SIR BEVERLEY'S IMPRESSIONS
Jim is not a bad amateur detective, and he didn't abandon his efforts to
get behind the portrait mystery. But we had decided that, for Murray's
sake, "discretion was the better part of valour" for us; and the care
with which he had to work added a lot to his difficulties. Besides,
there were a good many other things to think of just then: things
concerning ourselves, also things concerning the Murrays. And those
things which concerned them were a thousand times more important than
any faked heirlooms.
Sir Beverley Drake gave some faint hope that Ralston Murray's life might
be saved. There was a serum upon which he had been experimenting for
years, and in which he had begun enthusiastically to believe, for
obscure tropical maladies resembling Murray's.
We had asked him to motor on to the Abbey and luncheon, after his visit
to Ralston Old Manor, hardly daring to think that he would accept. But
he did accept; and I saw by his face the moment we met that the news he
had to give was, at the worst, not bad. I was so happy when I heard what
he had to say that I could have danced for joy.
"Mind, I don't promise anything," Sir Beverley reminded me. "But there
_is_ hope. Murray must have had a marvellous constitution to have gone
through what he has, in the war and since. If he hadn't had that, he'd
be dead now. And then, of course, this amazing romance of his--this
deathbed marriage--as you might call it--has given him a wonderful
fillip. Happiness is an elixir of life, even in the most desperate cases
at times, so I've got something hopeful to work on. I don't feel _sure_
even of a partial success for my treatment, and I told them that. It's
an experiment. If it fails, Murray may burn out rather than flicker out,
and go a few weeks sooner than he need if let alone. If it
succeeds--why, there's no limit to the success it _might_ have!"
"You mean, he might be entirely cured--a well man again?" I almost
gasped.
"Yes, it's just on the cards," Sir Beverley answered.
"Of course, Murray decided at once to run the risk?" asked Jim.
"Of course," replied the specialist. But he looked thoughtful.
"And Rosemary?" I added. "Couldn't she have kissed your feet for the
blessed message of hope you gave her?"
Sir Beverley smiled at the picture. "I saw no sign of such a desire on
the part of the beautiful lady," he said.
"She's rather shy of expressing her emotions," I explained Rosemary to
the great man. "But she has the _deepest_ feelings!"
"So I should judge," he answered rather drily. "Perhaps, though, she has
no great faith in the experiment, and would prefer for her husband's
peace to let 'well enough alone,' as people vaguely say."
Again I felt the disagreeable shock I'd experienced when Rosemary had
first spoken to me of Murray's death as certain. "It must be that," I
said, quickly. "She adores him."
"She gave me proof of that, in case I'd doubted," Sir Beverley answered.
"I told them that before beginning the hypodermic injections of serum I
should like to change and purify Murray's blood by transfusion, and so
give him an extra chance. Mrs. Murray instantly offered her blood, and
didn't flinch when I told her a pint would be necessary. Her husband
refused to let her make such a sacrifice for him, and was quite
indignant that I didn't protest against it. But she begged, coaxed,
insisted. It was really a moving scene, and--er--went far to remove my
first impression."
"What was your first impression?" I catechized. "Oh, don't think I ask
from curiosity! I'm Rosemary's friend. Jim and I are both as much
interested in Ralston Murray's case as if he were our brother. In a way,
we're responsible for the marriage--at least, we advised it. I know
Rosemary well, I believe, though she has a hard nature to understand.
And if you had an unfavourable impression of her, perhaps out of my
knowledge I might explain it away."
"Well, to tell the truth," said Sir Beverley bluntly, "when I gave the
verdict which I'd thought would enchant her, Mrs. Murray seemed--not
happy, but terrified. I expected for a second or two that she would
faint. I must confess, I felt--chilled."
"What--did she say?" I faltered.
"She said nothing at all. She looked--frozen."
"I hope poor Murray didn't get the same impression you got?" said Jim.
"I don't think he did. She was sitting on the edge of his sofa, holding
his hand, after I'd made my examination of the patient, and had called
her back into the room. And when I told them what I hoped, I saw Mrs.
Murray squeeze his fingers suddenly very tight with her small ones. To
me--combined with the staring look in her eyes--the movement seemed
convulsive, such as you might see in a prisoner, pronounced guilty by
the foreman of the jury. But naturally no thought of that kind jumped
into Murray's head! When she pressed his hand, he lifted hers to his
lips and kissed it. All the same, my impression remained--like a lump of
ice I'd swallowed by mistake--until Mrs. Murray so eagerly offered her
blood for her husband. Then I had to acknowledge that she must be truly
in love with him--for some women, even affectionate wives, wouldn't have
the physical or mental courage for such an ordeal."
"I hope she won't weaken when the time comes!" exclaimed Jim.
"I don't somehow think she will weaken," Sir Beverley replied, a puzzled
frown drawing his thick eyebrows together.
I was puzzled, too, but I praised Rosemary, and gave no hint of my own
miserable, reawakened suspicions. What I wanted to do was to see her as
soon as possible, and judge for myself.