“My advice to you, sir, is to chuck it!”
Gerald turned towards the chauffeur by whose side he was seated a little stiffly, for his limbs were numbed with the cold and exhaustion. The morning had broken with a grey and uncertain light. A vaporous veil of mist seemed to have taken the place of the darkness. Even from the top of the hill where the car had come to a standstill, there was little to be seen.
“We must have come forty miles already,” the chauffeur continued, “what with going out of our way all the time because of the broken bridges. I’m pretty well frozen through, and as for him,” he added, jerking his thumb across his shoulder, “it seems to me you’re taking a bit of a risk.”
“The doctor said he would remain in exactly the same condition for twenty-four hours,” Gerald declared.
“Yes, but he didn’t say anything about shaking him up over forty miles of rough road,” the other protested. “You’ll excuse me, sir,” he continued, in a slightly changed tone; “it isn’t my business, of course, but I’m fairly done. It don’t seem reasonable to stick at it like this. There’s Holt village not a mile away, and a comfortable inn and a fire waiting. I thought that was as far as you wanted to come. We might lie up there for a few hours, at any rate.”
His passenger slipped down from his place, and, lifting the rug, peered into the tonneau of the car, over which they had tied a hood. To all appearance, the condition of the man who lay there was unchanged. There was a slightly added blueness about the lips but his breathing was still perceptible. It seemed even a little stronger. Gerald resumed his seat.
“It isn’t worth while to stay at Holt,” he said quietly. “We are scarcely seven miles from home now. Sit still for a few minutes and get your wind.”
“Only seven miles,” the chauffeur repeated more cheerfully. “That’s something, anyway.”
“And all downhill.”
“Towards the sea, then?”
“Straight to the sea,” Gerald told him. “The place we are making for is St. David’s Hall, near Salthouse.”
The chauffeur seemed a little startled.
“Why, that’s Squire Fentolin’s house!”
Gerald nodded.
“That is where we are going. You follow this road almost straight ahead.”
The chauffeur slipped in the clutch.
“Oh, I know the way now, sir, right enough!” he exclaimed. “There’s Salthouse marsh to cross, though. I don’t know about that.”
“We shall manage that all right,” Gerald declared. “We’ve more light now, too.”
They both looked around. During the last few minutes the late morning seemed to have forced its way through the clouds. They had a dim, phantasmagoric view of the stricken country: a watery plain, with here and there great patches of fields, submerged to the hedges, and houses standing out amidst the waste of waters like toy dwellings. There were whole plantations of uprooted trees. Close to the road, on their left, was a roofless house, and a family of children crying underneath a tarpaulin shelter. As they crept on, the wind came to them with a brackish flavour, salt with the sea. The chauffeur was gazing ahead doubtfully.
“I don’t like the look of the marsh,” he grumbled. “Can’t see the road at all. However, here goes.”
“Another half-hour,” Gerald assured him encouragingly, “and we shall be at St. David’s Hall. You can have as much rest as you like then.”
They were facing the wind now, and conversation became impossible. Twice they had to pull up sharp and make a considerable detour, once on account of a fallen tree which blocked the road, and another time because of the yawning gap where a bridge had fallen away. Gerald, however, knew every inch of the country they were in and was able to give the necessary directions. They began to meet farm wagons now, full of people who had been driven from their homes. Warnings and information as to the state of the roads were shouted to them continually. Presently they came to the last steep descent, and emerged from the devastated fragment of a wood almost on to the sea level. The chauffeur clapped on his brakes and stopped short.
“My God!” he exclaimed. “Here’s more trouble!”
Gerald for a moment was speechless. They seemed to have come suddenly upon a huge plain of waters, an immense lake reaching as far as they could see on either side. The road before them stretched like a ribbon for the next three miles. Here and there it disappeared and reappeared again. In many places it was lapped by little waves. Everywhere the hedges were either altogether or half under water. In the distance was one farmhouse, only the roof of which was visible, and from which the inhabitants were clambering into a boat. And beyond, with scarcely a break save for the rising of one strangely-shaped hill, was the sea. Gerald pointed with his finger.
“There’s St. David’s Hall,” he said, “on the other side of the hill. The road seems all right.”
“Does it!” the chauffeur grunted. “It’s under water more than half the way, and Heaven knows how deep it is at the sides! I’m not going to risk my life along there. I am going to take the car back to Holt.”
His hand was already upon the reverse lever, but Gerald gripped it.
“Look here,” he protested, “we haven’t come all this way to turn back. You don’t look like a coward.”
“I am not a coward, sir,” was the quiet answer. “Neither am I a fool. I don’t see any use in risking our lives and my master’s motor-car, because you want to get home.”
“Naturally,” Gerald answered calmly, “but remember this. I am responsible for your car—not you. Mr. Fentolin is my uncle.”
The chauffeur nodded shortly.
“You’re Mr. Gerald Fentolin, aren’t you, sir?” he remarked. “I thought I recognised you.”
“I am,” Gerald admitted. “We’ve had a rough journey, but it doesn’t seem sense to turn back now, does it, with the house in sight?”
“That’s all very well, sir,” the chauffeur objected doubtfully, “but I don’t believe the road’s even passable, and the floods seem to me to be rising.”
“Try it,” the young man begged. “Look here, I don’t want to bribe you, or anything of that sort. You know you’re coming out of this well. It’s a serious matter for me, and I shan’t be likely to forget it. I want to take this gentleman to St. David’s Hall and not to a hospital. You’ve brought me here so far like a man. Let’s go through with it. If the worst comes to the worst, we can both swim, I suppose, and we are not likely to get out of our depth.”
The chauffeur moved his head backwards.
“How about him?”
“He must take his chance,” Gerald replied. “He’s all right where he is. The car won’t upset and there are plenty of people who’ll see if we get into trouble. Come, let’s make a dash for it.”
The chauffeur thrust in his clutch and settled himself down. They glided off along that winding stretch of road. To its very edge, on either side of them, so close that they could almost touch it, came the water, water which stretched as far as they could see, swaying, waveless, sinister-looking. Even Gerald, after his first impulse of wonder, kept his eyes averted and fixed upon the road ahead. Soon they reached a place where the water met in front. There were only the rows of white palings on either side to guide them. The chauffeur muttered to himself as he changed to his first speed.
“If the engine gets stopped,” he said, “I don’t know how we shall get out of this.”
They emerged on the other side. For some time they had a clear run. Then suddenly the driver clapped on his brakes.
“My God!” he cried. “We can’t get through that!”
In front of them for more than a hundred yards the water seemed suddenly to have flowed across the road. Still a mile distant, perched on a ridge of that strangely-placed hill, was their destination.
“It can’t be done, sir!” the man groaned. “There isn’t a car ever built could get through that. See, it’s nearly up to the top of those posts. I must put her in the reverse and get back, even if we have to wait on the higher part of the road for a boat.”
He glanced behind, and a second cry broke from his lips. Gerald stood up in his place. Already the road which had been clear a few minutes before was hidden. The water was washing almost over the tops of the white posts behind them. Little waves were breaking against the summit of the raised bank.
“We’re cut off!” the chauffeur exclaimed. “What a fool I was to try this! There’s the tide coming in as well!”
Gerald sat down in his place.
“Look here,” he said, “we can’t go back, whether we want to or not. It’s much worse behind there than it is in front. There’s only one chance. Go for it straight ahead in your first speed. It may not stop the engine. In any case, it will be worse presently. There’s no use funking it. If the worst happens, we can sit in the car. The water won’t be above our heads and there are some boats about. Blow your horn well first, in case there’s any one within hearing, and then go for it.”
The chauffeur obeyed. They hissed and spluttered into the water. Soon all trace of the road was completely lost. They steered only by the tops of the white posts.
“It’s getting deeper,” the man declared. “It’s within an inch or two of the bonnet now. Hold on.”
A wave broke almost over them but the engine continued its beat.
“If we stop now,” he gasped, “we’re done!”
The engine began to knock.
“Stick at it,” Gerald cried, rising in his place a little. “Look, there’s only one post lower than the last one that we passed. They get higher all the time, ahead. You can almost see the road in front there. Now, in with your gear again, and stick at it.”
Another wave broke, this time completely over them. They listened with strained ears—the engine continued to beat. They still moved slowly. Then there was a shock. The wheel had struck something in the road—a great stone or rock. The chauffeur thrust the car out of gear. The engine still beat. Gerald leaped from the car. The water was over his knees. He crossed in front of the bonnet and stooped down.
“I’ve got it!” he exclaimed, tugging hard. “It’s a stone.”
He moved it, rolled it on one side, and pushed at the wheel of the car as his companion put in the speed. They started again. He jumped back his place.
“We’ve done it, all right!” he cried. “Don’t you see? It’s getting lower all the time.”
The chauffeur had lost his nerve. His cheeks were pale, his teeth were chattering. The engine, however, was still beating. Gradually the pressure of the water grew less. In front of them they caught a glimpse of the road. They drew up at the top of a little bridge over one of the dikes. Gerald uttered a brief exclamation of triumph.
“We’re safe!” he almost sobbed. “There’s the road, straight ahead and round to the right. There’s no more water anywhere near.”
They had left the main part of the flood behind them. There were still great pools in the side of the road, and huge masses of seaweed had been carried up and were lying in their track. There was no more water, however. At every moment they drew nearer to the strangely-shaped hill with its crown of trees.
“The house is on the other side,” Gerald pointed out. “We can go through the lodge gates at the back here. The ascent isn’t so steep.”
They turned sharply to the right, along another stretch of straight road set with white posts, ending before a red brick lodge and a closed gate. They blew the horn and a gardener came out. He gazed at them in amazement.
“It’s all right,” Gerald cried. “Let us through quickly, Foulds. We’ve a gentleman in behind who’s ill.”
The man swung open the gate with a respectful salute. They made their way up a winding drive of considerable length, and at last they came to a broad, open space almost like a platform. On their left were the marshes, and beyond, the sea. Along their right stretched the long front of an Elizabethan mansion. They drew up in front of the hall door. Their coming had been observed, and servants were already waiting. Gerald sprang to the ground.
“There’s a gentleman in behind who’s ill,” he explained to the butler. “He has met with an accident on the way. Three or four of you had better carry him up to a bedroom—any one that is ready. And you, George,” he added, turning to a boy, “get into the car and show this man the way round to the garage, and then take him to the servants’ hall.”
Several of the servants hastened to do his bidding, and Gerald did his best to answer the eager but respectful stream of questions. And then, just as they were in the act of lifting the still unconscious man on to the floor of the hall, came a queer sound—a shrill, reverberating whistle. They all looked up the stairs.
“The master is awake,” Henderson, the butler, remarked, dropping his voice a little.
Gerald nodded.
“I will go to him at once,” he said.
Accustomed though he was to the sight which he was about to face, Gerald shivered slightly as he opened the door of Mr. Fentolin’s room. A strange sort of fear seemed to have crept into his bearing and expression, a fear of which there had been no traces whatever during those terrible hours through which he had passed—not even during that last reckless journey across the marshes. He walked with hesitating footsteps across the spacious and lofty room. He had the air of some frightened creature approaching his master. Yet all that was visible of the despot who ruled his whole household in deadly fear was the kindly and beautiful face of an elderly man, whose stunted limbs and body were mercifully concealed. He sat in a little carriage, with a rug drawn closely across his chest and up to his armpits. His beautifully shaped hands were exposed, and his face; nothing else. His hair was a silvery white; his complexion parchment-like, pallid, entirely colourless. His eyes were a soft shade of blue. His features were so finely cut and chiselled that they resembled some exquisite piece of statuary. He smiled as his nephew came slowly towards him. One might almost have fancied that the young man’s abject state was a source of pleasure to him.
“So you are back again, my dear Gerald. A pleasant surprise, indeed, but what is the meaning of it? And what of my little commission, eh?”
The young man’s face was dark and sullen. He spoke quickly but without any sign of eagerness or interest in the information he vouchsafed.
“The storm has stopped all the trains,” he said. “The boat did not cross last night, and in any case I couldn’t have reached Harwich. As for your commission, I travelled down from London alone with the man you told me to spy upon. I could have stolen anything he had if I had been used to the work. As it was—I brought the man himself.”
Mr. Fentolin’s delicate fingers played with the handle of his chair. The smile had passed from his lips. He looked at his nephew in gentle bewilderment.
“My dear boy,” he protested, “come, come, be careful what you are saying. You have brought the man himself! So far as my information goes, Mr. John P. Dunster is charged with a very important diplomatic commission. He is on his way to Cologne, and from what I know about the man, I think that it would require more than your persuasions to induce him to break off his journey. You do not really wish me to believe that you have brought him here as a guest?”
“I was at Liverpool Street Station last night,” Gerald declared. “I had no idea how to accost him, and as to stealing any of his belongings, I couldn’t have done it. You must hear how fortune helped me, though. Mr. Dunster missed the train; so did I—purposely. He ordered a special. I asked permission to travel with him. I told him a lie as to how I had missed the train. I hated it, but it was necessary.”
Mr. Fentolin nodded approvingly.
“My dear boy,” he said, “to trifle with the truth is always unpleasant. Besides, you are a Fentolin, and our love of truth is proverbial. But there are times, you know, when for the good of others we must sacrifice our scruples. So you told Mr. Dunster a falsehood.”
“He let me travel with him,” Gerald continued. “We were all night getting about half-way here. Then—you know about the storm, I suppose?”
Mr. Fentolin spread out his hands.
“Could one avoid the knowledge of it?” he asked. “Such a sight has never been seen.”
“We found we couldn’t get to Harwich,” Gerald went on. “They telegraphed to London and got permission to bring us to Yarmouth. We were on our way to Norwich, and the train ran off the line.”
“An accident?” Mr. Fentolin exclaimed.
Gerald nodded.
“Our train ran off the line and pitched down an embankment. Mr. Dunster has concussion of the brain. He and I were taken to a miserable little inn near Wymondham. From there I hired a motor-car and brought him here.”
“You hired a motor-car and brought him here,” Mr. Fentolin repeated softly. “My dear boy—forgive me if I find this a little hard to understand. You say that you have brought him here. Had he nothing to say about it?”
“He was unconscious when we picked him up,” Gerald explained. “He is unconscious now. The doctor said he would remain so for at least twenty-four hours, and it didn’t seem to me that the journey would do him any particular harm. The roof had been stripped off the inn where we were, and the place was quite uninhabitable, so we should have had to have moved him somewhere. We put him in the tonneau of the car and covered him up. They have carried him now into a bedroom, and Sarson is looking after him.”
Mr. Fentolin sat quite silent. His eyes blinked once or twice, and there was a curious curve about his lips.
“You have done well, my boy,” he pronounced slowly. “Your scheme of bringing him here sounds a little primitive, but success justifies everything.”
Mr. Fentolin raised to his lips and blew softly a little gold whistle which hung from a chain attached to his waistcoat. Almost immediately the door opened. A man entered, dressed somberly in black, whose bearing and demeanour alike denoted the servant, but whose physique was the physique of a prize-fighter. He was scarcely more than five feet six in height, but his shoulders were extraordinarily broad. He had a short, bull neck and long, mighty arms. His face, with the heavy jaw and small eyes, was the face of the typical fighting man, yet his features seemed to have become disposed by habit into an expression of gentle, almost servile civility.
“Meekins,” Mr. Fentolin said, “a visitor has arrived. Do you happen to have noticed what luggage he brought?”
“There is one small dressing-case, sir,” the man replied; “nothing else that I have seen.”
“That is all we brought,” Gerald interposed.
“You will bring the dressing-case here at once,” Mr. Fentolin directed, “and also my compliments to Doctor Sarson, and any pocket-book or papers which may help us to send a message to the gentleman’s friends.”
Meekins closed the door and departed. Mr. Fentolin turned back towards his nephew.
“My dear boy,” he said, “tell me why you look as though there were ghosts flitting about the room? You are not ill, I trust?”
“Tired, perhaps,” Gerald answered shortly. “We were many hours in the car. I have had no sleep.”
Mr. Fentolin’s face was full of kindly sympathy.
“My dear fellow,” he exclaimed, “I am selfish, indeed! I should not have kept you here for a moment. You had better go and lie down.”
“I’ll go directly,” Gerald promised. “Can I speak to you for one moment first?”
“Speak to me,” Mr. Fentolin repeated, a little wonderingly. “My dear Gerald, is there ever a moment when I am not wholly at your service?”
“That fellow Dunster, on the platform, the first moment I spoke to him, made me feel like a cur,” the boy said, with a sudden access of vigour in his tone. “I told him I was on my way to a golf tournament, and he pointed to the news about the war. Is it true, uncle, that we may be at war at any moment?”
Mr. Fentolin sighed.
“A terrible reflection, my dear boy,” he admitted softly, “but, alas! the finger of probability points that way.”
“Then what about me?” Gerald exclaimed. “I don’t want to complain, but listen. You dragged me home from a public school before I could even join my cadet corps. You’ve kept me banging around here with a tutor. You wouldn’t let me go to the university. You’ve stopped my entering either of the services. I am nineteen years old and useless. Do you know what I should do to-morrow if war broke out? Enlist! It’s the only thing left for me.”
Mr. Fentolin was shocked.
“My dear boy!” he exclaimed. “You must not talk like that! I am quite sure that it would break your mother’s heart. Enlist, indeed! Nothing of the sort. You are part of the civilian population of the country.”
“Civilian population be d——d!” the boy suddenly cried, white with rage. “Uncle, forgive me, I have stood all I can bear. If you won’t let me go in for the army—I could pass my exams to-morrow—I’m off. I’ll enlist without waiting for the war. I can’t bear this idle life any longer.”
Mr. Fentolin leaned a little forward in his chair.
“Gerald!” he said softly.
The boy turned his head, turned it unwillingly. He had the air of a caged animal obeying the word of his keeper. A certain savage uncouthness seemed to have fallen upon him during the last few minutes. There was something almost like a snarl in his expression.
“Gerald!” Mr. Fentolin repeated.
Then it was obvious that there was something between those two, some memory or some living thing, seldom, if ever, to be spoken of, and yet always present. The boy began to tremble.
“You’re a little overwrought, Gerald,” Mr. Fentolin declared. “Sit quietly in my easy-chair for a few moments. Wait until I have examined Mr. Dunster’s belongings. Ah! Meekins has been prompt, indeed.”
There was a stealthy tap at the door. Meekins entered with the small dressing-case in his hand. He brought it over to his master’s chair. Mr. Fentolin pointed to the floor.
“Open it there, Meekins,” he directed. “I fancy that the pocket-book you are carrying will prove more interesting. We will just glance through the dressing-case first. Thank you. Yes, you can lay the things upon the floor. A man of Spartan-like life, I should imagine Mr. Dunster. A spare toothbrush, though, I am glad to see. Pyjamas of most unattractive pattern. And what a taste in shirts! Nothing but wearing apparel and singularly little of that, I fancy.”
The dressing-case was empty, its contents upon the floor. Mr. Fentolin held out his hand and took the pocket-book which Meekins had been carrying. It was an ordinary morocco affair, similar to those issued by American banking houses to enclose letters of credit. One side of it was filled with notes. Mr. Fentolin withdrew them and glanced them through.
“Dear me!” he murmured. “No wonder our friend engages special trains! He travels like a prince, indeed. Two thousand pounds, or near it, in this little compartment. And here, I see, a letter, a sealed letter with no address.”
He held it out in front of him. It was a long commercial envelope of ordinary type, and although the flap was secured with a blob of sealing wax, there was no particular impression upon it.
“We can match this envelope, I think,” Mr. Fentolin said softly. “The seal we can copy. I think that, for the sake of others, we must discover the cause for this hurried journey on the part of Mr. John P. Dunster.”
With his long, delicate forefinger Mr. Fentolin slit the envelope and withdrew the single sheet of paper which it contained. There were a dozen lines of written matter, and what appeared to be a dozen signatures appended. Mr. Fentolin read it, at first with ordinary interest. Then a change came. The look of a man drawn out of himself, drawn out of all knowledge of his surroundings or his present state, stole into his face. Literally he became transfixed. The delicate fingers of his left hand gripped the sides of his little carriage. His eyes shone as though those few written lines upon which they were riveted were indeed some message from an unknown, an unimagined world. Yet no word ever passed his lips. There came a time when the tension seemed a little relaxed. With fingers which still trembled, he folded up the sheet and replaced it in the envelope. He guarded it with both his hands and sat quite still. Neither Gerald nor his servant moved. Somehow, the sense of Mr. Fentolin’s suppressed excitement seemed to have become communicated to them. It was a little tableau, broken at last by Mr. Fentolin himself.
“I should like,” he said, turning to Gerald, “to be alone. It may interest you to know that this document which Mr. Dunster has brought across the seas, and which I hold in my hands, is the most amazing message of modern times.”
Gerald rose to his feet.
“What are you going to do about it?” he asked abruptly. “Do you want any one in from the telegraph room?”
Mr. Fentolin shook his head slowly.
“At present,” he announced, “I am going to reflect. Meekins, my chair to the north window—so. I am going to sit here,” he went on, “and I am going to look across the sea and reflect. A very fortunate storm, after all, I think, which kept Mr. John P. Dunster from the Harwich boat last night. Leave me, Gerald, for a time. Stand behind my chair, Meekins, and see that no one enters.”
Mr. Fentolin sat in his chair, his hands still gripping the wonderful document, his eyes travelling over the ocean now flecked with sunlight. His eyes were fixed upon the horizon. He looked steadily eastward.
Mr. John P. Dunster opened his eyes upon strange surroundings. He found himself lying upon a bed deliciously soft, with lace-edged sheets and lavender-perfumed bed hangings. Through the discreetly opened upper window came a pleasant and ozone-laden breeze. The furniture in the room was mostly of an old-fashioned type, some of it of oak, curiously carved, and most of it surmounted with a coat of arms. The apartment was lofty and of almost palatial proportions. The whole atmosphere of the place breathed comfort and refinement. The only thing of which he did not wholly approve was the face of the nurse who rose silently to her feet at his murmured question:
“Where am I?”
She felt his forehead, altered a bandage for a moment, and took his wrist between her fingers.
“You have been ill,” she said. “There was a railway accident. You are to lie quite still and not say a word. I am going to fetch the doctor now. He wished to see you directly you spoke.”
Mr. Dunster dozed again for several moments. When he reopened his eyes, a man was standing by his bedside, a short man with a black beard and gold-rimmed glasses. Mr. Dunster, in this first stage of his convalescence, was perhaps difficult to please, for he did not like the look of the doctor, either.
“Please tell me where I am?” he begged.
“You have been in a railway accident,” the doctor told him, “and you were brought here afterwards.”
“In a railway accident,” Mr. Dunster repeated. “Ah, yes, I remember! I took a special to Harwich—I remember now. Where is my dressing-bag?”
“It is here by the side of your bed.”
“And my pocket-book?”
“It is on your dressing-table.”
“Have any of my things been looked at?”
“Only so far as was necessary to discover your identity,” the doctor assured him. “Don’t talk too much. The nurse is bringing you some beef tea.”
“When,” Mr. Dunster enquired, “shall I be able to continue my journey?”
“That depends upon many things,” the doctor replied.
Mr. Dunster drank his beef tea and felt considerably stronger. His head still ached, but his memory was returning.
“There was a young man in the carriage with me,” he asked presently. “Mr. Gerald something or other I think he said his name was?”
“Fentolin,” the doctor said. “He is unhurt. This is his relative’s house to which you have been brought.”
Mr. Dunster lay for a time with knitted brows. Once more the name of Fentolin seemed somehow familiar to him, seemed somehow to bring with it to his memory a note of warning. He looked around the room fretfully. He looked into the nurse’s face, which he disliked exceedingly, and he looked at the doctor, whom he was beginning to detest.
“Whose house exactly is this?” he demanded.
“This is St. David’s Hall—the home of Mr. Miles Fentolin,” the doctor told him. “The young gentleman with whom you were travelling is his nephew.”
“Can I send a telegram?” Mr. Dunster asked, a little abruptly.
“Without a doubt,” the doctor replied. “Mr. Fentolin desired me to ask you if there was any one whom you would like to apprise of your safety.”
Again the man upon the bed lay quite still, with knitted brows. There was surely something familiar about that name. Was it his fevered fancy or was there also something a little sinister?
The nurse, who had glided from the room, came back presently with some telegraph forms. Mr. Dunster held out his hand for them and then hesitated.
“Can you tell me any date, Doctor, upon which I can rely upon leaving here?”
“You will probably be well enough to travel on the third day from now,” the doctor assured him.
“The third day,” Mr. Dunster muttered. “Very well.”
He wrote out three telegrams and passed them over.
“One,” he said, “is to New York, one to The Hague, and one to London. There was plenty of money in my pocket. Perhaps you will find it and pay for these.”
“Is there anything more,” the doctor asked, “that can be done for your comfort?”
“Nothing at present,” Mr. Dunster replied. “My head aches now, but I think that I shall want to leave before three days are up. Are you the doctor in the neighbourhood?”
Sarson shook his head.
“I am physician to Mr. Fentolin’s household,” he answered quietly. “I live here. Mr. Fentolin is himself somewhat of an invalid and requires constant medical attention.”
Mr. Dunster contemplated the speaker steadfastly.
“You will forgive me,” he said. “I am an American and I am used to plain speech. I am quite unused to being attended by strange doctors. I understand that you are not in general practice now. Might I ask if you are fully qualified?”
“I am an M.D. of London,” the doctor replied. “You can make yourself quite easy as to my qualifications. It would not suit Mr. Fentolin’s purpose to entrust himself to the care of any one without a reputation.”
He left the room, and Mr. Dunster closed his eyes. His slumbers, however, were not altogether peaceful ones. All the time there seemed to be a hammering inside his head, and from somewhere back in his obscured memory the name of Fentolin seemed to be continually asserting itself. From somewhere or other, the amazing sense which sometimes gives warning of danger to men of adventure, seemed to have opened its feelers. He rested because he was exhausted, but even in his sleep he was ill at ease.
The doctor, with the telegrams in his hand, made his way down a splendid staircase, past the long picture gallery where masterpieces of Van Dyck and Rubens frowned and leered down upon him; descended the final stretch of broad oak stairs, crossed the hall, and entered his master’s rooms. Mr. Fentolin was sitting before the open window, an easel in front of him, a palette in his left hand, painting with deft, swift touches.
“Ah!” he exclaimed, without looking around, “it is my friend the doctor, my friend Sarson, M.D. of London, L.R.C.P. and all the rest of it. He brings with him the odour of the sick room. For a moment or two, just for a moment, dear friend, do not disturb me. Do not bring any alien thoughts into my brain. I am absorbed, you see—absorbed. It is a strange problem of colour, this.”
He was silent for several moments, glancing repeatedly out of the window and back to his canvas, painting all the time with swift and delicate precision.
“Meekins, who stands behind my chair,” Mr. Fentolin continued, “even Meekins is entranced. He has a soul, my friend Sarson, although you might not think it. He, too, sees sometimes the colour in the skies, the glitter upon the sands, the clear, sweet purity of those long stretches of virgin water. Meekins, I believe, has a soul, only he likes better to see these things grow under his master’s touch than to wander about and solve their riddles for himself.”
The man remained perfectly immovable. Not a feature twitched. Yet it was a fact that, although he stood where Mr. Fentolin could not possibly observe him, he never removed his gaze from the canvas.
“You see, my medical friend, that there has been a great tide in the night, following upon the flood? Even our small landmarks are shifted. Soon, in my little carriage, I shall ride down to the Tower. I shall sit there, and I shall watch the sea. I think that this evening, with the turn of the tide, the spray may reach even to my windows there. I shall paint again. There is always something fresh in the sea, you know—always something fresh in the sea. Like a human face—angry or pleased, sullen or joyful. Some people like to paint the sea at its calmest and most beautiful. Some people like to see happy faces around them. It is not every one who appreciates the other things. It is not quite like that with me, eh, Sarson?”
His hand fell to his side. Momentarily he had finished his work. He turned around and eyed the doctor, who stood in taciturn silence.
“Answer. Answer me,” he insisted.
The doctor’s gloomy face seemed darker still.
“You have spoken the truth, Mr. Fentolin,” he admitted. “You are not one of the vulgar herd who love to consort with pleasure and happiness. You are one of those who understand the beauty of unhappiness—in others,” he added, with faint emphasis.
Mr. Fentolin smiled. His face became almost like the face of one of those angels of the great Italian master.
“How well you know me!” he murmured. “My humble effort, Doctor—how do you like it?”
The doctor bent over the canvas.
“I know nothing about art,” he said, a little roughly. “Your work seems to me clever—a little grotesque, perhaps; a little straining after the hard, plain things which threaten. Nothing of the idealist in your work, Mr. Fentolin.”
Mr. Fentolin studied the canvas himself for a moment.
“A clever man, Sarson,” he remarked coolly, “but no courtier. Never mind, my work pleases me. It gives me a passing sensation of happiness. Now, what about our patient?”
“He recovers,” the doctor pronounced. “From my short examination, I should say that he had the constitution of an ox. I have told him that he will be up in three days. As a matter of fact, he will be able, if he wants to, to walk out of the house to-morrow.”
Mr. Fentolin shook his head.
“We cannot spare him quite so soon,” he declared. “We must avail ourselves of this wonderful chance afforded us by my brilliant young nephew. We must keep him with us for a little time. What is it that you have in your hands, Doctor? Telegrams, I think. Let me look at them.”
The doctor held them out. Mr. Fentolin took them eagerly between his thin, delicate fingers. Suddenly his face darkened, and became like the face of a spoilt and angry child.
“Cipher!” he exclaimed furiously. “A cipher which he knows so well as to remember it, too! Never mind, it will be easy to decode. It will amuse me during the afternoon. Very good, Sarson. I will take charge of these.”
“You do not wish anything dispatched?”
“Nothing at present,” Mr. Fentolin sighed. “It will be well, I think, for the poor man to remain undisturbed by any communications from his friends. Is he restless at all?”
“He wants to get on with his journey.”
“We shall see,” Mr. Fentolin remarked. “Now feel my pulse, Sarson. How am I this morning?”
The doctor held the thin wrist for a moment between his fingers, and let it go.
“In perfect health, as usual,” he announced grimly.
“Ah, but you cannot be sure!” Mr. Fentolin protested. “My tongue, if you please.”
He put it out.
“Excellent!”
“We must make quite certain,” Mr. Fentolin continued. “There are so many people who would miss me. My place in the world would not be easily filed. Undo my waistcoat, Sarson. Feel my heart, please. Feel carefully. I can see the end of your stethoscope in your pocket. Don’t scamp it. I fancied this morning, when I was lying here alone, that there was something almost like a palpitation—a quicker beat. Be very careful, Sarson. Now.”
The doctor made his examination with impassive face. Then he stepped back.
“There is no change in your condition, Mr. Fentolin,” he announced. “The palpitation you spoke of is a mistake. You are in perfect health.”
Mr. Fentolin sighed gently.
“Then,” he said, “I will now amuse myself by a gentle ride down to the Tower. You are entirely satisfied, Sarson? You are keeping nothing back from me?”
The doctor looked at him with grim, impassive face. “There is nothing to keep back,” he declared. “You have the constitution of a cowboy. There is no reason why you should not live for another thirty years.”
Mr. Fentolin sighed, as though a weight had been removed from his heart.
“I will now,” he decided, reaching forward for the handle of his carriage, “go down to the Tower. It is just possible that a few days’ seclusion might be good for our guest.”
The doctor turned silently away. There was no one there to see his expression as he walked towards the door.