Sir Henry dismissed the chambermaid at the door, and Colwyn and he
lifted the young man on to the bed. He lay like a man in a stupor,
breathing heavily, his face flushed, his eyes nearly closed. Sir Henry
drew up the blind, and by the additional light examined him thoroughly,
listening closely to the action of his heart, and examining the pupils
of his eyes by rolling back the upper lid with some small instrument he
took from his pocket.
"He'll do now," he said, after loosening the patient's clothes for his
greater comfort. "He'll come to in about five minutes, and may be all
right again shortly afterwards. But there are certain peculiar features
about this case which are new in my experience, and rather alarm me.
Certainly the young man ought not to be left to himself. His friends
should be sent for. Do you know anything about him? Is he staying at the
hotel alone? I only arrived here last night."
"I believe he is staying at the hotel alone. He has been here for a
fortnight or more, and I have never seen him speak to anybody, though I
have exchanged nods with him every morning. His principal recreation
seems to lie in taking long solitary walks along the coast. He has been
in the habit of going out every day, and not returning until dinner is
half over. Perhaps the hotel proprietor knows who his friends are."
"Would you be so kind as to step downstairs and inquire? I do not wish
to leave him, but his friends should be telegraphed to at once and asked
to come and take charge of him."
"Certainly. And I'll send the telegram while I am down there."
But Colwyn returned in a few moments to say that the hotel proprietor
knew nothing of his guest. He had never stayed in the house before, and
he had booked his room by a trunk call from London. On arrival he had
filled in the registration paper in the name of James Ronald, but had
left blank the spaces for his private and business addresses. He looked
such a gentleman that the proprietor had not ventured to draw his
attention to the omissions.
"Another instance of how hotels neglect to comply with the requirements
of the Defence of the Realm Act!" exclaimed Sir Henry. "Really, it is
very awkward. I hardly know, in the circumstances, how to act. Speaking
as a medical man, I say that he should not be left alone, but if he
orders us out of his room when he recovers his senses what are we to do?
Can you suggest anything?" He shot a keen glance at his companion.
"I should be in a better position to answer you if I knew what you
consider him to be really suffering from. I was under the impression it
was a bad case of shell-shock, but your remarks suggest that it is
something worse. May I ask, as you are a medical man, what you consider
the nature of his illness?"
Sir Henry bestowed another searching glance on the speaker. He noted,
for the first time, the keen alertness and intellectuality of the
other's face. It was a fine strong face, with a pair of luminous grey
eyes, a likeable long nose, and clean-shaven, humorous mouth--a man to
trust and depend upon.
"I hardly know what to do," said Sir Henry, after a lengthy pause, which
he had evidently devoted to considering the wisdom of acceding to his
companion's request. "This gentleman has not consulted me
professionally, and I hardly feel justified in confiding my hurried and
imperfect diagnosis of his case, without his knowledge, to a perfect
stranger. On the other hand, there are reasons why somebody should know,
if we are to help him in his weak state. Perhaps, sir, if you told me
your name----"
"Certainly: my name is Colwyn--Grant Colwyn."
"You are the famous American detective of that name?"
"You are good enough to say so."
"Why not? Who has not heard of you, and your skill in the unravelling of
crime? There are many people on both sides of the Atlantic who regard
you as a public benefactor. But I am surprised. You do not at all
resemble my idea of Colwyn."
"Why not?"
"You do not talk like an American, for one thing."
"You forget I have been over here long enough to learn the language.
Besides, I am half English."
Sir Henry laughed good-humouredly.
"That's a fair answer, Mr. Colwyn. Of course, your being Colwyn alters
the question. I have no hesitation in confiding in you. I am Sir Henry
Durwood--no doubt you have heard of me. Naturally, I have to be
careful."
Colwyn looked at his companion with renewed interest. Who had not heard
of Sir Henry Durwood, the nerve specialist whose skill had made his name
a household word amongst the most exclusive women in England, and,
incidentally, won him a knighthood? There were professional detractors
who hinted that Sir Henry had climbed into the heaven of Harley Street
and fat fees by the ladder of social influence which a wealthy,
well-born wife had provided, with no qualifications of his own except
"the best bedside manner in England" and a thorough knowledge of the
weaknesses of the feminine temperament. But his admirers--and they were
legion--declared that Sir Henry Durwood was the only man in London who
really understood how to treat the complex nervous system of the present
generation. These thoughts ran through Colwyn's mind as he murmured that
the opinion of such an eminent specialist as Sir Henry Durwood on the
case before them must naturally outweigh his own.
"You are very good to say so." Sir Henry spoke as though the tribute
were no more than his due. "In my opinion, the symptoms of this young
man point to epilepsy, and his behaviour downstairs was due to a seizure
from which he is slowly recovering."
"Epilepsy! Haut or petit mal?"
"The lesser form--petit mal, in my opinion."
"But are his symptoms consistent with the form of epilepsy known as
petit mal, Sir Henry? I thought in that lesser form of the disease the
victim merely suffered from slight seizures of transient
unconsciousness, without convulsions, regaining control of himself after
losing himself, to speak broadly, for a few seconds or so."
"Ah, I see you know something of the disease. That simplifies matters.
The layman's mind is usually at sea when it comes to discussing a
complicated affection of the nervous system like epilepsy. You are more
or less right in your definition of petit mal. But that is the simple
form, without complications. In this case there are complications, in my
opinion. I should say that this young man's attack was combined with the
form of epilepsy known as _furor epilepticus_."
"I am afraid you are getting beyond my depth, Sir Henry. What is _furor
epilepticus_?"
"It is a term applied to the violence sometimes displayed by the
patient during an attack of petit mal. The manifestation is extreme
violence--usually much greater than in violent anger, as a rule."
"I believe there are cases on record of epileptics having committed the
most violent outrages against those nearest and dearest to them. Is that
what you mean by _furor epilepticus_?"
"Yes; but that attacks are generally directed towards strangers--rarely
towards loved ones, though there have been such cases."
"I begin to understand. When we were at the breakfast table your
professional eye diagnosed this young man's symptoms--his nervous
tremors, his excitability, and the extravagant action with the knife--as
premonitory symptoms of an attack of _furor epilepticus_, in which the
sufferer would be liable to a dangerous outburst of violence?"
"Exactly. The minor symptoms suggested petit mal, but the act of
sticking the knife into the table pointed strongly to the complication
of _furor epilepticus_. That was why I went over to your table to have
your assistance in case of trouble."
"You feared he would attack one of the guests?"
"Yes, epileptics are extremely dangerous in that condition, and will
commit murder if they are in possession of a weapon. There have been
cases in which they have succeeded in killing the victims of their
fury."
"Without being conscious of it?"
"Without being conscious of it then or afterwards. After the patient
recovers from one of these attacks his mind is generally a complete
blank, but occasionally he will have a troubled or confused sense of
something having happened to him--like a man awakened from a bad dream,
which he cannot recall. This young man may come to his senses without
remembering anything which occurred downstairs, or he may be vaguely
alarmed, and ask a number of questions. In either case, it will be some
time--from half an hour to several hours--before his mind begins to work
normally again."
"Do you think it was his intention, when he got up from his table, to
attack the group at the table nearest him--that elderly clergyman and
his party?"
"I think it highly probable that he would have attacked the first person
within his reach--that is why I wanted to prevent him."
"But he didn't carry the knife with him from his table."
"My dear sir"--Sir Henry's voice conveyed the proper amount of
professional superiority--"you speak as though you thought a victim of
_furor epilepticus_ was a rational being. He is nothing of the kind.
While the attack lasts he is an uncontrollable maniac, not responsible
for his actions in the slightest degree."
"But, if he is capable of conceiving the idea of attacking his fellow
creatures, surely he is capable of picking up a knife for the purpose,
particularly when he has just previously had one in his hand?" urged
Colwyn. "I have no intention of setting up my opinion against yours, Sir
Henry, but there are certain aspects of this young man's illness which
are not altogether consistent with my own experience of epileptics. As a
criminologist, I have given some study to the effect of epilepsy and
other nervous diseases on the criminal temperament. For instance, this
young man did not give the usual cry of an epileptic when he sprang up
from the table. And if it is merely an attack of petit mal, why is he so
long in recovering consciousness?"
"The so-called epileptic cry is not invariably present, and petit mal
is sometimes the half-way house to haut mal," responded Sir Henry. "I
have said that this case presents several unusual features, but, in my
opinion, there is nothing absolutely inconsistent with epilepsy,
combined with _furor epilepticus_. And here is one symptom rarely found
in any fit except an epileptic seizure." The specialist pointed to a
faint fleck of foam which showed beneath the young man's brown
moustache.
Colwyn bent over him and wiped his lips with his handkerchief. As he did
so the young man's eyes unclosed. He regarded Colwyn languidly for a
moment or two, and then sat upright on the bed.
"Who are you?" he exclaimed.
"It's quite all right, Mr. Ronald," said the specialist, in his most
soothing bedside manner. "Just take things easily. You have been ill,
but you are almost yourself again. Let me feel your pulse--ha, very good
indeed! We will have you on your legs in no time."
The young man verified the truth of the latter prediction by springing
off his bed and regarding his visitors keenly. There was now, at all
events, no lack of sanity and intelligence in his gaze.
"What has happened? How did I get here?"
"You fainted, and we brought you up to your room," interposed Colwyn
tactfully, before Sir Henry could speak.
"Awfully kind of you. I remember now. I felt a bit seedy as I went
downstairs, but I thought it would pass off. I don't remember much more
about it. I hope I didn't make too much of an ass of myself before the
others, going off like a girl in that way. You must have had no end of a
bother in dragging me upstairs--very good of you to take the trouble."
He smiled faintly, and produced a cigarette case.
"How do you feel now?" asked Sir Henry Durwood solemnly, disregarding
the proffered case.
"A bit as though I'd been kicked on the top of the head by a horse, but
it'll soon pass off. Fact is, I got a touch of sun when I was out
there"--he waved his hand vaguely towards the East--"and it gives me a
bit of trouble at times. But I'll be all right directly. I'm sorry to
have given you so much trouble."
He proffered this explanation with an easy courtesy, accompanied by a
slight deprecating smile which admirably conveyed the regret of a
well-bred man for having given trouble to strangers. It was difficult to
reconcile his self-control with his previous extravagance downstairs.
But to Colwyn it was apparent that his composure was simulated, the
effort of a sensitive man who had betrayed a weakness to strangers, for
the fingers which held a cigarette trembled slightly, and there were
troubled shadows in the depths of the dark blue eyes. Colwyn admired the
young man's pluck--he would wish to behave the same way himself in
similar circumstances, he felt--and he realised that the best service he
and Sir Henry Durwood could render their fellow guest was to leave him
alone.
But Sir Henry was far from regarding the matter in the same light. As a
doctor he was more at home in other people's bedrooms than his own, for
rumour whispered that Lady Durwood was so jealous of her husband's
professional privileges as a fashionable ladies' physician that she was
in the habit of administering strong doses of matrimonial truths to him
every night at home. Sir Henry settled himself in his chair, adjusted
his eye-glasses more firmly on his nose and regarded the young man
standing by the mantelpiece with a bland professional smile, slightly
dashed by the recollection that he was not receiving a fee for his
visit.
"You have made a good recovery, but you'll need care," he said.
"Speaking as a professional man--I am Sir Henry Durwood--I think it
would be better for you if you had somebody with you who understood your
case. With your--er--complaint, it is very desirable that you should not
be left to the mercy of strangers. I would advise, strongly advise you,
to communicate with your friends. I shall be only too happy to do so on
your behalf if you will give me their address. In the meantime--until
they arrive--my advice to you is to rest."
A look of annoyance flashed through the young man's eyes. He evidently
resented the specialist's advice; indeed, his glance plainly revealed
that he regarded it as a piece of gratuitous impertinence. He answered
coldly:
"Many thanks, Sir Henry, but I think I shall be able to look after
myself."
"That is not an uncommon feature of your complaint," said the
specialist. An oracular shake of the head conveyed more than the words.
"What do you imagine my complaint, as you term it, to be?" asked the
young man curtly.
Colwyn wondered whether even a fashionable physician, used to the
freedom with which fashionable ladies discussed their ailments, would
have the courage to tell a stranger that he regarded him as an
epileptic. The matter was not put to the test--perhaps fortunately--for
at that moment there was a sharp tap at the door, which opened to admit
a chambermaid who seemed the last word in frills and smartness.
"If you please, Sir Henry," said the girl, with a sidelong glance at the
tall handsome young man by the mantelpiece, "Lady Durwood would be
obliged if you would go to her room at once."
It speaks well for Sir Henry Durwood that the physician was instantly
merged in the husband. "Tell Lady Durwood I will come at once," he said.
"You'll excuse me," he added, with a courtly bow to his patient.
"Perhaps--if you wish--you might care to see me later."
"Many thanks, Sir Henry, but there will be no need." He bowed gravely to
the specialist, but smiled cordially and held out his hand to Colwyn, as
the latter prepared to follow Sir Henry out of the room. "I hope to see
you later," he said.
But when Colwyn, after a day spent on the golf-links, went into the
dining-room for dinner that evening, the young man's place was vacant.
After the meal Colwyn went to the office to inquire if Mr. Ronald was
still unwell, and learnt, to his surprise, that he had departed from the
hotel an hour or so after his illness.