“The extraordinary occurrence of last night, which her ladyship has probably detailed to you,” Mr. Blatherwick continued, “was the next development of what, I fear, we can only regard as downright insanity. I regret having to speak so plainly, but I am afraid that any milder phrase would be inapplicable.”
“I am very sorry to hear this,” Wolfenden remarked gravely.
“Under the circumstances,” Mr. Blatherwick said, picking up his cigar which was now extinct, and immediately laying it down again, “I trust that you and Lady Deringham will excuse my not giving the customary notice of my desire to leave. It is of course impossible for me to continue to draw a—er—a stipend such as I am in receipt of for services so ludicrously inadequate.”
“Lady Deringham will be sorry to have you go,” Wolfenden said. “Couldn’t you put up with it a little longer?”
“I would much prefer to leave,” Mr. Blatherwick said decidedly. “I am not physically strong, and I must confess that his lordship’s attitude at times positively alarms me. I fear that there is no doubt that he committed an unprovoked assault last night upon that unfortunate keeper. There is—er—no telling whom he might select for his next victim. If quite convenient, Lord Wolfenden, I should like to leave to-morrow by an early train.”
“Oh! you can’t go so soon as that,” Wolfenden said. “How about this letter?”
“You can take any steps you think proper with regard to it,” Mr. Blatherwick answered nervously. “Personally, I have nothing to do with it. I thought of going to spend a week with an aunt of mine in Cornwall, and I should like to leave by the early train to-morrow.”
Wolfenden could scarcely keep from laughing, although he was a little annoyed.
“Look here, Blatherwick,” he said, “you must help me a little before you go, there’s a good fellow. I don’t doubt for a moment what you say about the poor old governor’s condition of mind; but at the same time it’s rather an odd thing, isn’t it, that his own sudden fear of having his work stolen is followed up by the receipt of this letter to you? There is some one, at any rate, who places a very high value upon his manuscripts. I must say that I should like to know whom that letter came from.”
“I can assure you,” Mr. Blatherwick said, “that I have not the faintest idea.”
“Of course you haven’t,” Wolfenden assented, a little impatiently. “But don’t you see how easy it will be for us to find out? You must go to the Grand Hotel on Thursday for lunch, and meet this mysterious person.”
“I would very much rather not,” Mr. Blatherwick declared promptly. “I should feel exceedingly uncomfortable; I should not like it at all!”
“Look here,” Wolfenden said persuasively “I must find out who wrote that letter, and can only do so with your help. You need only be there, I will come up directly I have marked the man who comes to your table. Your presence is all that is required; and I shall take it as a favour if you will allow me to make you a present of a fifty-pound note.”
Mr. Blatherwick flushed a little and hesitated. He had brothers and sisters, whose bringing up was a terrible strain upon the slim purse of his father, a country clergyman, and a great deal could be done with fifty pounds. It was against his conscience as well as his inclinations to remain in a post where his duties were a farce, but this was different.
He sighed.
“You are very generous, Lord Wolfenden,” he said. “I will stay until after Thursday.”
“There’s a good fellow,” Wolfenden said, much relieved. “Have another cigar?”
Mr. Blatherwick rose hastily, and shook his head. “You must excuse me, if you please,” he said. “I will not smoke any more. I think if you will not mind——”
Wolfenden turned to the window and held up his hand.
“Listen!” he said. “Is that a carriage at this time of night?”
A carriage it certainly was, passing by the window. In a moment they heard it draw up at the front door, and some one alighted.
“Odd time for callers,” Wolfenden remarked.
Mr. Blatherwick did not reply. He, too, was listening. In a moment they heard the rustling of a woman’s skirts outside, and the smoking-room door opened.
CHAPTER XV
THE COMING AND GOING OF MR. FRANKLIN WILMOT
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Both men looked up as Lady Deringham entered the room, carefully closing the door behind her. She had a card in her hand, and an open letter.
“Wolfenden,” she said. “I am so glad that you are here. It is most fortunate! Something very singular has happened. You will be able to tell me what to do.”
Mr. Blatherwick rose quietly and left the room.
Wolfenden was all attention.
“Some one has just arrived,” he remarked.
“A gentleman, a complete stranger,” she assented. “This is his card. He seemed surprised that his name was not familiar to me. He was quite sure that you would know it.”
Wolfenden took the card between his fingers and read it out.
“Mr. Franklin Wilmot.”
He was thoughtful for a moment. The name was familiar enough, but he could not immediately remember in what connection. Suddenly it flashed into his mind.
“Of course!” he exclaimed. “He is a famous physician—a very great swell, goes to Court and all that!”
Lady Deringham nodded.
“He has introduced himself as a physician. He has brought this letter from Dr. Whitlett.”
Wolfenden took the note from her hand. It was written on half a sheet of paper, and apparently in great haste:—
“Dear Lady Deringham,—My old friend, Franklin Wilmot, who has been staying at Cromer, has just called upon me. We have been having a chat, and he is extremely interested in Lord Deringham’s case, so much so that I had arranged to come over with him this evening to see if you would care to have his opinion. Unfortunately, however, I have been summoned to attend a patient nearly ten miles away—a bad accident, I fear—and Wilmot is leaving for town to-morrow morning. I suggested, however, that he might call on his way back to Cromer, and if you would kindly let him see Lord Deringham, I should be glad, as his opinion would be of material assistance to me. Wilmot’s reputation as the greatest living authority on cases of partial mania is doubtless known to you, and as he never, under any circumstances, visits patients outside London, it would be a great pity to lose this opportunity.
“In great haste and begging you to excuse this scrawl,
“I am, dear Lady Deringham,
“Yours sincerely,
“John Whitlett.
“P.S.—You will please not offer him any fee.”
Wolfenden folded up the letter and returned it.
“Well, I suppose it’s all right,” he said. “It’s an odd time, though, to call on an errand of this sort.”
“So I thought,” Lady Deringham agreed; “but Dr. Whitlett’s explanation seems perfectly feasible, does it not? I said that I would consult you. You will come in and see him?”
Wolfenden followed his mother into the drawing-room. A tall, dark man was sitting in a corner, under a palm tree. In one hand he held a magazine, the pictures of which he seemed to be studying with the aid of an eyeglass, the other was raised to his mouth. He was in the act of indulging in a yawn when Wolfenden and his mother entered the room.
“This is my son, Lord Wolfenden,” she said. “Dr. Franklin Wilmot.”
The two men bowed.
“Lady Deringham has explained to you the reason of my untimely visit, I presume?” the latter remarked at once.
Wolfenden assented.
“Yes! I am afraid that it will be a little difficult to get my father to see you on such short notice.”
“I was about to explain to Lady Deringham, before I understood that you were in the house,” Dr. Wilmot said, “that although that would be an advantage, it is not absolutely necessary at present. I should of course have to examine your father before giving a definite opinion as to
his case, but I can give you a very fair idea as to his condition without seeing him at all.”
Wolfenden and his mother exchanged glances.
“You must forgive us,” Wolfenden commenced hesitatingly, “but really I can scarcely understand.”
“Of course not,” their visitor interrupted brusquely. “My method is one which is doubtless altogether strange to you, but if you read the Lancet or the Medical Journal, you would have heard a good deal about it lately. I form my conclusions as to the mental condition of a patient almost altogether from a close inspection of their letters, or any work upon which they are, or have been, recently engaged. I do not say that it is possible to do this from a single letter, but when a man has a hobby, such as I understand Lord Deringham indulges in, and has devoted a great deal of time to real or imaginary work in connection with it, I am generally able, from a study of that work, to tell how far the brain is weakened, if at all, and in what manner it can be strengthened. This is only the crudest outline of my theory, but to be brief, I can give you my opinion as to Lord Deringham’s mental condition, and my advice as to its maintenance, if you will place before me the latest work upon which he has been engaged. I hope I have made myself clear.”
“Perfectly,” Wolfenden answered. “It sounds very reasonable and very interesting, but I am afraid that there are a few practical difficulties in the way. In the first place, my father does not show his work or any portion of it to any one. On the other hand he takes the most extraordinary precautions to maintain absolute secrecy with regard to it.”
“That,” Dr. Wilmot remarked, “is rather a bad feature of the case. It is a difficulty which I should imagine you could get over, though. You could easily frame some excuse to get him away from his study for a short time and leave me there. Of course the affair is in your hands altogether, and I am presuming that you are anxious to have an opinion as to your father’s state of health. I am not in the habit of seeking patients,” he added, a little stiffly. “I was interested in my friend Whitlett’s description of the case, and anxious to apply my theories to it, as it happens to differ in some respects from anything I have met with lately. Further, I may add,” he continued, glancing at the clock, “if anything is to be done it must be done quickly. I have no time to spare.”
“You had better,” Wolfenden suggested, “stay here for the night in any case. We will send you to the station, or into Cromer, as early as you like in the morning.”
“Absolutely impossible,” Dr. Wilmot replied briefly. “I am staying with friends in Cromer, and I have a consultation in town early to-morrow morning. You must really make up your minds at once whether you wish for my opinion or not.”
“I do not think,” Lady Deringham said, “that we need hesitate for a moment about that!”
Wolfenden looked at him doubtfully. There seemed to be no possibility of anything but advantage in accepting this offer, and yet in a sense he was sorry that it had been made.
“In case you should attach any special importance to your father’s manuscripts,” Dr. Wilmot remarked, with a note of sarcasm in his tone, “I might add that it is not at all necessary for me to be alone in the study.”
Wolfenden felt a little uncomfortable under the older man’s keen gaze. Neither did he altogether like having his thoughts read so accurately.
“I suppose,” he said, turning to his mother, “you could manage to get him away from the library for a short time?”
“I could at least try,” she answered. “Shall I?”
“I think,” he said, “that as Dr. Wilmot has been good enough to go out of his way to call here, we must make an effort.”
Lady Deringham left the room.
Dr. Wilmot, whose expression of absolute impassiveness had not altered in the least during their discussion, turned towards Wolfenden.
“Have you yourself,” he said, “never seen any of your father’s manuscripts? Has he never explained the scheme of his work to you?”
Wolfenden shook his head.
“I know the central idea,” he answered—“the weakness of our navy and coast defences, and that is about all I know. My father, even when he was an admiral on active service, took an absolutely pessimistic view of both. You may perhaps remember this. The Lords of the Admiralty used to consider him, I believe, the one great thorn in their sides.”
Dr. Wilmot shook his head.
“I have never taken any interest in such matters,” he said. “My profession has been completely absorbing during the last ten years.”
Wolfenden nodded.
“I know,” he remarked, “that I used to read the newspapers and wonder why on earth my father took such pains to try and frighten everybody. But he is altogether changed now. He even avoids the subject, although I am quite sure that it is his one engrossing thought. It is certain that no one has ever given such time and concentrated energy to it before. If only his work was the work of a sane man I could understand it being very valuable.”
“Not the least doubt about it, I should say,” Dr. Wilmot replied carelessly.
The door opened and Lady Deringham reappeared.
“I have succeeded,” she said. “He is upstairs now. I will try and keep him there for half an hour. Wolfenden, will you take Dr. Wilmot into the study?”
Dr. Wilmot rose with quiet alacrity. Wolfenden led the way down the long passage which led to the study. He himself was scarcely prepared for such signs of unusual labours as confronted them both when they opened the door. The round table in the centre of the room was piled with books and a loose heap of papers. A special rack was hung with a collection of maps and charts. There were nautical instruments upon the table, and compasses, as well as writing materials, and a number of small models of men-of-war. Mr. Blatherwick, who was sitting at the other side of the room busy with some copying, looked up in amazement at the entrance of Wolfenden and a stranger upon what was always considered forbidden ground.
Wolfenden stepped forward at once to the table. A sheet of paper lay there on which the ink was scarcely yet dry. Many others were scattered about, almost undecipherable, with marginal notes and corrections in his father’s handwriting. He pushed some of them towards his companion.
“You can help yourself,” he said. “This seems to be his most recent work.”
Dr. Wilmot seemed scarcely to hear him. He had turned the lamp up with quick fingers, and was leaning over those freshly written pages. Decidedly he was interested in the case. He stood quite still reading with breathless haste—the papers seemed almost to fly through his fingers. Wolfenden was a little puzzled. Mr. Blatherwick, who had been watching the proceedings with blank amazement, rose and came over towards them.
“You will excuse me, Lord Wolfenden,” he said, “but if the admiral should come back and find a stranger with you looking over his work, he will——”
“It’s all right, Blatherwick,” Wolfenden interrupted, the more impatiently since he was far from comfortable himself. “This gentleman is a physician.”
The secretary resumed his seat. Dr. Wilmot was reading with lightning-like speed sheet after sheet, making frequent notes in a pocket-book which he had laid on the table before him. He was so absorbed that he did not seem to hear the sound of wheels coming up the avenue.
Wolfenden walked to the window, and raising the curtain, looked out. He gave vent to a little exclamation of relief as he saw a familiar dogcart draw up at the hall door, and Dr. Whitlett’s famous mare pulled steaming on to her haunches.
“It is Dr. Whitlett,” he exclaimed. “He has followed you up pretty soon.”
The sheet which the physician was reading fluttered through his fingers. There was a very curious look in his face. He walked up to the window and looked out.
“So it is,” he remarked. “I should like to see him at once for half a minute—then I shall have finished. I wonder whether you would mind going yourself and asking him to step this way?”
Wolfenden turned immediately to leave the room. At th
e door he turned sharply round, attracted by a sudden noise and an exclamation from Blatherwick. Dr. Wilmot had disappeared! Mr. Blatherwick was gazing at the window in amazement!
“He’s gone, sir! Clean out of the window—jumped it like a cat!”
Wolfenden sprang to the curtains. The night wind was blowing into the room through the open casement. Fainter and fainter down the long avenue came the sound of galloping horses. Dr. Franklin Wilmot had certainly gone!
Wolfenden turned from the window to find himself face to face with Dr. Whitlett.
“What on earth is the matter with your friend Wilmot?” he exclaimed. “He has just gone off through the window like a madman!”
“Wilmot!” the doctor exclaimed. “I never knew any one of that name in my life. The fellow’s a rank impostor!”
CHAPTER XVI
GENIUS OR MADNESS?
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For a moment Wolfenden was speechless. Then, with a presence of mind which afterwards he marvelled at, he asked no more questions, but stepped up to the writing-table.
“Blatherwick,” he said hurriedly, “we seem to have made a bad mistake. Will you try and rearrange these papers exactly as the admiral left them, and do not let him know that any one has entered the room or seen them.”
Mr. Blatherwick commenced his task with trembling fingers.
“I will do my best,” he said nervously. “But I am not supposed to touch anything upon this table at all. If the admiral finds me here, he will be very angry.”
“I will take the blame,” Wolfenden said. “Do your best.”
He took the country doctor by the arm and hurried him into the smoking-room.
“This is a most extraordinary affair, Dr. Whitlett,” he said gravely. “I presume that this letter, then, is a forgery?”
The doctor took the note of introduction which Wilmot had brought, and adjusting his pince-nez, read it hastily through.
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