CHAPTER II
Sir Henry dismissed the chambermaid at the door, and Colwyn and helifted the young man on to the bed. He lay like a man in a stupor,breathing heavily, his face flushed, his eyes nearly closed. Sir Henrydrew up the blind, and by the additional light examined him thoroughly,listening closely to the action of his heart, and examining the pupilsof his eyes by rolling back the upper lid with some small instrument hetook from his pocket.
"He'll do now," he said, after loosening the patient's clothes for hisgreater comfort. "He'll come to in about five minutes, and may be allright again shortly afterwards. But there are certain peculiar featuresabout this case which are new in my experience, and rather alarm me.Certainly the young man ought not to be left to himself. His friendsshould be sent for. Do you know anything about him? Is he staying at thehotel alone? I only arrived here last night."
"I believe he is staying at the hotel alone. He has been here for afortnight or more, and I have never seen him speak to anybody, though Ihave exchanged nods with him every morning. His principal recreationseems to lie in taking long solitary walks along the coast. He has beenin the habit of going out every day, and not returning until dinner ishalf over. Perhaps the hotel proprietor knows who his friends are."
"Would you be so kind as to step downstairs and inquire? I do not wishto leave him, but his friends should be telegraphed to at once and askedto come and take charge of him."
"Certainly. And I'll send the telegram while I am down there."
But Colwyn returned in a few moments to say that the hotel proprietorknew nothing of his guest. He had never stayed in the house before, andhe had booked his room by a trunk call from London. On arrival he hadfilled in the registration paper in the name of James Ronald, but hadleft blank the spaces for his private and business addresses. He lookedsuch a gentleman that the proprietor had not ventured to draw hisattention to the omissions.
"Another instance of how hotels neglect to comply with the requirementsof the Defence of the Realm Act!" exclaimed Sir Henry. "Really, it isvery awkward. I hardly know, in the circumstances, how to act. Speakingas a medical man, I say that he should not be left alone, but if heorders us out of his room when he recovers his senses what are we to do?Can you suggest anything?" He shot a keen glance at his companion.
"I should be in a better position to answer you if I knew what youconsider him to be really suffering from. I was under the impression itwas a bad case of shell-shock, but your remarks suggest that it issomething worse. May I ask, as you are a medical man, what you considerthe nature of his illness?"
Sir Henry bestowed another searching glance on the speaker. He noted,for the first time, the keen alertness and intellectuality of theother's face. It was a fine strong face, with a pair of luminous greyeyes, a likeable long nose, and clean-shaven, humorous mouth--a man totrust and depend upon.
"I hardly know what to do," said Sir Henry, after a lengthy pause, whichhe had evidently devoted to considering the wisdom of acceding to hiscompanion's request. "This gentleman has not consulted meprofessionally, and I hardly feel justified in confiding my hurried andimperfect diagnosis of his case, without his knowledge, to a perfectstranger. On the other hand, there are reasons why somebody should know,if we are to help him in his weak state. Perhaps, sir, if you told meyour name----"
"Certainly: my name is Colwyn--Grant Colwyn."
"You are the famous American detective of that name?"
"You are good enough to say so."
"Why not? Who has not heard of you, and your skill in the unravelling ofcrime? There are many people on both sides of the Atlantic who regardyou as a public benefactor. But I am surprised. You do not at allresemble my idea of Colwyn."
"Why not?"
"You do not talk like an American, for one thing."
"You forget I have been over here long enough to learn the language.Besides, I am half English."
Sir Henry laughed good-humouredly.
"That's a fair answer, Mr. Colwyn. Of course, your being Colwyn altersthe question. I have no hesitation in confiding in you. I am Sir HenryDurwood--no doubt you have heard of me. Naturally, I have to becareful."
Colwyn looked at his companion with renewed interest. Who had not heardof Sir Henry Durwood, the nerve specialist whose skill had made his namea household word amongst the most exclusive women in England, and,incidentally, won him a knighthood? There were professional detractorswho hinted that Sir Henry had climbed into the heaven of Harley Streetand fat fees by the ladder of social influence which a wealthy,well-born wife had provided, with no qualifications of his own except"the best bedside manner in England" and a thorough knowledge of theweaknesses of the feminine temperament. But his admirers--and they werelegion--declared that Sir Henry Durwood was the only man in London whoreally understood how to treat the complex nervous system of the presentgeneration. These thoughts ran through Colwyn's mind as he murmured thatthe opinion of such an eminent specialist as Sir Henry Durwood on thecase before them must naturally outweigh his own.
"You are very good to say so." Sir Henry spoke as though the tributewere no more than his due. "In my opinion, the symptoms of this youngman point to epilepsy, and his behaviour downstairs was due to a seizurefrom which he is slowly recovering."
"Epilepsy! Haut or petit mal?"
"The lesser form--petit mal, in my opinion."
"But are his symptoms consistent with the form of epilepsy known aspetit mal, Sir Henry? I thought in that lesser form of the disease thevictim merely suffered from slight seizures of transientunconsciousness, without convulsions, regaining control of himself afterlosing himself, to speak broadly, for a few seconds or so."
"Ah, I see you know something of the disease. That simplifies matters.The layman's mind is usually at sea when it comes to discussing acomplicated affection of the nervous system like epilepsy. You are moreor less right in your definition of petit mal. But that is the simpleform, without complications. In this case there are complications, in myopinion. I should say that this young man's attack was combined with theform of epilepsy known as _furor epilepticus_."
"I am afraid you are getting beyond my depth, Sir Henry. What is _furorepilepticus_?"
"It is a term applied to the violence sometimes displayed by thepatient during an attack of petit mal. The manifestation is extremeviolence--usually much greater than in violent anger, as a rule."
"I believe there are cases on record of epileptics having committed themost violent outrages against those nearest and dearest to them. Is thatwhat you mean by _furor epilepticus_?"
"Yes; but that attacks are generally directed towards strangers--rarelytowards loved ones, though there have been such cases."
"I begin to understand. When we were at the breakfast table yourprofessional eye diagnosed this young man's symptoms--his nervoustremors, his excitability, and the extravagant action with the knife--aspremonitory symptoms of an attack of _furor epilepticus_, in which thesufferer would be liable to a dangerous outburst of violence?"
"Exactly. The minor symptoms suggested petit mal, but the act ofsticking the knife into the table pointed strongly to the complicationof _furor epilepticus_. That was why I went over to your table to haveyour assistance in case of trouble."
"You feared he would attack one of the guests?"
"Yes, epileptics are extremely dangerous in that condition, and willcommit murder if they are in possession of a weapon. There have beencases in which they have succeeded in killing the victims of theirfury."
"Without being conscious of it?"
"Without being conscious of it then or afterwards. After the patientrecovers from one of these attacks his mind is generally a completeblank, but occasionally he will have a troubled or confused sense ofsomething having happened to him--like a man awakened from a bad dream,which he cannot recall. This young man may come to his senses withoutremembering anything which occurred downstairs, or he may be vaguelyalarmed, and ask a number of questions. In either case, it will be sometime--from half an h
our to several hours--before his mind begins to worknormally again."
"Do you think it was his intention, when he got up from his table, toattack the group at the table nearest him--that elderly clergyman andhis party?"
"I think it highly probable that he would have attacked the first personwithin his reach--that is why I wanted to prevent him."
"But he didn't carry the knife with him from his table."
"My dear sir"--Sir Henry's voice conveyed the proper amount ofprofessional superiority--"you speak as though you thought a victim of_furor epilepticus_ was a rational being. He is nothing of the kind.While the attack lasts he is an uncontrollable maniac, not responsiblefor his actions in the slightest degree."
"But, if he is capable of conceiving the idea of attacking his fellowcreatures, surely he is capable of picking up a knife for the purpose,particularly when he has just previously had one in his hand?" urgedColwyn. "I have no intention of setting up my opinion against yours, SirHenry, but there are certain aspects of this young man's illness whichare not altogether consistent with my own experience of epileptics. As acriminologist, I have given some study to the effect of epilepsy andother nervous diseases on the criminal temperament. For instance, thisyoung man did not give the usual cry of an epileptic when he sprang upfrom the table. And if it is merely an attack of petit mal, why is he solong in recovering consciousness?"
"The so-called epileptic cry is not invariably present, and petit malis sometimes the half-way house to haut mal," responded Sir Henry. "Ihave said that this case presents several unusual features, but, in myopinion, there is nothing absolutely inconsistent with epilepsy,combined with _furor epilepticus_. And here is one symptom rarely foundin any fit except an epileptic seizure." The specialist pointed to afaint fleck of foam which showed beneath the young man's brownmoustache.
Colwyn bent over him and wiped his lips with his handkerchief. As he didso the young man's eyes unclosed. He regarded Colwyn languidly for amoment or two, and then sat upright on the bed.
"Who are you?" he exclaimed.
"It's quite all right, Mr. Ronald," said the specialist, in his mostsoothing bedside manner. "Just take things easily. You have been ill,but you are almost yourself again. Let me feel your pulse--ha, very goodindeed! We will have you on your legs in no time."
The young man verified the truth of the latter prediction by springingoff his bed and regarding his visitors keenly. There was now, at allevents, no lack of sanity and intelligence in his gaze.
"What has happened? How did I get here?"
"You fainted, and we brought you up to your room," interposed Colwyntactfully, before Sir Henry could speak.
"Awfully kind of you. I remember now. I felt a bit seedy as I wentdownstairs, but I thought it would pass off. I don't remember much moreabout it. I hope I didn't make too much of an ass of myself before theothers, going off like a girl in that way. You must have had no end of abother in dragging me upstairs--very good of you to take the trouble."He smiled faintly, and produced a cigarette case.
"How do you feel now?" asked Sir Henry Durwood solemnly, disregardingthe proffered case.
"A bit as though I'd been kicked on the top of the head by a horse, butit'll soon pass off. Fact is, I got a touch of sun when I was outthere"--he waved his hand vaguely towards the East--"and it gives me abit of trouble at times. But I'll be all right directly. I'm sorry tohave given you so much trouble."
He proffered this explanation with an easy courtesy, accompanied by aslight deprecating smile which admirably conveyed the regret of awell-bred man for having given trouble to strangers. It was difficult toreconcile his self-control with his previous extravagance downstairs.But to Colwyn it was apparent that his composure was simulated, theeffort of a sensitive man who had betrayed a weakness to strangers, forthe fingers which held a cigarette trembled slightly, and there weretroubled shadows in the depths of the dark blue eyes. Colwyn admired theyoung man's pluck--he would wish to behave the same way himself insimilar circumstances, he felt--and he realised that the best service heand Sir Henry Durwood could render their fellow guest was to leave himalone.
But Sir Henry was far from regarding the matter in the same light. As adoctor he was more at home in other people's bedrooms than his own, forrumour whispered that Lady Durwood was so jealous of her husband'sprofessional privileges as a fashionable ladies' physician that she wasin the habit of administering strong doses of matrimonial truths to himevery night at home. Sir Henry settled himself in his chair, adjustedhis eye-glasses more firmly on his nose and regarded the young manstanding by the mantelpiece with a bland professional smile, slightlydashed by the recollection that he was not receiving a fee for hisvisit.
"You have made a good recovery, but you'll need care," he said."Speaking as a professional man--I am Sir Henry Durwood--I think itwould be better for you if you had somebody with you who understood yourcase. With your--er--complaint, it is very desirable that you should notbe left to the mercy of strangers. I would advise, strongly advise you,to communicate with your friends. I shall be only too happy to do so onyour behalf if you will give me their address. In the meantime--untilthey arrive--my advice to you is to rest."
A look of annoyance flashed through the young man's eyes. He evidentlyresented the specialist's advice; indeed, his glance plainly revealedthat he regarded it as a piece of gratuitous impertinence. He answeredcoldly:
"Many thanks, Sir Henry, but I think I shall be able to look aftermyself."
"That is not an uncommon feature of your complaint," said thespecialist. An oracular shake of the head conveyed more than the words.
"What do you imagine my complaint, as you term it, to be?" asked theyoung man curtly.
Colwyn wondered whether even a fashionable physician, used to thefreedom with which fashionable ladies discussed their ailments, wouldhave the courage to tell a stranger that he regarded him as anepileptic. The matter was not put to the test--perhaps fortunately--forat that moment there was a sharp tap at the door, which opened to admita chambermaid who seemed the last word in frills and smartness.
"If you please, Sir Henry," said the girl, with a sidelong glance at thetall handsome young man by the mantelpiece, "Lady Durwood would beobliged if you would go to her room at once."
It speaks well for Sir Henry Durwood that the physician was instantlymerged in the husband. "Tell Lady Durwood I will come at once," he said."You'll excuse me," he added, with a courtly bow to his patient."Perhaps--if you wish--you might care to see me later."
"Many thanks, Sir Henry, but there will be no need." He bowed gravely tothe specialist, but smiled cordially and held out his hand to Colwyn, asthe latter prepared to follow Sir Henry out of the room. "I hope to seeyou later," he said.
But when Colwyn, after a day spent on the golf-links, went into thedining-room for dinner that evening, the young man's place was vacant.After the meal Colwyn went to the office to inquire if Mr. Ronald wasstill unwell, and learnt, to his surprise, that he had departed from thehotel an hour or so after his illness.