his
brows, set his teeth hard, and drew deep sighs--sighs over the
might-have-beens of his past. His business in Paris was an important,
an entirely secret one, he had declared. In a few days--in a week at
most--it must be completed.
“And then,” he added with a laugh of confidence, “I shall probably move
on to the Grand.”
That same evening, however, as they were walking up the Rue Lafayette
towards the obscure hotel, the stranger had been suddenly seized with
sharp pains in the region of his heart. Neither man had tasted food for
twenty-four hours, and both were cold and faint.
Diamond, however, took the man’s arm and managed to get him back to his
room. There he examined him carefully, and having diagnosed the case,
recognised the extreme danger, but told the patient nothing decisive.
He saw the proprietor, and from him borrowed three francs. Then he
wrote a prescription which he took round to the big Pharmacie du Nord,
at the corner.
The mixture revived the invalid, but in the night he collapsed again.
At mid-day Diamond obtained a cup of bouillon from a cheap restaurant
near, and brought it to the man who had refused his name. And he had
now sat by the bedside with his fingers upon the patient’s pulse all
through that short gloomy afternoon.
“I’m sorry things are so bad as they are,” the Doctor was saying, as he
handed the invalid the big blue envelope, for he had, an hour before,
told him the truth. “You ought to have had advice long ago.”
The dying man smiled faintly and shook his head.
“I was warned in Stockholm,” he answered in a low tone. “But I didn’t
heed. I--I was a fool.”
The Doctor sighed. What could he say? He had recognised that the poor
fellow was already beyond human aid. He had probably been suffering
from the affection of the heart for the past six or seven years--perhaps
more.
“And you are certain?” asked the ugly little man at last, again taking
the thin, bony hand in his. “Are you quite certain that you wish to
send no message to anybody?”
For a few seconds the prostrate man struggled hard to speak.
“No,” he succeeded in gasping at last. “No message--to--anybody.”
The Doctor pursed his lips at the rebuff. The eccentricity of the
stranger had become more marked in those moments of finality.
His thin, nerveless fingers were fumbling with the bulky envelope, which
seemed to contain a quantity of folded papers.
“Doctor,” he whispered at last, “I--I want to burn--all these--all--
every one of them. Burn them entirely.”
“As you wish, my dear friend,” responded the hunchback, eyeing the
envelope eagerly, and wondering what it might contain. “I’ll put a
match to them in the stove yonder.”
The invalid, by dint of great effort, managed to move himself so that
his eyes could fall upon the little door in the round iron stove, in
which, however, no fire was burning, even though the day was bitterly
cold.
Yet he hesitated, hesitated as though he dared not trust the hungry
little man who had befriended him.
“Do you wish them destroyed?” the Doctor again inquired.
The dying man nodded, at the same moment raising his finger and
motioning that he could not speak.
Diamond waited. He saw that the patient was vainly endeavouring to
articulate some words.
For several moments there was a dead silence.
At last the nameless man spoke again, very softly and indistinctly.
Indeed, the Doctor was compelled to bend low to catch the words:
“Take them,” he said. “Take them--and burn them in the stove. Mind--
destroy every one.”
“Certainly I will,” answered the other. “Give them to me, and you shall
see me burn them. I’ll do so there--before your eyes.”
The man held the envelope in his dying grip. He still hesitated. His
eyes were fixed upon the papers wistfully, as though filled with
poignant regret at a mission unaccomplished.
“Ah!” he gasped with difficulty. “To think that this is the end--the
end of a lifetime’s study and struggle! Death defeats me, vanquishes
me--as it has vanquished every other man who has striven to learn the
secret.”
Diamond stood listening in wonder and curiosity. He noticed the dying
man’s reluctance to destroy the papers.
Perhaps he would succumb, and leave them undestroyed! What secret could
they contain?
There was a long silence. The grey light over the thousands of
chimney-pots was fast fading into gloom. The room was darkening.
The patient lay motionless as one dead, yet his dull eyes were still
open. In his hand he still held his treasured envelope.
Again Diamond spoke, but the man with a secret made no reply. He only
raised his wan hand, and shook his head sadly, indicating inability to
speak.
The queer little Doctor bent once more closer to the stranger and saw
that the end was near. He was hoping against hope that the man would
expire before he had strength to order the destruction of those
documents, whatever they were. The mysterious statements of the dying
man had indicated that the papers in question contained some remarkable
secret, and naturally his curiosity had been aroused.
During those three brief days of their acquaintance he had, in vain,
tried to form some conclusion as to who the stranger might be. At first
he had believed him to be a broken-down medical man like himself. But
that surmise had been quickly negatived. He was a professional man
without a doubt, but he had carefully concealed even his profession as
well as his name.
The doctor had re-seated himself in the rickety rush-bottomed chair at
the bedside, and sat in patience for the end, as he had sat beside
hundreds of other dying men and women in the course of his career.
The patient breathed heavily, and again stirring uneasily, cast a
longing look at the glass of lemonade upon the little table near by.
Diamond recognised his wish, and held the tumbler to the man’s parched
lips.
The dying stranger motioned, and the Doctor bent his head until his ear
was near the other’s mouth.
“Doctor,” he managed to whisper after great difficulty, “it’s no use.
There’s no hope! Therefore will you take them to the stove--and--and
burn them--_burn them all_!”
“Certainly I will,” was the Doctor’s reply, rising and slowly taking the
envelope from the prostrate man’s reluctant fingers.
He felt crisp papers within as he turned his back upon the dying man and
bent down to the stove, placing himself between the invalid’s line of
vision and the stove itself.
A moment later, however, he opened the stove-door, placed the envelope
within, and applied a match to it.
Next moment a blood-red light fell across the darkening room upon the
pallid face lying on the pillow.
A pair of dull, anxious, deep-set eyes watched the flames leap up and
quickly die down again, watched the crinkling tinder as the sparks died
out one by one--watched until Diamond stirred up the charred folios in
order that every one should be consumed.
Then he turned slightly in his bed and, stretching forth his hand as
though wishing to speak, drew a long, hard breath.
“And--and so--vanishes all my hope--my life,” the stranger managed to
sob bitterly in a voice almost inaudible.
Again he sighed--a long-drawn sigh. And then--in the room, now almost
dark, reigned a complete silence.
Death had entered there. The man with the secret had passed to that
land which lies beyond human ken.