The Seven Secrets Part 40

"Ah, my dear fellow, nowadays it doesn't do to tell anyone of your own researches. The only way is to spring it upon the profession as a great triumph: just as Koch did his cure for tuberculosis. One must create an impression, if only with a quack remedy. The day of the steady plodder is past; it's all hustle, even in medicine."

"Well, you certainly did make an impression," I said, smiling. "Your experiments were a revelation to the profession. They were talking of them at the hospital only yesterday."

"H'm. They thought me an old fogey, eh? But, you see, I've been keeping pace with the times, Boyd. A man to succeed nowadays must make a boom with something, it matters not what. For years I've been experimenting in secret, and some day I will show them further results of my researches--and they will come upon the profession like a thunderclap, staggering belief."

The old man chuckled to himself as he thought of his scientific triumph, and how one day he would give forth to the world a truth hitherto unsuspected.

We chatted for a long time, mostly upon technicalities which cannot interest the reader, until suddenly he said:

"I'm getting old, Boyd. These constant attacks I have render me unfit to go to town and sit in judgment on that pack of silly women who rush to consult me whenever they have a headache or an erring husband. I think that very soon I ought to retire. I've done sufficient hard work all the years since I was a 'loc.u.m' down in Oxfords.h.i.+re. I'm worn out."

"Oh, no," I said. "You mustn't retire yet. If you did, the profession would lose one of its most brilliant men."

"Enough of compliments," he snapped, turning wearily on his pillow.

"I'm sick to death of it all. Better to retire while I have fame, than to outlive it. When I give up you will step into my shoes, Boyd, and it will be a good thing for you."

Such a suggestion was quite unexpected. I had never dreamed that he contemplated handing over his practice to me. Certainly it would be a good thing for me if he did. It would give me a chance such as few men ever had. True, I was well known to his patients and had worked hard in his interests, but that he intended to hand his practice over to me I had never contemplated. Hence I thanked him most heartily. Yes, Sir Bernard had been my benefactor always.

"All the women know you," he went on in his snappish way. "You are the only man to take my place. They would come to you; but not to a new man. All I can hope is that they won't bore you with their domestic troubles--as they have done me," and he smiled.

"Oh," I said. "More than once I, too, have been compelled to listen to the domestic secrets of certain households. It really is astonis.h.i.+ng what a woman will tell her doctor, even though he may be young."

The old man laughed again.

"Ah!" he sighed. "You don't know women as I know them, Boyd. You've got your experience to gain. Then you'll hold them in abhorrence--just as I do. They call me a woman-hater," he grunted. "Perhaps I am--for I've had cause to hold the feminine mind and the feminine pa.s.sion equally in contempt."

"Well," I laughed, "there's not a man in London who is more qualified to speak from personal experience than yourself. So I antic.i.p.ate a pretty rough time when I've had years of it, as you have."

"And yet you want to marry!" he snapped, looking me straight in the face. "Of course, you love Ethelwynn Mivart. Every man at your age loves. It is a malady that occurs in the 'teens and declines in the thirties. I should have thought that your affection of the heart had been about cured. It is surely time it was."

"It is true that I love Ethelwynn," I declared, rather annoyed, "and I intend to marry her."

"If you do, then you'll spoil all your chances of success. The cla.s.s of women who are my patients would much rather consult a confirmed bachelor than a man who has a jealous wife hanging to his coat-tails.

The doctor's wife must always be a long-suffering person."

I smiled; and then our conversation turned upon his proposed retirement, which was to take place in six months' time.

I returned to London by the last train, and on entering my room found a telegram from Ambler making an appointment to call on the following evening. The message was dated from Eastbourne, and was the first I had received from him for some days.

Next morning I sat in Sir Bernard's consulting-room as usual, receiving patients, and the afternoon I spent on the usual hospital round. About six o'clock Ambler arrived, drank a brandy and soda with a reflective air, and then suggested that we might dine together at the Cavour--a favourite haunt of his.

At table I endeavoured to induce him to explain his movements and what he had discovered; but he was still disinclined to tell me anything.

He worked always in secret, and until facts were clear said nothing.

It was a peculiarity of his to remain dumb, even to his most intimate friends concerning any inquiries he was making. He was a man of moods, with an active mind and a still tongue--two qualities essential to the successful unravelling of mysteries.

Having finished dinner we lit cigars, and took a cab back to my rooms.

On pa.s.sing along Harley Street it suddenly occurred to me that in the morning I had left a case of instruments in Sir Bernard's consulting-room, and that I might require them for one of my patients if called that night.

Therefore I stopped the cab, dismissed it, and knocked at Sir Bernard's door. Ford, on opening it, surprised me by announcing that his master, whom I had left in bed on the previous night, had returned to town suddenly, but was engaged.

Ambler waited in the hall, while I pa.s.sed along to the door of the consulting-room with the intention of asking permission to enter, as I always did when Sir Bernard was engaged with a patient.

On approaching the door, however, I was startled by hearing a woman's voice raised in angry, reproachful words, followed immediately by the sound of a scuffle, and then a stifled cry. Without further hesitation I turned the handle.

The door was locked.

CHAPTER x.x.xI.

CONTAINS THE PLAIN TRUTH.

A sudden idea occurred to me, and I acted instantly upon its impulse.

There was a second entrance through the morning room; and I dashed round to the other door, which fortunately yielded.

The sight that met my gaze was absolutely staggering. I stood upon the threshold aghast. Sir Bernard, his dark eyes starting from his ashen face, stood, holding a woman within his grasp, pinning her to the wall, and struggling to cover her mouth with his hands and prevent her cries from being overheard.

The woman was none other than Ethelwynn.

At my unexpected entry he released his hold, shrinking back with a wild, fierce look in his face, such as I had never before seen.

"Ralph!" cried my love, rus.h.i.+ng forward and clinging to my neck.

"Ralph! For G.o.d's sake save me from that fiend! Save me!"

I put my arm around her to protect her, at the same instant shouting to Jevons, who entered, as much astounded as myself. My love had evidently come to town and kept an appointment with the old man. The situation was startling, and required explanation.

"Tell me, Ethelwynn," I said, in a hard, stern voice. "What does all this mean?"

She drew herself up and tried to face me firmly, but was unable. I had burst in upon her unexpectedly, and she seemed to fear how much of the conversation I had overheard.

Noticing her silence, my friend Jevons addressed her, saying:

"Miss Mivart, you are aware of all the circ.u.mstances of the tragedy at Kew. Please explain them. Only by frank admission can you clear yourself, remember. To prevaricate further is quite useless."

She glanced at the cringing old fellow standing on the further side of the room--the man who had raised his hand against her. Then, with a sudden resolution, she spoke, saying:

"It is true that I am aware of many facts which have been until to-day kept secret. But now that I know the horrible truth they shall remain mysteries no longer. I have been the victim of a long and dastardly persecution, but I now hope to clear my honour before you, Ralph, and before my Creator." Then she paused, and, taking breath and drawing herself up straight with an air of determined resolution, went on:

"First, let us go back to the days soon after Mary's marriage. I think it was about a year after the wedding when I suddenly noticed a change in her. Her intellect seemed somehow weakened. Hitherto she had possessed a strong, well-defined character; this suddenly developed into a weak, almost childish balance of the brain. Instead of possessing a will of her own, she was no longer the mistress of her actions, but as easily led as an infant. Only to myself and to my mother was this change apparent. To all her friends and acquaintances she was just the same. About that time she consulted this man here--Sir Bernard Eyton, her husband's friend--regarding some other ailment, and he no doubt at once detected that her intellect had given way. Although devoted to her husband, nevertheless the influence of any friend of the moment was irresistible, and for that reason she drifted into the pleasure-seeking set in town."

"But the tragedy?" Jevons exclaimed. "Tell us of that. My own inquiries show that you are aware of it all. Mrs. Courtenay murdered her husband, I know."

"Mary----the a.s.sa.s.sin!" I gasped.

"Alas! it is too true. Now that my poor sister is dead, concealment is no longer necessary," my love responded, with a deep sigh. "Mary killed her husband. She returned home, entered the house secretly, and, ascending to his room, struck him to the heart."

"But the wound--how was it inflicted?" I demanded eagerly.