“Are you content with small mercies, Ron?” she asked, “or do you agree that it is better to try for a salmon than catch a trout?”
“It certainly isn’t better to-day, anyway,” I answered. “I want to be near you, darling. I don’t want the distance of the pools between us. We might walk up to the Dead Man’s Pool, and then fish up stream; and later fish the loch from the boat. That would bring us back in nice time for dinner.”
“Oh! splendid!” she cried; and we fished out our fly-books. Her’s was a big book of tattered pig-skin, which reclined at the bottom of the capacious “poacher’s pocket” in her jacket. The fly-book was an old favourite—she wouldn’t have parted with it for worlds. Havingfollowed her advice, and changed the Orange I had tied for the “bob” to a Peacock Zulu, which I borrowed from her, we set out.
“Just above the Dead Man’s Pool you get a beautiful view of Hilderman’s hideous hut,” Myra declared as we walked along. I may explain here that “Dead Man’s Pool” is an English translation of the Gaelic name, which I dare not inflict on the reader.
“See?” she cried, as we climbed the rock looking down on the gorgeous salmon pool, with its cool, inviting depths and its subtle promise of sport. “Oh! Ronnie, isn’t it wonderful?” she cried. “Almost every day of my life I have admired this view, and I love it more and more every time I see it. I sometimes think I’d rather give up my life than the simple power to gaze at the mountains and the sea.”
“Why, look!” I exclaimed. “Is that the window you meant?”
“Yes,” Myra replied, with an air of annoyance, “that’s it. You can see that light when the sun shines on it, which is nearly all day, and it keeps on reminding us that we have a neighbour, although the loch is between us. Besides, for some extraordinary reason it gets on father’s nerves. Poor old daddy!”
It may seem strange to the reader that anyone should take notice of the sun’s reflection on a window two and a quarter miles away; but it must be remembered that all her life Myra hadbeen accustomed to the undisputed possession of an unbroken view.
“Anyhow,” she added, as she turned away, “we came here to fish. One of us must cross the stream here and fish that side. We can’t cross higher up, there’s too much water, and there’s no point in getting wet. I’ll go, and you fish this side; and when we reach the loch we’ll get into the boat. See, Sholto’s across already.”
And she tripped lightly from boulder to boulder across the top of the fall which steams into the Dead Man’s Pool, while I stood and admired her agile sureness of foot as one admires the graceful movements of a beautiful young roe. Sholto was pawing about in a tiny backwater, and trying to swallow the bubbles he made, until he saw his beloved mistress was intent on the serious business of fishing, and then he climbed lazily to the top of a rock, where he could keep a watchful eye on her, and sprawled himself out in the sun. I have fished better water than the Malluch river, certainly, and killed bigger fish in other lochs than the beautiful mountain tarn above Invermalluch Lodge; but I have never had a more enjoyable day’s sport than the least satisfying of my many days there.
There was a delightful informality about the sport at the Lodge. One fished in all weathers because one wanted to fish, and varied one’s methods and destination according to the day. There was no sign of that hideous custom ofdoing the thing “properly” that the members of a stockbroker’s house-party seem to enjoy—no drawing lots for reaches or pools overnight, no roping-in a gillie to add to the chance of sending a basket “south.” When there was a superfluity of fish the crofters and tenants were supplied first, and then anything that was left over was sent to friends in London and elsewhere. At the end of the day’s sport we went home happy and pleased with ourselves, not in the least depressed if we had drawn a blank, to jolly and delightful meals, without any formality at all. And if we were wet, there was a great drying-room off the kitchen premises where our clothes were dried by a housemaid who really understood the business. As for our tackle, we dried our own lines and pegged them under the verandah, and rewound them again in the morning, made up our own casts, and generally did everything for ourselves without a retinue of attendants. And thereby we enjoyed ourselves hugely.
Angus and Sandy, the two handy-men of the place, would carry the lunch-basket or pull the boats on the loch or stand by with the gaff or net—and what experts they are!—but the rest we did for ourselves. By the time I had got a pipe on and wetted my line, Myra was some fifty yards or so up stream making for a spot where she suspected something. She has the unerring instinct of the inveterate poacher! I cast idly once or twice, content to revel in the delight ofholding a rod in my hand once more, intoxicated with the air and the scenery and the sunshine (What a good thing the fish in the west “like it bright!”), and after a few minutes a sudden jerk on my line brought me back to earth. I missed him, but he thrilled me to the serious business of the thing, and I fished on, intent on every cast.
I suppose I must have fished for about twenty minutes, but of that I have never been able to say definitely. It may possibly have been more. I only know that as I was picking my way over some boulders to enable me to cast more accurately for a big one I had risen, I heard Myra give a sharp, short cry. I turned anxiously and called to her.
I could not distinguish her at first among the great gray rocks in the river. Surely she could not have fallen in. Even had she done so, I hardly think she would have called out. She was extraordinarily sure on her feet, and, in any case, she was an expert swimmer. What could it be? Immediately following her cry came Sholto’s deep bay, and then I saw her. She was standing on a tall, white, lozenge-shaped rock, that looked almost as if it had been carefully shaped in concrete. She was kneeling, and her arm was across her face. With a cry I dashed into the river, and floundered across, sometimes almost up to my neck, and ran stumbling to her in a blind agony of fear. Evenas I ran her rod was carried past me, and disappeared over the fall below.
“Myra, my darling,” I cried as I reached her, and took her in my arms, “what is it, dearest? For God’s sake tell me—what is it?”
“Oh, Ronnie, dear,” she said, “I don’t know, darling. I don’t understand.” Her voice broke as she lifted her beautiful face to me. I looked into those wonderful eyes, and they gazed back at me with a dull, meaningless stare. She stretched out her arm to grasp my hand, and her own hand clutched aimlessly on my collar.
In a flash I realised the hideous truth.
Myra was blind!
“Oh, Ronnie, darling,” Myra asked, in a pitiful voice that went to my heart. “What can it mean? I—I—I can’t see—anything at all.”
“It’s the sun, darling; it will be all right in a minute or two. There, lie in my arms, dear, and close your poor eyes. It will be all right soon, dearest.”
I tried to comfort her, to assure her that it was just the glare on the water, that she would be able to see again in a moment, but I felt the pitiful inadequacy of my empty words, and it seemed that the light had gone out of my life. I pray that I may never again witness such a harrowing sight as that of Myra, leaning her beautiful head on my shoulder, suddenly stricken blind, doing her best to pacify her dog, who was heart-broken in the instinctive knowledge of a new, swift grief which he could not understand.
I must ask the reader to spare me from describing in detail the terrible agony of the next few days, when the hideous tragedy of Myra’s blindness overcame us all in its naked freshness. I cannot bring myself to speak of it even yet. I would at any time give my life to save Myra’s sight, her most priceless possession. I make this as a simple statement of fact, and in nospirit of romantic arrogance, and I think I would rather die than live again the gnawing agony of those days.
I took Myra in my arms, and carried her back to the house. Poor child; she realised almost immediately that I was as dumbfounded as she was herself at the terrible blow which had befallen her, and that I had no faith in my empty assurances that it would soon be all right again, and she would be able to see as well as ever in an hour or two, at most. So she at once began to comfort me! I marvelled at her bravery, but she made me more miserable than ever. I felt that she might have a sort of premonition that she would never see again. As we crossed the stream above the fall I saw again the reflected light from Hilderman’s window, and a pang shot through me as I remembered her words on that very spot—that she would rather die than be unable to see her beloved mountains.
I clutched her in my arms, and held her closer to me in dumb despair.
“Am I very heavy, Ron, dear?” she asked presently. “If you give me your hand, dear, I could walk. I think I could even manage without it; but, of course, I should prefer to have your hand at any time.” She gave a natural little laugh, which almost deceived me, and again I marvelled at her pluck. I had known Myra since she was four, and I might have expected that she would meet her tragic misfortune with a smile.
“You’re as light as a feather, dearest,” I protested, “and, as far as that goes, I’d rather carry you at any time.”
“I’m glad you were here when it happened, dear,” she whispered.
“Tell me, darling, how did it happen?” I asked. “I mean, what did it seem like? Did things gradually grow duller and duller, or what?”
“No,” she answered; “that was the extraordinary part of it. Quite suddenly I saw everything green for a second, and then everything went out in a green flash. It was a wonderful, liquid green, like the sea over a sand-bank. It was just a long flash, very quick and sharp, and then I found I could see nothing at all. Everything is black now, the black of an intense green. I thought I’d been struck by lightning. Wasn’t it silly of me?”
“My poor, brave little woman,” I murmured. “Tell me, where were you then?”
“Just where you found me, on the Chemist’s Rock. I call it the Chemist’s Rock because it’s shaped like a cough-lozenge. I was casting from there; it makes a beautiful fishing-table. I looked up, and then—well, then it happened.”
“We’re just coming to the house,” said Myra suddenly. “We’re just going to turn on to the stable-path.”
“Darling!” I cried, nearly dropping her in my excitement; “you can see already?”
“Oh, Ronnie, I’m so sorry,” she said penitently.“I only knew by the smell of the peat stacks.” I could not restrain a groan of disappointment, and Myra stroked my face, and murmured again, “I’m sorry, dearest.”
“Will you please put me down now?” she asked. “If daddy saw you carrying me to the house he’d have a fit, and the servants would go into hysterics.” So I put her tenderly on her feet, and she took my arm, and we walked slowly to the house. She could see nothing, not even in the hazy confusion of the nearly blind; yet she walked to the house with as firm a step and as natural an air as if she had nothing whatever the matter with her.
“You had better leave dad to me, Ron,” she suggested. “We understand each other, and I can explain to him. You would find it difficult, and it would be painful for you both. Just tell him that I’m not feeling very well, and he’ll come straight to me. Don’t tell him I want to see him. Give me your arm to my den, dear.”
I led her to her “den,” a little room opening on to the verandah. There was a writing-table in the window covered with correspondence in neat little piles, for Myra was on all the charity committees in the county, and the rest of the room was given up to a profusion of fishing tackle, shooting gear, and books. Sholto followed us, every now and then rubbing his great head against her skirt. I left her there, and turned into the hall, where I met the General. He had heard us return.
“You’re back early, my boy,” he remarked.
“Yes,” I said, taking out my cigarette-case to give myself an air of assurance which was utterly unknown to me. “Myra is not feeling very well. She’s resting for a bit.”
“Not well?” he exclaimed, in surprise. “Very unusual, very unusual indeed.” And he turned straight into Myra’s room without waiting for an answer to his quiet tap on the door. With a heavy heart I went upstairs to the old schoolroom, now given over to Mary McNiven, Myra’s old nurse.
“Master Ronald! Iamglad,” she cried, when I accepted her invitation to “come in.” Mary had boxed my ears many times in my boyhood, and the fact that we were old friends made it difficult for me to tell her my terrible news. I broke it as gently as I could, and warned her not to alarm the servants, and very soon she wiped away her tears and went downstairs to see what she could do. I went out into the fresh air for a moment to pull myself together, marvelling at the unreasoning cruelty of fate. I turned into the hall, and met the General coming out of Myra’s room. He was talking to Mary and one of the housemaids.
“These things often occur,” he was explaining in a very matter-of-fact voice.“They are unusual, though not unheard-of, and very distressing at the time. But I am confident that Miss Myra will be quite herself again in a day or two. Meanwhile, she had better go to bed and rest, and take care of herself while Angus fetches Doctor Whitehouse. No doubt he will give her some lotion to wash her eyes with, and it will be only a day or two before we see Miss Myra about again as usual. You must see that she has no light near her, and that she rests her eyes in every possible way. There is nothing whatever for you girls to get anxious or frightened about. I have seen this sort of thing before, though usually in the East.”
The old man dismissed the maids, and went into the drawing-room, while I spent a few moments with Myra. I was delighted to see the General taking it so well, as I had even been afraid of his total collapse, so I took what comfort I could from his ready assurance that he was quite accustomed to that sort of thing. But when, some twenty minutes later, I went to look for him in the drawing-room, and found him prostrate on the sofa, his head buried in his arms, I realised whence Myra had derived her pluck. He looked up as he heard the door open, and tears were streaming down his rugged old face.
“Never mind me, Ronald,” he said brokenly. “Never mind me. I shall be all right in a minute. I—I didn’t expect this, but I shall be all right in a minute.” I closed the door softly and left him alone.
I found Angus had harnessed the pony, and was just about to start for Glenelg to fetch Doctor Whitehouse. So I told him to tell theGeneral that I should be better able to explain to the doctor what had happened, and, glad of the diversion, I drove in for him myself. But when he arrived he made a long and searching examination, patted Myra’s head, and told her the nerve had been strained by the glare on the water, and rest was all that was needed; and, as soon as he got outside her door, he sighed and shook his head. In the library he made no bones about it, and her father and I were both grateful to him.
“It’s not a bit of use my saying I know when I don’t,” the doctor declared emphatically.“I’m puzzled—indeed, I’m absolutely beaten. This is a thing I’ve not only never come across before, but I’ve never even read about it. This green flash, the suddenness of it, the absence of pain—she says she feels perfectly well. She could see wonderfully well up to the second it happened; no warning headaches, and nothing whatever to account for it. I have known a sudden shock to the system produce instantaneous blindness, such as a man in a very heated state diving into ice-cold water. But in this case there is nothing to go by. I can only do her harm by pretending to know what I don’t know, and you know as much as I do. She must see a specialist, and the sooner the better. I would recommend Sir Gaire Olvery; that would mean taking her up to London. Mr. Herbert Garnesk is the second greatest oculist in the country; but undoubtedly Sir Gaire is first. Meanwhile I will give her a little nerve tonic; it will do her no harm, and will give her reason to think that we know how to treat her, so that it may do her good. She must wear the shade I brought her, and take care her eyes are never exposed to the light.”
“The fact that you yourself can make nothing of it is for us or against us?” asked the General, in an anxious voice.
He was looking haggard and tired out.
“In what way?” queried the doctor.
“I mean that if she had—er—totally lost her—the use of her eyes—for all time, could you be certain of that or not? Or can you give us any reason to hope that the very fact of your not understanding the nature of the case points to her getting over it?”
“Ah,” said the doctor, “I’m not going to be so unfair to you as to say that. I will say emphatically that she has not absolutely hopelessly lost her sight. The nerves are not dead. This green veil may be lifted, possibly, as suddenly as it fell; but I am talking to men, and I want you to understand that I can give no idea as to when that may be. I pray that it may be soon—very soon.”
“I’m glad you’re so straightforward about it, Whitehouse,” said the old man, as he sank into a chair. “I don’t need to be buoyed up by any false hopes. You can understand that it is a very terrible blow to Mr. Ewart and myself.”
“I can indeed,” said the doctor solemnly.“I brought her into the world, you know. It is a tragic shock to me. I’ll get back now, if you’ll excuse me. I have a very serious case in the village, but I’ll be over first thing in the morning, and I’ll bring you a small bottle of something with me. You’ll need it with this anxiety.”
“Nonsense, Whitehouse,” declared the General stoutly. “I’m perfectly all right. There’s nothing at all the matter with me. I don’t need any of your begad slush.”
“Now, my dear friend,” said the medical man cunningly, “it’s my business to look ahead. In the next few days you’ll be too anxious to eat, so I’m going to bring you something that will simply stimulate your appetite and make you want to eat. It’s not good for any man to go without his meals, especially when that man’s getting on for sixty.”
“Thank ye, my dear fellow,” said the old man, more graciously. “I’m sorry to be such a boor, but I thought you meant some begad tonic.” The General was getting on for seventy; to be exact, he was sixty-nine—he married at forty-six—and when the medicine came he took it, “because, after all, it was begad decent of Whitehouse to have thought of it.”
I spent a miserable night. I went to bed early, and lay awake till daybreak. The hideous nightmare of the green ray kept me awake for many nights to come. The General agreed with me that we must waste no time, andit was arranged that we should take Myra up to London the next day.
“You know, Ronald,” said the old man to me as we sat together after the mockery that would otherwise have been an excellent dinner, “I was particularly glad to see you to-day. I’ve been very worried about—well, about myself lately. I had an extraordinary experience the other day which I should never dare to relate to anyone whom I could not absolutely rely on to believe me. I’ve been fidgeting for the last month or two, and that window that you say you saw to-day has got very much on my nerves. I’ve been imagining that it’s a heliograph from an enemy encampment. Simply nerves, of course; but nerves ought not to account for extraordinary optical delusions or hallucinations.”
“Hallucinations?” I asked anxiously. “What sort of hallucinations?”
“I hardly like to tell you, my boy,” he answered, nervously twirling his liqueur glass in his fingers. “You see, you’re young, and I’m—well, to tell you the truth, I’m getting old, and when you get old you get nerves, and they can be terrible things, nerves.” I looked up at the haggard face, drawn into deep furrows with the new trouble that had fallen on the old man, and I was shocked and startled to see a look of absolute fear in his eyes. I leaned forward, and laid my hand on his wrist.
“Tell me,” I suggested, as gently as I could.He brightened at once, and patted my arm affectionately.
“I couldn’t tell the little woman,” he muttered. “She—she’d have been frightened, and she might have thought I was going mad. I couldn’t bear that. I hadn’t the courage to tell Whitehouse either; but you’re a good chap, Ronald, and you’re very fond of my girlie, and your father and I were pals, as you boys would say. I daresay it was only a sort of waking dream, or——” He broke off and stared at the table-cloth. I took the glass from his hand, and filled it with liqueur brandy, and put it beside him. He sipped it thoughtfully. Suddenly he turned to me, and brought his hand down on the table with a bang.
“I swear I’m not mad, Ronald!” he cried fiercely. “There must be some explanation of it. I know I’m sane.”
“What was it exactly?” I asked quietly. “Nothing on God’s earth will persuade me that you are mad, sir.”
“Thank you, my boy. I’ll tell you what happened to me. You won’t be able to explain it, but you shall hear just what it was. You may think it’s silly of me to get nervous of what sounds like an absurdity, but you see it happened where—where to-day’s tragedy happened.”
“What Myra calls the Chemist’s Rock?” I asked, by this time intensely interested.
“At the Chemist’s Rock,” he replied.“It was a lovely afternoon, just such an afternoon as to-day. I had been going to fish with girlie, but I was a little tired, and—er—I had some letters to write, so I said I would meet her later in the afternoon. It was agreed we should meet at the Chemist’s Rock at half-past four. I left the house about a quarter-past, and strolled down the river to the Fank Pool, crossed the stream in the boat that lies there, and walked up the opposite bank past Dead Man’s Pool towards the Chemist’s Rock. I mention all this to show you that I was feeling well enough to enjoy a stroll, and a very rocky stroll at that, because, if I hadn’t been feeling perfectly fit, I should have gone up the back way past the stable, the way you came back this afternoon. So you see, I was undoubtedly quite well, my boy. However, to get on with the tale. As soon as I came in sight of our meeting-place I looked up to see if girlie had got there before me. She was not there. I looked further up stream, and saw Sholto come tearing down over the rocks. I knew that he had seen me, and that she was following him. I naturally strolled on to go to the rock—I say I went——” He broke off, and passed his hands across his eyes.
“Yes,” I said softly; “you went to the rock, and Myra met you——”
“No,” he said; “I didn’t. I didn’t go to the rock.”
“But I don’t understand,” I said, as he remained silent for some moments. The oldman leaned forward, and laid a trembling, fever-scorched hand on mine.
“Ronald,” he said, in a voice that shook with genuine horror, and sent a cold shiver down my spine, “I did not go to the rock.The rock came to me.”
I sat and stared at the old man in astonishment. Obviously he was fully convinced that he was giving me an accurate account of what had happened, and equally obviously he was perfectly sane.
“That is all,” he said presently. “The rock came to me.”
“Good heavens!” I exclaimed, suddenly brought to my senses by the sound of his voice. “What an extraordinary thing!”
“For a moment I thought I was mad, and sometimes, when I have thought over it since—and the Lord knows how many times I’ve done that—I’ve come to the conclusion that I must have fallen asleep. But even now the fear haunts me that my mind may be going.”
“You mustn’t imagine anything like that, General,” I advised seriously.“Whatever you do, don’t encourage any doubts of your own sanity. There must be some explanation of this, although I can’t for the moment imagine what it can possibly be. It is a remarkable thing, and I fancy you will find, when we do know the explanation, that anyone else standing where you were at that time would have seen exactly the same thing. The rock stands out of the water; it is just above a deep pool, and probably it was a sort of mirage effect, and not by any means a figment of your brain.”
To my surprise the old man leaned back in his chair and burst out laughing.
“Of course,” he exclaimed. “I never thought of that—a sort of mirage. Well, I’m begad thankful you suggested that, Ronald. I’ve no doubt that it was something of the sort. What a begad old fool I am. Let us pray that our poor little girl’s trouble,” he added solemnly, “will have some equally simple solution.”
The General was so relieved that I had given him, at any rate, some sort of reason to believe that his brain was not yet going, that he began to declare that he was convinced Myra would be better in a day or two. So we arranged that I should take her up to London the next day, and leave her in charge of her aunt, Lady Ruslit, and then, as soon as we had heard Sir Gaire’s verdict, I was to bring her back again. General McLeod had been anxious at first to come with us, but I pointed out that he would be of more use to Myra if he stayed behind, and kept an eye on her interests in the neighbourhood. I promised to wire him the result of the interview with Olvery as soon as I knew it. And just about a quarter to ten we went to bed.
“Ronald,” said the old man, as we shook hands outside my door,“there’s just one thing I wasn’t frank with you about in the matter of the Chemist’s Rock. I am anxious to believe that it’s a point of no particular importance. You know the rock is a sort of sandstone, not grey like the rest, but nearly white?”
“Yes,” I answered, wondering what could be coming next.
“Well,” said the old man, “that day when I saw it appearing to come towards me it was not white, but green.”
“No,” I said at last, when we had spent another twenty minutes discussing this new aspect in my room. “It’s beyond me. I can’t see how the two events can be connected, and yet they are so unusual that one would think they must be. I certainly think it is a point to put in detail before Olvery.”
“On the whole, I quite agree with you,” said the General. “I am rather afraid he may take us for a pack of lunatics, and refuse to be bothered with the case.”
“I’m sure he won’t do that,” I asserted confidently. “And he may have some medical knowledge that will just shake the puzzle into place, and explain the whole mystery to us. It seems to me a most remarkable thing that these two strange affairs should have happened in exactly the same place. That it is some strange freak of nature I have no doubt, but I am absolutely at a loss to think what it can be.”
It can hardly be wondered at that, as I have said before, sleep and I were strangers thatnight, and I was glad enough when the time came for me to get up.
Myra came down after breakfast, wonderfully brave and bright, but there was no sign whatever of her sight returning to her. The leave-taking was a wretched business, and I cannot dwell on it. Sandy started early to sail to Mallaig with the luggage, and we followed in the motor-boat, Angus at the engine, old Mary McNiven in the bows, while I took the tiller, and Myra lay on a pile of cushions at my feet, her head resting on my knee, her arm round Sholto’s neck; for she had wanted the dog to see her off at the station. The old General managed to keep up a cheery manner as he said good-bye at the landing-stage, but he was looking so care-worn and haggard that I was glad that he had been persuaded not to come up to London with us. He was certainly not in a fit state for the fatigues of a long journey. As we passed Glasnabinnie theBaltimoreslid out from the side of the shed that stood on the edge of the miniature harbour which Nature had thoughtfully bestowed on the place.
“I can hear a motor-boat,” said Myra, suddenly sitting up.
“Yes,” I replied. “It’s Hilderman’s.”
“Is she ahead of us?” she asked.
I looked round, and saw that theBaltimorewas putting out to round the point.
“No, she’s about level,” I answered.“She’s evidently making for Mallaig. We are, if anything, a little ahead, but they will soon pass us, I should think.”
“Oh, Ron,” cried Myra, with childish excitement, “don’t let them beat us. Angus, put some life into her. Wemustmake the harbour first.”
Angus did his best, and I set her course as near in shore as I dared on that treacherous coast. TheBaltimoreglided out to sea with the easy grace of a powerful and beautiful animal, and as we passed the jagged promontory she was coming up about thirty yards behind us.
“Challenge him, Ron,” Myra exclaimed; “you’ve met him.”
I turned, and saw Hilderman and two other men in the boat, one a friend apparently, and the other the mechanic. I stood up and waved to him.
“We’ll race you to Mallaig,” I shouted.
“It’s a bet,” he agreed readily, at the top of his voice, waving back.
It was a ding-dong business across the mouth of Nevis, and theBaltimorewas leading, if anything, but we had not far to go, and our opponents had taken a course a good deal farther out to sea than we were. Coming up by the lighthouse, however, theBaltimoredrew in at a magnificent pace, and swept in to pass inside the lighthouse rock. Hilderman, who was quite distinct at the short distance, stood up in the stern of theBaltimore, and looked at us. We were making good time, but we had no chance ofoutdistancing his powerful boat. But, as he looked at us, and was evidently about to shout some triumphant greeting, I saw him catch sight of Myra, lying at my feet, her face hidden in the shade over her eyes. Suddenly, without the slightest warning, he swung the tiller, and, turning out again, took the long course round the lighthouse, and we slid alongside the fish-table a good minute ahead of him. Myra was delighted; she had no suspicion that we had virtually lost the race, and the trifling excitement gave her a real pleasure. Angus, I could see, was puzzled, but I signed to him to say nothing. My heart warmed to Hilderman; he had seen that Myra was not well, and, divining that it would give her some pleasure to win the race, he had tactfully given way to us. I was really grateful to him for his kindly thought, and determined to thank him as soon as I could. We had nearly half an hour to wait for the mid-day train, and, after seeing Myra and Mary safely ensconced in the Marine Hotel, I went out with Sholto to get the tickets, telegraph to Dennis, and express my gratitude to Hilderman. But when I stepped out of the hotel he was standing in the road waiting for me.
“Good morning, Mr. Ewart,” he said, coming forward to offer me his hand. “Is there anything the matter with Miss McLeod?”
“She’s not very well,” I replied.“She has something the matter with her eyes. It was very good of you to let us win our little race. Every little pleasure that we can give Miss McLeod just at this time is of great value to us.”
“Eyes?” said Hilderman, thoughtfully, with the same dreamy expression that Dennis had pointed out at King’s Cross. “What sort of thing is it? I know something about eyes.”
“I’m afraid I can tell you nothing,” I replied. “She has suddenly lost her sight in the most amazing and terrible manner. We are just taking her up to London to see a specialist.”
“Had she any pain?” he asked, “or any dizziness or fainting, or anything like that?”
“No,” I said; “there is absolutely nothing to go by. It is a most extraordinary affair, and a very terrible blow to us all.”
“It must be,” he said gently, “very, very terrible. I have heard so much about Miss McLeod that I even feel it myself. I am deeply grieved to hear this, deeply grieved.” He spoke very sympathetically, and I felt that it was very kind of him to take such a friendly interest in his unknown neighbour.
“I think you’d better join me in a brandy and soda, Mr. Ewart,” he said, laying a hand on my arm. “I don’t suppose you know it, but you look ten years older than you did yesterday.”
Yesterday! Good heavens! Had all this happened in a day? I was certainly feeling far from myself, and I accepted his invitation readily enough. We turned into the refreshment-room outside the station, and I had a stiff whisky and soda, realising how far away fromLondon I was when the man gave me the whisky in one glass and the soda in another.
“Tell me,” said Hilderman, “if it is not very rude of me to ask, or too painful for you to speak about, what was Miss McLeod doing when this happened? Reading, or what?” I gave him a rough outline of the circumstances, but, in view of what the General had told me the night before, I said nothing about the mystery of the green ray. We wanted to retain our reputation for sanity as long as we could, and no outsider who did not know the General personally would believe that his astonishing experience was anything other than the strange creation of a nerve-wrought brain.
“And that was all?” he asked thoughtfully.
“Yes, that was all,” I replied.
“I suppose you haven’t decided what specialist you will take her to when you get her to London?” he queried. I was about to reply when I heard Sholto in a heated argument with some other dog, and I bolted out, with a hurried excuse, to bring him in. As I returned, with my hand on his collar, the harbour-master greeted me, and told me we might have some difficulty in reaching London, as the train service was likely to be disorganised owing to the transport of troops and munitions. When I rejoined Hilderman I was full of this new development. It would be both awkward and unpleasant to be turned out of the train beforewe reached London; and every moment’s delay might mean injury to my poor Myra.
“I don’t think you need worry at all, Mr. Ewart,” my new friend assured me. “The trains will run all right. They may alter the services where they have too many trains, but here they are not likely to do so. Thank heaven, I shall not be travelling again for some time. I hate it, although I have to run about a good deal. I have a few modest investments that take up a considerable portion of my time. I figure on one or two boards, you know.”
I thanked him for his kindly interest, and left him. I wired to Dennis not to meet the train, but to be prepared to put me up the following night. Then I got the tickets, and took Myra to the train. Hilderman was seeing his friend off; a short, somewhat stout man, with flaxen hair, and small blue eyes peering through a pair of large spectacles. He bowed to us as we passed, and I was struck by the kindly sympathy with which both he and his companion glanced at Myra. Evidently they both realised what a terrible blow to her the loss of her sight must be. I will admit that, when it came to the time for the train to start, my heart nearly failed me altogether. The sight of the beautiful blind girl saying good-bye to her dog was one which I hope I may never see again. As the train steamed out into the cutting Sholto was left whining on the platform, and it was as much as Angus could do to hold him back.Poor Sholto; he was a faithful beast, and they were taking his beloved mistress away from him. Myra sat back in the carriage, and furtively wiped away a tear from her poor sightless eyes.
“Poor old fellow,” she said, with a brave smile. “If they can’t do anything for me in London he will have to lead me about. It’ll keep him out of mischief.”
“Don’t say that, darling!” I groaned.
“Poor old Ron,” she said tenderly. “I believe it’s worse for you than it is for me. And now that Mary has left us for a bit I want to say something to you, dear, while I can. You mustn’t think I don’t understand what this will mean to you, dear. I want you to know, darling, that I hope always to be your very great friend, but I don’t expect you to marry a blind girl.”
I shall certainly not tell the reader what I said in reply to that generous and noble statement.
“Besides, dear,” I concluded eventually, “you will soon be able to see again.” And so I tried to assure her, till presently Mary returned. And then we made her comfortable, and I read to her in the darkened carriage until at last my poor darling fell into a gentle sleep.
But twenty-six hours later, when I had seen Myra safely back to her aunt’s house from Harley Street, I staggered up the stairs to Dennis’s rooms in Panton Street a broken man.
Dennis opened the door to me himself.
“Ronald!” he cried, “what has happened?”
“Hello, old man,” I said weakly; “I’m very, very tired.”
My friend took my arm and led me into his sitting-room, and pressed me gently on the sofa. Then he brought me a stiff brandy and soda, and sat beside me in silence for a few minutes.
“Feel better, old boy?” he asked presently.
“Yes, thanks, Den,” I answered. “I’m sorry to be such a nuisance.”
“Tell me,” he said, “when you feel well enough.” But I lay, and closed my eyes, for I was dog-tired, and could not bring myself to speak even to Dennis of the specialist’s terrible verdict. And soon Nature asserted herself, and I fell into a deep sleep, which was the best thing I could have done. When I awoke I was lying in bed, in total darkness, in Dennis’s extra room. I sat up, and called out in my surprise, for I had been many miles away in my slumbers, and my first hope was that the whole adventure had been a hideous nightmare. But Dennis, hearing my shout, walked in to see if I wanted anything.
“Now, how do you feel?” he asked, as he sat on the side of the bed.
“Did you carry me in here and put me to bed?” I asked idly.
“You certainly didn’t look like walking, and I thought you’d be more comfortable in here,” he laughed.
“Great Scott, man!” I cried, suddenlyremembering his heart trouble, “you shouldn’t have done that, Dennis. You promised me you’d take no risks.”
“Heavens! that was nothing,” he declared emphatically. “You’re as light as a feather. There was no risk in that.”
Indeed, as events were to prove, it was only the first of many, but being ignorant of that at the time, I contented myself with pointing out that very few feathers turned the scale at twelve-stone-three.
“Now look here, old son,” said Dennis, in an authoritative voice. “You mustn’t imagine I’m dealing with your trouble, whatever it is (for youarein trouble, Ronald), in a matter-of-fact and unsympathetic way. But what you’ve got to do now is to get up, have a tub, slip into a dressing-gown, and have a quiet little dinner with me here. It’s just gone eight, so you ought to be ready for it.”
He disappeared to turn on the bath-water, and then, when he met me in the passage making for the bathroom, he handed me a glass.
“Drink this, old chap,” he said.
“What is it?” I asked suspiciously. “I don’t want any fancy pick-me-ups. They only make you worse afterwards.”
“That was prescribed by Doctor Common Sense,” he answered lightly. “It’s peach bitters!”
After my tub I was able to tackle my dinner, with the knowledge that I was badly in need ofsomething to eat, a feeling which surprised me very much. Throughout the meal Dennis told me of the enlistment of Jack and poor Tommy Evans, and we discussed their prospects and the chances of my seeing them before they disappeared into the crowded ranks of Kitchener’s Army. Dennis himself had been ruthlessly refused. He spoke of trying his luck again until they accepted him, but I knew, from what he told me of the doctor’s remarks, that he had no earthly chance of being passed. He seemed to have entirely mastered his regret at his inability to serve his country in the ranks, but I understood at once that he was merely putting his own troubles in the background in face of my own. The meal over, we “got behind” two of Dennis’s excellent cigars, and made ourselves comfortable.
“Now then, old man,” said my friend, “a complete and precise account of what has happened to you since you left King’s Cross two days ago.”
“It has all been so extraordinary and terrible,” I said, “that I hardly know where to begin.”
“I saw you last at the station,” he said, laying a hand on my knee. “Begin from there.” So I began at the beginning, and told him just what had happened, exactly as I have told the reader.
Dennis was deeply moved.
“And then you saw Olvery?” he asked. “What did he say?”
I got up, paced the room. What had Olvery said? Should I ever forget those blistering words to the day of my death?
“Come, old boy,” said Dennis kindly. “You must remember that Olvery is merely a man. He is only one of the many floundering about among the mysteries of Nature, trying to throw light upon darkness. You mustn’t imagine that his view is necessarily correct, from whichever point he looked at the case.”
“Thank you for that,” I said. “I am afraid I forgot that he might possibly be mistaken. He says he knows nothing of this case at all; he can make nothing of it; it is quite beyond him. He is certain that no such similar case has been brought to the knowledge of optical science. His view is that there is the remotest possibility that this green veil may lift, but he says he is sure that if there were any scientific reason for saying that her sight will be restored he would be able to detect it.”
“I prefer your Dr. Whitehouse to this man any day,” said Dennis emphatically. “He took just the opposite view. This man Olvery, like so many specialists, is evidently a dogmatic egotist.”
“I’m very glad you can give us even that hope. But the eyes are such a delicate instrument. It is difficult to see how the sight can be recovered when once it has gone. Of course, Olvery is going to do what he can. He has suggested certain treatment, and massage, and so forth, and he has no objection to her going back home again. Myra, of course, is tremendously anxious for me to take her back to her father. She is worrying about him already; and, fortunately, Olvery knows Whitehouse, and has the highest opinion of him.”
“Go back as soon as you can, old chap,” Dennis advised. “Wire me if there is anything I can do for you at this end. I’ll make some inquiries, and see if I can find out anything about any similar cases, and so on. But you take the girl back home if she wants to go.”
While we were still talking, Dennis’s man, Cooper, entered.
“Telegram for Mr. Ewart, sir,” he said.
I took the yellow envelope and opened it carelessly.
“What is it?” cried Dennis, springing to his feet as he saw my face.
“Read it,” I said faintly, as I handed it to him. Dennis read the message aloud:
“Come back at once. I can’t stand this. Sholto is blind.—McLeod.”
Back again at King’s Cross. I seemed to have been travelling on the line all my life. Myra turned to Dennis to say good-bye.
“I hope,” she said bravely, “that when we meet again, Mr. Burnham, I shall be able to tell you that I can see you looking well.”
“I do hope so, indeed, Miss McLeod,” said Dennis fervently, with a quick glance at me. He was lost in admiration at the quiet calm with which my poor darling took her terrible affliction.
“Good-bye, old chap,” my friend said to me cheerily. “I hope to hear in a day or two that Miss McLeod is quite well again. And,” he added in a whisper, “wire me if I can be of the slightest use.”
I readily agreed, and I was beginning, even at that early stage, to be very thankful that my friend was free to help me in case of need.
When at last we reached Invermalluch Lodge again I sat for an hour in the library with the old General, telling him in detail the result of the specialist’s examination, but I took care to put Dennis’s point of view to him at the outset. I was glad I had done so, for he seized on the faint hope it offered, and clung to it in despair.
“What is your own impression of Olvery?” he asked.
“I fancy his knighthood has got into his head,” I replied. “He gave me the impression that he was quite certain he knew everything there was to be known, and that the mere fact of his not being sure about the return of her sight made him positive that it must be complete and absolute blindness. Of course he hedged and left himself a loophole in the event of her recovery, but I could have told him just as much as he told me.”
“You say you took it on yourself to take Myra out of his hands altogether. Why?”
“When I received your wire, I rang him up at once, and asked him to see me immediately,” I replied. “Eventually he agreed, and I took a taxi to his place, and told him about Sholto. He gave his opinion without any consideration whatever. He said: ‘The merest coincidence, Mr. Ewart—the merest coincidence—and you may even find that the dog has not actually lost his sight at all.’ So naturally I thanked him, gave him his fee, and came away. I propose now that you should try and get this man—Garnish, is it——?”
“Garnesk,” interposed the General, consulting a note Dr. Whitehouse had left—“Herbert Garnesk.”
“Well, I want you to try and get him sufficiently interested to come here—and stop here—until he has come to some decision, no matter what it is.”
“A thundering good idea, Ronald,” agreed the old man. “But we can’t tell him this extraordinary story in writing.”
“I’ll go and find him, and fetch him back with me, if I have to hold a gun to his head.”
Accordingly I dashed off to Mallaig again, and caught the evening train to Glasgow. I spent an unhappy night at the Central Station Hotel—though it was certainly not the fault of the hotel—and looked up Mr. Garnesk as early in the morning as I dared disturb a celebrated consultant oculist. I took a fancy to the man at once. He was young—in the early ’forties—very alert-looking, and exceedingly businesslike. His prematurely grey hair gave an added air of importance to the clever eye and clean-cut features, and he had a charm of manner which would have made his fortune had he been almost ignorant of the rudiments of his calling.
“So that’s the complete story of Miss McLeod and her dog Sholto,” he mused, when I had finished speaking. For a brief second I thought he was about to laugh at the apparent absurdity of the yarn, but before I had time to answer he spoke again.
“Miss McLeod and her dog are apparently blind, and Mr. Ewart is a bundle of nerves—and this is very excellent brandy, Mr. Ewart. Allow me.”
I accepted the proffered glass with a laugh, in spite of myself.
“What do you think of it?” I asked.
He sat on the edge of the table and swung his leg, wrapt in thought for a moment.
“I’m very glad to say I don’t know what to think of it,” he replied presently.
“Why glad?” I asked anxiously.
“Because, my dear sir, this is so remarkable that if I thought I could see a solution I should probably be making a mistake. This is something I am learning about for the first time; and, frankly, it interests me intensely.”
Suddenly he sat down abruptly, with a muttered “Now, then,” and began to catechise me in a most extraordinarily searching manner, firing off question after question with the rapidity of a maxim gun.
I shall not detain the reader with details of this catechism. His inquiries ranged from the system on which the house was lighted and the number of hours Myra averaged per week on the sea to the make of the engine in her motor-boat. His last question was: “Does anybody drink the river water?”
“Windows that flash in the sun seem to me to be confusing the issue,” he said at last.“Windows must always reflect light in a certain direction at a certain time, and though they may be irritating they could not possibly produce even temporary blindness. Still, we won’t forget them, Mr. Ewart, though we had better put them aside for a moment. Now, how soon can you bring Miss McLeod to see me?”
“We had hoped,” I ventured to suggest, “that you would be able to run up and see her, and have a look at the ground. You could then examine the dog as well.”
“I’ll be perfectly candid with you, Mr. Ewart,” he replied. “I was just going to start on a short holiday. I was going to Switzerland; but the war has knocked that on the head, so I am just running up to Perthshire for a week’s fishing. I need a holiday very badly, more especially as I have undertaken some Government work in connection with the war. Fortunately, I am a bachelor, and I will willingly give up a couple of days to Miss McLeod.”
“Why not combine business with pleasure?” I suggested. “There’s good fishing at Invermalluch, gorgeous scenery, a golf-course a mile or two away, and you can do just as you please on the General’s estate. He’ll be delighted.”
“Are you sure?” he asked. “Well, anyway, I can go to the Glenelg Hotel and fish up Glenmore. Now, Mr. Ewart, we will catch the afternoon train, the earliest there is—though I suppose there’s only one.”
“I can’t tell you how grateful I am, Mr. Garnesk,” I said. “It may mean a very great deal to us that you are so anxious to see Miss McLeod.”
“I am not anxious to see Miss McLeod,” heanswered, cryptically. “I’m anxious to see the dog.”
I left him, to telegraph to the General that I was arriving that night bringing the specialist with me; and I need hardly say that I left the telegraph office with a comparatively light heart. The journey to Mallaig was one of the most interesting afternoons I have spent. Garnesk was consulting oculist to all the big chemical, machine, naval and other manufacturers in the great industrial centre on the Clyde, and he kept me enthralled with his accounts of the sudden attacks of various eye diseases which were occasionally the fate of the workers. The effects of chemicals, the indigenous generation of gases in the furnace-rooms, and so on, had afforded him ample scope for experiment; and, fortunately for us all, he was delighted to have found new ground for enlarging his experience. The mixture of professional anecdote and piscatorial prophecy with which he entertained me, now and then rushing across the carriage to get a glimpse of a salmon-pool in some river over which we happened to be passing, gave me an amusing insight into the character of one whom I have since learned to regard as a very brilliant and charming man. When we arrived at the landing-stage at the Lodge, the General greeted him with undisguised joy.
“Begad! Mr. Garnesk,” he blurted, “I’m thundering glad to see you, sir. It’s good of you to come, sir—extremely good.”
“That remains to be seen, General,” said Garnesk, solemnly—“whether my visit will do any good. I hope so, with all my heart.”
“Amen to that!” said the old man, pathetically, with a heavy sigh.
“How is Miss McLeod?” asked the scientist.
“Her eyes are no better,” the General replied. “She cannot see at all. Otherwise she is in perfect health. She says she feels as well as ever she did. I can’t understand it,” he finished helplessly.
A suit-case, a bag of golf-clubs, and a square deal box completed Garnesk’s outfit.
“Steady with that—here, let me take it?” he cried, as Angus was lifting the last item ashore. “Business and pleasure,” he continued, raising the box in his arms and indicating his clubs and fishing-rods with a jerk of the head. “I’ve one or two things here that may help me in my work, and as they are very delicate instruments I would rather carry them myself.”
As we approached the house the sound of the piano greeted us in the distance; and soon we could distinguish the strains of that most beautiful and understanding of all burial marches, Grieg’s “Aase’s Tod.”
“My daughter can even welcome us with a tune,” said the old man proudly. To him all music came under the category of “tunes,” with the sole exception of “God Save the King,” which was a national institution.
Garnesk stopped and stood on the path, thedeal box clasped carefully in his arms, his head on one side, listening.
“We have the right sort of patient to deal with, anyway,” he remarked, with a sigh of relief. But to me the melancholy insistence of the exquisite harmonies was fraught with ill-omen, and I could not restrain the shudder of an unaccountable fear as we resumed our walk. Later on, when I found an opportunity to ask her why she had chosen that particular music, I was only partially relieved by her ingenuous answer:
“Oh! just because I love it, Ronnie,” she said, “and there are no difficult intervals to play with your eyes shut. I thought it was rather clever of me to think of it. I shall soon be able to play more tricky things. It will cure me of looking at the notes when I can see again.”
Myra and the young specialist were introduced; and, though he chatted gaily with her, and touched on innumerable subjects, he never once alluded to her misfortune. Though the General was evidently anxious that Garnesk should make his examination as soon as possible, hospitality forced him to suggest dinner first, and I was surprised at the alacrity with which the visitor concurred, knowing, as I did, his intense interest in the case. But, after a few conventional remarks to the General and Myra, I was about to show him to his room when he seized my arm excitedly.
“Quick!” he whispered. “Where’s the dog?”
I led him to a room above the coach-house where poor Sholto was a pitiful prisoner. Garnesk deposited his precious packing-case on the floor, and called the dog to him. Sholto sprang forward in a moment, recognising the tone of friendship in the voice, and planted his paws on my companion’s chest. For twenty minutes the examination lasted. One strange test after another was applied to the poor animal; but he was very good about it, and seemed to understand that we were trying to help him.
“I should hate to have to kill that dog, but it may be necessary before long,” said the specialist. “But why didn’t you tell Miss McLeod her dog was blind?”
“We were afraid it would upset her too much,” I answered, and then suddenly realising the point of the question, I added, “but how on earth did you know we hadn’t?”
“Because,” he said thoughtfully, “if you had, she strikes me as the sort of girl who would have asked me straight away what I thought I could do for him.”
“You seem to understand human nature as well as you do science,” I said admiringly.
“The two are identical, or at least co-incident, Mr. Ewart,” he replied solemnly. “But what was it youdidtell her?”
“We said he was suffering from a sort of eczema, which looked as if it might be infectious, and we thought she ought not to be near him for a bit. Otherwise, of course, she would have wanted him with her all the time.”
When the examination was over for the time being, I chained Sholto to a hook in an old harness-rack, for he was strong and unused to captivity, and the door had no lock, only a small bolt outside. Garnesk packed away his instruments, carried them carefully to the house, and then we sprinted upstairs to dress hurriedly for dinner.
Myra, poor child, was sensitive about joining us, but the specialist was very anxious that she should do so, and we all dined together. There was no allusion whatever to the strange events which had brought us together, but, with my professional knowledge of the mysteries of cross-examination, I noticed that Garnesk contrived to acquire more knowledge of various circumstances on which he seemed to wish to be enlightened than Sir Gaire Olvery had gleaned from forty minutes’ blunt questioning.
Myra had hardly left us after the meal was over when the butler handed the General a card, and almost simultaneously a tall, shadowy figure passed the window along the verandah.
“’Pon my soul, that’s kind of him,” said the simple-hearted old man. “Run after him, Ronald, and fetch him back.”
“Who is it?” I asked, rising.
“‘Mr. J. G. Hilderman wishes to express his sympathy with General McLeod in his daughter’s illness.’ Very neighbourly indeed.”
I ran out after Hilderman, and found that his long legs had taken him nearly half-way to the landing-stage by the time I overtook him. He stopped as I called his name.
“Why, Mr. Ewart,” he exclaimed in surprise, “you back again already? I hope you had a very satisfactory interview with the specialist.”
I told him briefly that our visit to London had given us no satisfaction at all, and gave him the General’s invitation to come up to the house.
“I wouldn’t think of it, Mr. Ewart,” he declared emphatically. “Very kind of General McLeod, but he don’t want to worry with strangers just now.”
He was very determined; but I insisted, and he eventually gave way. I was glad he had come. I had a somewhat unreasonable esteem for his abilities and resource, and every assistance was welcomed with open arms at Invermalluch Lodge at that time. His extensive knowledge even included some slight acquaintance with the body’s most wonderful organ, for he told us some very interesting eye cases he had heard of in the States. He was genuinely dumbfoundered when we told him that Sholto was an additional victim.
“You don’t say so!” he exclaimed.“Well, thatisremarkable. It sounds as if it came out of a book. In broad daylight a young lady goes out, and is as well as can be. An hour later she is stone blind. Two days afterwards her dog goes out, andhecomes in blind. Yes, it’s got me beaten.”
“It’s got us all beaten,” said Garnesk deliberately, and I was shocked to hear him say it. I reflected that he had not even examined Myra, and my disappointment was the keener that he should admit himself nonplussed so early. But he left me no loophole of doubt.
“I can make nothing whatever of it,” he added, ruefully shaking his head. “I wonder if I ever shall?”
“Come, come! my dear sir,” said Hilderman cheerily. “You scientist fellows have a knack of making your difficulties a little greater than they really are, in order to get more credit for surmounting them. I know your little ways. I’m an American, you know, professor; you can’t get me that way.”
Garnesk laughed—fortunately. And again I was grateful to Hilderman for his timely tact, for it cheered the old man immensely, and helped me a little, too. Presently the General left the room, and Garnesk leaned forward.
“Mr. Hilderman,” he said earnestly, “do everything in your power to keep the old man’s spirits up. I can give him no hope, professionally—I dare not. But you, a layman, can. It is difficult in the circumstances for Mr. Ewart to give much encouragement, but I know he will do his best.”
“J. G. Hilderman is yours to command,” saidthe American, with a bow that included us both. And then the oculist suggested that we should have a look at Sholto. I led the way to the coach-house with a heavy heart. I should not have minded a mystery which would have endangered my own life. Apart from any altruism, the personal peril would have afforded a welcome stimulant. But this unseen horror, which stabbed in the dark and robbed my beautiful Myra of her sight, chilled my very soul. I climbed wearily up the wooden stair to Sholto’s new den, carrying a stable lantern in my hand, for it was getting late, and the carefully darkened room would be as black as ink. The other two followed close on my heels. I opened the door and called to the dog. A faint, sickly-sweet odour met me as I did so.
“You give your dogs elaborate kennels,” said Hilderman, as he climbed the stairs, and I laughed in reply.
At that instant Garnesk stood still and sniffed the air. With a sudden jerk he wrenched the lantern from my hand and strode into the room. Sholto was gone. Only half his chain dangled from the hook, cut through the middle with a pair of strong wire-nippers.
The oculist turned to us with an expression of acute interest.
“Chloroform,” he said quietly.