Adrian listened to this strange recital in silent astonishment, and in spite of the trouble in which he was involved, felt inclined to regard the whole as the whimsical outcome of a madman's brain. He had heard a great deal about occult science, theosophy, and spiritist belief, but, engaged in a frivolous life, had not paid much attention to their teachings and looked upon them as the religions of charlatans and quacks. But here was a man who far outstripped the powers which theosophists and spiritists professed to exercise, arrogating to himself the functions of the Creator in dealing with souls. The whole narration was too fantastical for belief, still he was in such desperate danger that he gladly seized any chance that promised safety, and proceeded to interrogate Roversmire in order to find out if there was anything tangible in the weird belief he held.
"If I accept your offer," he said slowly, "and permit you to incarnate my soul in your body, what becomes of my own?"
"It will remain, to all appearances, dead, until your soul again returns to animate it."
"I will go back to it again, then?"
"Yes!—I think so. My body is sixty years old, yours is, I should say, about twenty-six years, and as things stand now, there is every prospect that you will outlive me. When, therefore your soul inhabits my body, such body will die at my allotted time, and your soul, having no habitation, will be forced to return to your own body in order to work out its period."
"But, suppose I am incarnated in your body for years, will not my own decay?"
"No—because it is not dead—only asleep. If, however, it is fated that you should die before myself, your body will begin to decay, and then you will remain in mine till the period fixed by God for solution, and your soul will then mingle in the world of spirits as if you had died in your own frame."
"I understand," said Adrian thoughtfully; "it is a curious idea."
"It is a very fortunate one—for you," replied Roversmire quietly.
"Where will my body remain during the time I am incarnated in yours?"
"In this house," said the doctor, rising and going over to the fireplace. "As there was danger that my body might be meddled with by ignorant people during the periods my soul was absent, it was necessary to place it in safety, so I sent my servant away for a few weeks and had a secret chamber constructed, about which he knows nothing. When I want to assume my astral body I tell him I am going out of town for a few days so that he may not think my disappearance strange. Then I enter into my secret chamber, leave my body there and go where I will, knowing that my fleshly envelope is safe till I return. When you entered to-night, however, I left my body sitting in yonder chair, but your presence warned my spirit of danger to the physical part of myself, so I returned in time to stay your exit."
"Where is this secret chamber," asked Adrian, rising, now more inclined to believe the fantastic story of the doctor. "Can I see it?"
"Certainly, it is important you should know it as you will have to leave your present body in it for safety. Look!"
He touched a spring in the mantelpiece, whereupon the whole of the fireplace swung round on a kind of pivot, showing that the back was hollow and that a narrow flight of steps led downward into darkness. Roversmire lighted a candle which stood on the mantelpiece, then taking it in his hands, bent down and entered into the cavity, beckoning to Adrian to follow. The young man did so, and as soon as they were on the verge of the steps, the doctor, touching another spring in the stone wall, caused the fireplace to swing back again into its place.
"You see, anyone in the room could not tell we were hidden here," said Roversmire, smiling. "Come downstairs and I will show you the secret of the pyramid."
Somewhat bewildered by this strange experience, Adrian followed the doctor down the narrow stairs guided by the glimmering light of the taper. They went down for some distance, then found themselves in a small square vault, with room enough for three people to stand in it. Roversmire again touched a spring and one part of the wall slid slowly aside, showing a space beyond in utter darkness.
"Another precaution, you see," said the doctor, pointing to the third spring. "Anyone who found the first secret would never guess the second. Come!"
He advanced into the vault, and going towards one end of it turned an ivory handle fixed in the wall, whereupon the whole apartment was irradiated with a powerful electric light. Adrian gave an exclamation of surprise and put his hands over his eyes as they felt quite painful in the sudden glare after the dense darkness, only lighted by the candle.
It was a moderate-sized apartment, circular in shape, with a domed roof of pure white, painted with signs of the Zodiac, and from the centre blazed the electric light hidden in a large semi-opaque globe. The walls were hung with strange tapestries of brilliant colours, whereon were depicted the animal gods of Egypt and the fantastic deities of India, while the floor was covered by a thick, soft carpet with a bizarre pattern in blue, yellow and red, the outcome of some opium-confused, oriental imagination. At one side of this queer place was a low couch covered with a magnificent tiger skin, and near at hand a mother-of-pearl inlaid Moorish table, whereon stood a decanter of red wine and some glasses, together with a plate of white bread.
"The existence of this is only known to ourselves," said Dr. Roversmire, casting a satisfied look around, "and here you can leave your body until such time as it is fated mine should die, when your soul will of course return to its former dwelling-place, but as the body left so long without action or food will be weak, you will find the wine and bread of great service in restoring your vital powers."
"But suppose your body dies soon and I have to return to my own," said the young man miserably. "I will then be arrested."
"That, of course, will be your own look out," retorted the doctor, shrugging his shoulders. "I provide you with a hiding-place for a time, and if my body dies and you lose your city of refuge—well, it is not my fault; but I think you can rest assured that unless some accident happens or you commit suicide, my body will continue on this earth for a few more years, and by the time it dies the whole affair of this murder will have blown over and you can re-animate your own body, go out of the county and live on my money, which I freely make over to you."
"Are you rich?"
"Yes, I think you will find plenty of ready money standing in my name in the International Bank, and moreover in my desk is a small box of gems which are worth a great deal; whatever income you may possess now, I don't think you'll suffer by the change into my body."
"But are you not sorry to give up all this wealth?"
Dr. Roversmire laughed in an amused manner, as if Adrian had asked a childish question, which, indeed, he had, from the doctor's point of view.
"Sorry," he echoed, "sorry to exchange this weary body for an astral one—sorry to give up the gross pleasures of earth for the pure delights of the spiritual world? No, I am not sorry; the change to me will be like that of a beggar man passing suddenly from abject poverty to kingly affluence."
"But reflect," said Adrian earnestly, "if I accept your offer, think of what I am—I have committed a crime. According to my own showing I am not a good man; my soul in your body may commit many foolish actions, and yet you will be held guilty of them."
"My body will, not my soul," replied Roversmire coolly. "Whatever you do in my body will have to be expiated by your own soul since it is your freewill that acts and not mine—as to my personality, which you seem afraid of harming, it does not matter to me in the least—I have no relations on whom your actions in my body would bring disgrace; you can do what you like with my shell—I am only concerned about my soul.
"But how about your past life?"
"I have told you all my past life, but should you need to know more there are plenty of papers in my desk which will tell you every action of mine since my arrival in England; with my Indian life you have nothing to do, as no trouble will come from there; my reputation is that of a savant and a recluse; when you occupy my body you can indulge in whatever pranks you like, but I warn you, that however youthful your soul may be, the body is old and weak, and if you play with it you will kill it and thus lose your city of refuge sooner than you expect, so your safety rests entirely with yourself."
"It's impossible to undo the past," said Adrian gloomily, "and although I committed the crime in a moment of passion, I will never cease to feel remorse.
"That is part of your punishment," said Roversmire seriously. "I can give you a new body but not a new soul, so whatever acts of evil you have done in your past life the remembrance will always cling to you; but if you expiate your crime on earth by prayers and repentance in my body and in your own, it will purify your spirit for the world beyond. Now I think everything has been explained, so if you will lie down on that couch I will release my own soul and accomplish the transformation of yours into my body."
"One moment," cried Adrian, as he sat down on the couch, "how can I sign your name to cheques and imitate your handwriting?"
"You will do so mechanically," said Roversmire, who was lighting a fire in a small brazier; "writing is an operation of the body, not of the soul. I cannot give you my learning, as that pertains to the soul and I take it with me, but all material knowledge I possess or physical dexterity I have acquired will be yours, to use as you will—now, are you ready?"
"Yes," said Adrian, obediently lying down, "but I am engaged to marry a girl called Olive Maunders—how will that affect me in your body?"
"Of course she won't know you," replied the doctor with a peculiar smile, fanning the fire which was now at red heat. "You will have to wait till you reassume your own body before marrying her—but it is simply a question of safety for you just now, so you'd better leave love out of the question or you will lose your life, your love, and everything else."
Adrian gave a sigh of sorrow, and slightly turning his head, watched the preparations of the doctor. The fire was now burning a deep red, and the brazier was standing in the centre of a ring of white powder which had been strewn around it. The doctor bent down and touched this powder with his finger, muttering some words, whereupon a blue lambent flame sprang up and ran round the circle. Roversmire then cast some herbs on the fire, which he took out of a small silver box, and raising his arms chanted a kind of hymn in a low soft voice. The wild music, barbaric in the extreme, rose and fell like the rhythmical fall of waves on a lonely beach, and a thick white smoke curled upward from the brazier, spreading a pungent odour through the vault.
After a time Roversmire, looking strange and spectral amid the veil of smoke, paused in his chanting, crossed over to the young man and spoke solemnly:
"I am about to leave this world for that of the spirits and I leave your soul in charge of my body—make good use of it, for what you do will be of your own free will and must be expiated by your own spirit. Are you ready and willing to take this burden upon you?"
"I am ready," replied Adrian slowly.
"Then close your eyes," commanded Roversmire going over to the brazier. "Farewell, and may your crime-stained soul be cleansed by prayer, repentance and expiation."
In obedience to the instructions, Adrian closed his eyes and felt the acrid odour of the smoke titillate his nostrils, while the doctor resumed his measured chant. The strange melody which sounded like the wailing of a lost spirit seemed to recede further and further away as the senses of the young man became clouded by the fumes spreading through the apartment. Suddenly his whole body felt contorted with extreme pain, every muscle, every nerve seemed to be wrenched asunder, and in a paroxysm of terror he strove to cry out, but was unable to do so. Fire seemed to run all through his body, burning up his physical frame, and he writhed and twisted in an agony of torture, then a thick darkness seemed to descend on his brain and he remembered no more.
How long the thick darkness continued he did not know, for when he opened his eyes again he was lying on the floor near the brazier, from whence all the fire had died away. A cold air pervaded the vault, and raising himself from the floor, Adrian saw with a sudden thrill of horror that his body, pale and still, was lying on the couch while he himself, looking down at his limbs, saw that they were wrapped in Roversmire's dressing-gown. With a cry which did not sound like his own voice he walked to a mirror which was hanging on the wall and then recoiled with a shudder, for the face which looked from the glass was not his own handsome countenance, but the old, grey-bearded, wrinkled face of Roversmire, now no longer calm and placid but convulsed with terror and anguish.
The transformation had taken place.
Adrian, in the person of Dr. Michael Roversmire, walked languidly over to the table, already feeling in his limbs the difference between youth and age, and pouring out a glass of wine drank it up. Then looking at his own body lying so still on the couch, he folded the arms across the chest, lighted the candle, and after turning out the electric light, left the vault.
He soon found his way back to the room above, as his hands seemed to mechanically discover the secret springs, then putting back the fireplace into its original condition, he blew out the candle and replaced it on the table, then falling on his knees prayed long and earnestly.
He was safe so far, for his guilty soul now inherited the body of Roversmire, and his outward semblance, which would have caused his arrest, was safely hidden in the secret room below.
The events of the night had been terrible, and quite worn out with the anguish and misery his soul had undergone, he staggered to a couch, flung himself down on it and was soon fast asleep.
When Adrian awoke next morning he half thought that the fantastic events of the night were but the outcome of some strange dream, but a single glance in the mirror soon disillusioned him as he saw reflected back the countenance of Dr. Michael Roversmire. It was true then—he had voluntarily placed his soul in the outward semblance of the old man, and would have to lead his life, be bound by his physical restrictions and be to all intents and purposes another person, until such time as the worn-out body died and he could return once more to his own frame. And then there would be the danger of paying the penalty of the crime he had committed. No! there was no safety for him save in the guise of age, and he would have to patiently endure this servitude which he had brought upon himself.
While he was seated on the couch in the disordered sitting-room, wondering what was the first step to take in his new existence, the door opened and a pale, lean man, quietly dressed in black, appeared. This was Dentham, the servant alluded to by Doctor Roversmire, and his appearance by no means impressed Adrian in a favourable manner. Tall, thin and supple, his movements seemed to have the sinuosity of a serpent, and his pallid face, clean shaven and serious, looked cold and cunning under a sparse crop of thin red hair, giving the young man an uneasy feeling of repulsion, similar to that provoked by the sight of a noxious animal. The shifty grey eyes, habitually downcast, the thin lips twitching involuntarily at the corners and the air of self-restraint, all clearly pointed to the fact that this man had a cunning nature and would by no means be averse to performing any treacherous action for the sake of money. Adrian took an immediate dislike to his physiognomy, which dislike was not lessened when he heard the soft, hissing voice which issued from the thin lips.
"Have you not been in bed, sir?" he asked, closing the door softly after him, and coming forward to the centre of the room.
"No," replied Adrian, in a dull voice, feeling it incumbent upon him to keep up the character he had assumed, "I have been engaged in writing and just slept here for a few hours."
Dentham cast a swift glance at the writing materials lying on a desk standing near the window, let his cold glance dwell doubtfully for a moment on his master's face and then spoke again.
"What would you be pleased to have for breakfast, sir?"
"The same as usual," replied Adrian, who had not the slightest idea but that Roversmire might have been a vegetarian, and therefore felt afraid to say anything. "Meanwhile I'll go up to my room and have a bath."
"You will find everything ready, sir," answered Dentham, respectfully holding the door open.
Adrian did not know where the bedroom was, but did not like to ask Dentham, knowing it would look curious in his eyes, so left the room, trusting to chance to find it. Luckily he had not proceeded very far when he saw through an open door a sponge-bath filled with water, and guessing this to be Roversmire's bedroom, went-inside, closing the door after him.
Left alone in the sitting-room, Dentham's manner underwent a rapid change and from wearing an air of cold self-restraint he became as eager and as anxious as a ferret. He glanced rapidly round the room, went across to the writing-desk, turned over the papers quickly with his lean hands, marked the two arm-chairs set opposite one another near the table, noticed that two glasses had been filled with wine, then suddenly caught sight of Adrian's stick, which he had thrown down the previous evening.
"I knew I was right," murmured Dentham to himself, pouncing eagerly on the stick. "It was the voice of a stranger. Someone's been to see him. I wonder what's up; this ain't his stick."
He looked carefully at the stick, a massive oaken staff, round the top of which was a gold band, marked with the letters "A. L.," which discovery seemed to afford him much satisfaction.
"I wonder who it was came," he repeated, twisting the stick round and round. "The letters of his name are 'A. L.,' and he's gone off again, leaving his stick behind him. That's queer! Rum old cove, my master. I can't make him out."
The fact was, Dr. Roversmire's peculiar mode of life had roused the curiosity of Mr. Dentham, who was of a very suspicious nature, and he was anxious to find out the reason of his master's solitary life, and if possible turn it to his own advantage. Up till the present, although he had watched the movements of the doctor closely, nothing had occurred to justify his suspicions that anything was wrong, but on the previous night he had heard two voices in conversation, and now that he saw two separate glasses of wine had been drunk, and had found the tangible evidence of the walking-stick, he became assured that his master had received a visitor during the night.
"Wish I'd listened," said Mr. Dentham, in a disappointed tone. "I might have found out what was up. I wouldn't be a bit surprised to find the old cove was a forger or a thief—there must be some reason for the way he lives, and if I find out anything, I'll make some money out of it."
He went off to his own room, hid the stick safely away, returning with a self-satisfied air to lay the table, fully determined to keep his eyes open and watch the actions of Dr. Roversmire so as to trip him up should he espy anything wrong.
Meanwhile Adrian had freshened himself with a bath, and changed his clothes for some which he found in the wardrobe, still, however, retaining the dressing-gown, as he did not want to make too sudden a change in his outward appearance. He intended to make a close examination of all Roversmire's papers in order to get himself thoroughly conversant with the daily life of the recluse. It was curious that he should take so much trouble in learning all the tricks, manners and daily actions of his usual body, seeing that it was impossible anyone could comprehend the change that had taken place, and however strikingly he altered his habits it would be put down by every person to the well-known eccentricities of the doctor. Assuming a new body as a disguise is very different from assuming a new garb, and it was this very novelty that made Adrian so painfully careful, as it seemed almost impossible to him that no one should notice the transformation.
Having finished his toilet, he returned to the sitting-room and found the table spread for breakfast consisting of milk, eggs, watercress and fruit.
Dentham was in attendance, but Adrian speedily dismissed him, as he felt ill at ease under the stealthy glances which the servant bestowed upon him whenever he felt himself unobserved.
"I wonder if he notices any difference," said Adrian to himself when Dentham had retired, closing the door softly after him, "Pshaw! of course not—it would be a clever person who could find the soul of Adrian Lancaster in the body of Michael Roversmire."
He made a very good breakfast and was about to devote himself to the task of looking over Roversmire's private papers, when he suddenly recollected his hat, cloak and stick, not wishing to leave them about, lest the keen eyes of Dentham should see them and an awkward explanation might ensue. Although he searched the sitting-room yet he could not find them; then suddenly recollected that he might have taken them down with him to the secret chamber. In order to be certain of this and set his mind at rest, he lighted a candle, touched the spring and having replaced the fireplace in its normal condition so as to obviate discovery by Dentham, descended into the vault, turned on the electric light and looked around.
The sight of his former body lying so still and deathlike gave him a momentary pang, and he could not help contrasting its handsome face and fine figure with his present uncouth exterior, for owing to the ordeals to which it had been subjected, the body of Dr. Roversmire was in a rather battered condition. Adrian saw that his own frame was still wrapped in the ulster, and the hat lay beside the couch on the floor, but although he hunted in every corner of the vault he could not find the stick. With a thrill of terror he extinguished the electric light and then in the darkness, feebly lighted by the glimmering taper, he seemed to feel the spiritual presence of the old fakir, who had doubtless returned to see how the occupant of his body was getting on. A cold breath of air seemed to break suddenly into the warm atmosphere of the vault, and Adrian half thought he saw a luminous cloud hovering near him. The half vision however soon vanished, and the young man put it down to the excited state of his mind. Still, the vault seemed to be occupied by some strange presence, and he hurriedly left this nether apartment and returned hurriedly to the upper room, which he luckily found still untenanted.
"Thank heaven that infernal servant didn't discover my absence," he thought, blowing out the candle. "I don't trust him in any way, and the old doctor was more easily gulled than I should have thought possible if he believed in a man with such a treacherous face."
At this moment the subject of his reflections entered the room and proceeded to clear away the breakfast things, at the same time handing the Daily Telegraph of the day to his master.
"By-the-way, Dentham, you did not see a walking-stick lying about here—an oak stick with a gold band round it?" asked Adrian unfolding the paper.
"No sir, I did not," replied Dentham, telling the lie without moving a muscle of his pale face, "was it yours sir?"
"Yes! I carried it yesterday and left it lying about the room."
"I did not know you were out yesterday, sir."
"You don't know a good many things," said Adrian tartly, smoothing out the newspaper, "you can go."
Dentham withdrew without a word and smiled subtly to himself when safe outside.
"Says it's his own stick," he muttered under his breath. "Oh, yes, I dare say—but your name don't begin with 'A. L.' Dr. Roversmire—there's something queer about all this; I believe he's the head of a gang of forgers and one of 'em came to see him. I'll keep my eyes open in case there's a row."
Adrian soon dismissed the episode of the stick from his mind, as he did not remember all the events of the previous night and half thought he might have lost the stick in his journey from the garden door to the house. Meantime he looked at the paper anxious to see if there was anything about his crime of the previous night. As he anticipated there was a short statement, but owing to the late hour at which the affair had taken place, a very full report had not come to hand.
The paragraph was headed "A Curious Affair," and it stated that a gentleman called Lancelot Alther, had gone up to Mr. Adrian Lancaster's rooms early in the morning and found the owner absent, and a mutual friend, Mr. Philip Trevanna, lying half-dead on the floor. He had been stunned, but on administration of remedies had revived, although he could not give any explanation of the assault as he was now in a high fever, and it was doubtful if he would recover. Mr. Lancaster had disappeared and no trace of him had been discovered.
Adrian laid down the paper with a sigh of relief as he read the news.
"I didn't kill him after all," he said in a thankful tone, "he was only stunned, and it would have been better if I had remained and explained the affair, although in any case I would certainly have been arrested. At all events, even if he does recover, it's too late now to do anything. I'm imprisoned in this body, and, unless something happens, will have no opportunity of becoming Adrian Lancaster again. I have indeed vanished completely from the world, and I don't think all the police in London will be able to trace my whereabouts. I must just wait patiently for the chapter of accidents to redeem me—curses on me for a fool in accepting Roversmire's offer so readily—I am lost to the world—to Olive and to everything else, and all by my own act. I'll wait and see if Philip Trevanna recovers, then some chance may release me from this mask of old age, and I'll be able to face my fellow men once more as Adrian Lancaster."
There is no punishment that men can devise so terrible in its effects as remorse. Physical tortures cannot last longer than a certain period without wearing out the body, but remorse is a monster which feeds upon itself and, little by little, gains possession of the whole inner life, making outward things hateful to the sight. It was this feeling that Adrian experienced after he had surrendered his liberty to gain safety in the body of Dr. Roversmire. The memory of his crime was constantly with him, reminding him at every moment of the day that his soul was held in the bondage of an alien body, and that, even if Philip Trevanna recovered, he would be powerless to break the chain which fettered him. The deed, once done, could not be recalled, and, of his own free will, he had entered into a prison from which nothing short of a miracle could release him.
As the days went slowly by he strove mightily to adapt himself to the dreary, monotonous life which he was now leading. Roversmire had indeed been able to draw entertainment from his stores of knowledge, his vast experience, and his power of releasing his soul from his body whenever earthly things grew too irksome to him, but Adrian, having lived all his life in a frivolous world, had not a well-stored mind to draw upon, consequently being debarred by his strange position from his ordinary pleasures he did not know how to employ his time. Furthermore, the memory of his folly stung him sharply, and the forced inaction of the life of seclusion, to which he was now condemned, made his tortured soul writhe in its new dwelling-place with a hideous sense of impotence and weariness.
Day by day the papers informed him of the progress which Philip Trevanna was making towards recovery, and the astonishment excited by his own strange disappearance, but he was powerless to come forward, explain the circumstances of the affair, and resume his place among his fellow-men. He had sinned in permitting his temper to lead him to so nearly kill a human being, and this was his punishment—this dreary life of forced inaction, of agonising remorse, and of terrible self-reproach. Truly he was paying dearly for the one mad act of his life, and to his mind the punishment appeared immeasurably severe to the magnitude of the crime. Had Philip Trevanna died, he would have accepted his terrible situation with sullen apathy, looking upon it as a fit reward for taking the life of a fellow-man, but seeing that his friend was recovering, that the crime was unpremeditated, and that Trevanna had provoked him beyond all powers of endurance, it seemed bitterly hard that he should have to pass an indefinite period in a constant state of torture.
This unpleasant state of things was not rendered any more bearable by the presence of Dentham, who, Adrian knew, kept a constant watch upon his every action. What the man suspected he could not tell, but that he was suspicious of the life led by Dr. Michael Roversmire was certain, as Adrian felt rather than saw the stealthy glances with which he watched his goings out and comings in, gettings up and layings down. This, in itself, was enough to irritate a sensitive mind, but added to the appalling tortures the unhappy young man was constantly feeling, it drove him nearly to the verge of distraction, and he longed for something to happen which would give him, if not a release, at least change of life. At last an event happened which caused Adrian to make up his mind to leave his seclusion, and which also caused considerable anxiety to the enquiring mind of Mr. Dentham.
One day, about two weeks after the transformation had taken place, Adrian saw in the paper a notice of a reward offered for the discovery of the whereabouts of Adrian Lancaster.
"I'm wanted by the police, I suppose," he muttered gloomily to himself; but this idea was soon dispelled when he read the last lines of the advertisement, which said that all information was to be given to O. M., The Nook, Marlow, Bucks.
"It's Olive! Olive!" cried Adrian, throwing down the paper, "she wants to find out where I am and help me, God bless her; if I could only reveal myself to her—but it's impossible. Dr. Roversmire is a stranger to her, and if I told her what had taken place, she would look upon me as a madman. What am I to do?—God help me, what am I to do?"
He walked up and down the room, plucking at his long grey beard as if he would tear from his young soul this mark of age.
"She could never love me as I am now," he said, clasping his hands, "for that would be treachery to my memory, and this face is not the one to win any girl's love—did not Roversmire himself say that the woman he loved refused to return his passion?—stay! perhaps if I look through this desk I may find out the name of the woman he loved, and go and see her—something may come of it, though I dread even to hope that things will turn out well."
Sitting down at the desk near a deep, wide window, he unlocked it with the key which was placed therein, and began to turn over the papers in the hope of finding some clue to the name of this girl, whose rejection of Roversmire's suit had indirectly led up to the catastrophe which had happened to himself.
He was about an hour looking through the papers, but found nothing likely to lead to discovery, until at length he found a locked book, which he immediately guessed was the diary of Roversmire.
"If it's anywhere, it will be in here," he said to himself, "but it's locked—I wonder where the key is—it's a very small hole, so the key must also be small. I don't think I've seen any key that size, and yet—ah!" with a sudden recollection, "it's on the watch chain."
And so it was, a long slender golden key of Indian workmanship, with which Adrian easily unlocked the book, and was soon deep in the contents written in the small, clear handwriting of the doctor. For a long time he read steadily on, without finding what he was in search of.
The entries principally related to the writer's life in India, the periods of his fasts, the statements of his feelings, the dates upon which he arrived at and departed from different places, and every now and then, wild rhapsodies, peculiarly Oriental in their poetic thought and imagery of the delights, ecstacies, and marvellous pleasures he had tasted of, when set free from his earthly body. Later on in the book, the doctor recorded his arrival in England, the disposition of his affairs with regard to money; the taking of his house at Hampstead, and the way in which he lived secluded from all men.
Then, at last, came a declaration of his passion, and at the sight of the name of the woman he loved, Adrian Lancaster gave a low cry, and letting the book fall upon the floor, arose quickly to his feet.
"Olive Maunders!" he whispered clutching his throat, "he loved Olive Maunders, and she never told me anything about him—oh, impossible—it cannot be true."
It was true however, for on recovering his composure, and resuming the reading of the diary, he found the whole facts of the case, plainly set out. Dr. Roversmire had called at the town house of Sir John Maunders with a letter of introduction from a friend in India, and Sir John, having a leaning towards occult science, had been much taken up with the curious character of his guest. Roversmire saw Olive, fell in love with her, and recorded his impressions in a series of broken paragraphs, which were anything but pleasant reading to the fastidious mind of Adrian Lancaster, seeing that they were about the girl whom he intended to make his wife.
". . . . She is certainly a most beautiful woman, but it is not her outward form which attracts me, fair though it be as the lotus floating on the wave of the holy Ganges. The pure crystal of her body encloses the still purer flower of her soul, a soul which possesses strong masculine characteristics . . . . after the soulless women of the East, this discovery is to me a source of wonder and admiration.
". . . . I have observed her narrowly, and am still constant to my first opinion; with such a strong soul as she possesses, Olive might go through the ordeal with unshaken firmness of purpose, and be enabled to release her soul from this clinging vestment of clay . . . . I must explain as much as I can to her and see if she will make the attempt.
". . . . All in vain . . . . I have told her of my idea that she should marry me, that I should initiate her into those strange sciences of which the West knows nothing, and when she attains the mastery of the last great secret, we will float together, radiant spirits in infinite space.
". . . . It is quite useless, not even this destiny I offer her can gain her love! and why? Because it is given already to some brainless dandy of to-day called Adrian Lancaster . . . he is abroad now, and hence the mistake I made in thinking she was free—ah, it is unkind of Fate to thus mar the destiny of a fair strong soul by such a vulgar obstacle.
". . . . By means of my astral body, I have seen Mr. Adrian Lancaster, who is at Monte Carlo . . . . a handsome face certainly, but no brains, and if he has any, he never uses them . . he seems to me to lead a debauched life—ah, the pity that such a soiled soul should seek union with the stainless, spiritual part of Olive Maunders. It will be like fire and water coming together, and the mastery will be with the strongest.
". . . . I have tried again and failed, her material part is stronger than her spiritual one, and she has set her heart upon marriage with Adrian Lancaster, so there is nothing left for me to do, but to retire peacefully from the field . . . . I should like to teach her a lesson, and show her what she has lost in refusing to marry me . . . well, time will show, and I may some day, have an opportunity of doing so . . . ."
There were several other entries about Olive and himself, but Adrian had read enough, and closing the book with a frown, locked it up again in the desk. It was clear Dr. Roversmire had not held a very good opinion of him, and Adrian could not help acknowledging to himself that the view taken by the savant was a correct one. He had brains in plenty, but had never exercised them—never mind, there was yet time. The experiences he had undergone, while in the body of Roversmire, had not been without a salutary effect, and he would benefit by them, when he returned to his own body. But when would he return? Ah! that was the question; at all events, he would go down to Olive Maunders, and find out from her demeanour towards him, if she really was true to Adrian Lancaster, or if her ambition had caused her to look kindly upon Michael Roversmire. The entries in the book were plain enough—she did not love anyone else but himself, still the demon of jealousy was gnawing at Adrian's heart, and only a personal interview could satisfy him on the subject.
He rang the bell, and Dentham appeared with such rapidity that Adrian felt convinced he had not been far away. However, listen as he might, he could not learn anything likely to endanger the safety of Dr. Roversmire, so Adrian asked at once for what he wanted.
"Have you a Bradshaw?"
"Yes, sir," replied Dentham, and thereupon vanished, quickly returning with the book in question.
Adrian took it, and Dentham was about to retire when his master called him back.
"Wait a moment, I may want you," he said, without raising his eyes from the Guide, whereupon Dentham wondered greatly what could have occurred to alter so suddenly the general habits of the old doctor.
Adrian soon found out that there was a train late in the afternoon to Great Marlow, and laying down the book open on the table, rose to his feet.
"I am going to my room, Dentham," he said abruptly. "You can come in shortly to pack my portmanteau—I shall be going away for a few days."
"Going away," echoed Dentham when the door had closed on the tall figure of his master. "Where to, I wonder; there's something queer about this—why, he's hardly been out of the house for the last six months, and now he makes up his mind to be off in half a minute. I'll have a look at this and find out where he's going to."
The Bradshaw was lying on the table, still open at the place to which Adrian had referred, so Dentham had no difficulty in discovering that Dr. Roversmire was going to Great Marlow, in the county of Bucks.
"What does he want there?" mused Mr. Dentham, laying down the book—"more mysteries."
Here he caught sight of the paper crumpled up on the floor, where Adrian had thrown it, and picked it up.
"He's been asking for the papers a lot lately," said the astute valet to himself, "I wonder if there's anything in this that's got to do with his going to Marlow—I'll see."
He looked carefully over the paper, and at length came upon the advertisement for Adrian Lancaster's whereabouts.
"That's it," said Mr. Dentham in a satisfied tone, "it's the only mention of Marlow in the paper, and he only made up his mind to go there since he read the paper; and now I think of it," muttered Dentham sagaciously, "the walking-stick I picked up as he said belonged to himself, which was a lie, had the letters A L on it—now A stands for Adrian and L for Lancaster, and Adrian Lancaster's disappeared. I wonder—now I do wonder if the voice I heard that night was Mr. Lancaster's, and what his walking-stick is doing in this room—jumping at conclusions this is, I'm afraid, still, something may come of all this, but I shan't move till I've got more to go on."
He put the paper in his pocket, intending to place it beside the stick, which he had securely hidden, and then went off to pack Dr. Roversmire's portmanteau with a self-satisfied smirk on his white face.
Certainly there is no more delightful retreat on a hot July day, than one of those picturesque cottages standing in an expanse of verdant turf, cool to the eye and soft to the feet, down by the silver wave of Father Thames, near Marlow. By the bend of the river, just above the quaint old town, one of these red-tiled domiciles was, as "The Lock to Lock Times" informed its readers, occupied by Sir John Maunders, his daughter Olive, and a party of friends, who had fled from the noise and dust of London to the pleasant cool of the country.
"The Nook," as it was called, was a cosy little place, of somewhat incongruous architecture, the present proprietor having purchased it as a cottage and added wings, gables, turrets and oriel windows to the original erection, until it had assumed quite an imposing appearance. Nothing ancient about it certainly, no Tudor battlements, Georgian frontages nor Norman towers, for it was eminently Victorian in its appearance, and all its arrangements both without and within had all the latest improvements conducive to comfort and luxury. There was a deep verandah round the red brick front, with wide French windows giving access to drawing-room, dining-room and smoking-snuggery, all of which were furnished regardless of cost by the most famous upholsterer in London. From the verandah a velvety smooth lawn spread like an emerald carpet down to the river banks, where there was a boat-house and a flight of broad steps to the water, near to which steps two handsome boats of cedar were generally moored for the convenience of Sir John's guests. Between the river and the house were four huge beech trees, whose foliage made a pleasant shade, and under which were plenty of rustic seats and tables, while a lazy-looking hammock of net swung from a giant limb.
On this hot July afternoon one of the tables was spread for afternoon tea, presided over by Olive Maunders, and Sir John who sat near her, while all around were the guests, mostly young men and women with a sprinkling of chaperones. Sir John, a genial-looking old gentleman, was always delighted to surround himself with young people, as he said they made life look bright to him, and certainly there was plenty of laughing and talking as the party on the lawn chatted about the events of the day, listened to the voice of the wind stirring the leaves overhead or watched the boats floating past on the sunlit river, with their loads of young men in flannels and pretty girls daintily costumed in river fashion.
Teddy Rudall, a fashionable journalist, society verse writer, and know-everybody-about-town young man was seated in a wicker chair, playing his banjo and singing a nonsensical impromptu ditty suggested by the situation: