Blind Policy Part 13

He jumped up in bed, for a sudden thought now sent a chill of horror through him, as for the first time the drugging which had taken place showed itself in another light.

"To get rid of me," he muttered, as the great drops of sweat gathered on his face, "and--the last thing I remember--Marion--her head fallen upon the couch beside her brother, helpless now to protect her--drugged, insensible, at the mercy of that villain; and I here without stirring or raising a hand."

Some little time later, feeling weak and faint, he was standing in the hall reaching down his hat, and for a moment he had a feeling of compunction. Isabel--his sister--what would they think of his strange, base infatuation?

"What they will," he said between his teeth. "Placed in such circ.u.mstances, no man could be master of himself. I must save her, even if we never meet again;" and the door closed after him loudly, as, half mad now with excitement, Marion's eyes seeming to lure him on, he stepped out into the darkness of the night.

"Whither?" he muttered, as he hurried across the Square. "Heaven help me! it is my fate."

CHAPTER NINE.

A BLACKER CLOUD IN FRONT.

The nearest church clock was striking three as Chester pa.s.sed into the great west-end artery, which was almost deserted, and he had been walking rapidly, under the influence of his strange excitement, for some minutes before, clear as his head was now, he found himself brought up short by a mental cloud as black and dense as that from which he had suffered when he began to recover from the influence of the drug he had taken.

But there was this difference: the dense obscurity then was relating to the past--this was connected with the future.

"Good heavens!" he muttered. "Whatever he gave me must be acting still; I am half delirious. I am no longer master of my actions. Why am I here? What am I going to do?--To try to save her, for she is at his mercy. But how?"

He stopped short, literally aghast at the horror which encompa.s.sed him as he felt that he was utterly helpless.

How was he to save Marion? How take the place of the brother who had defended her and fallen? Where was she?

In the great wilderness of houses which made up the overgrown city in which he dwelt, where was the one he sought?

Utterly dazed, he stood trying to think out in which direction it lay, and moment by moment his feeling of utter helplessness increased.

He had not taken the slightest note of the direction in which the carriage was driven that night, for he had sat listening to his excited companion, half wondering at the way in which he was influenced by her presence.

The carriage, he did remember, was driven very fast, but it must have been at least a quarter of an hour before it was drawn up at the kerb before the old-fas.h.i.+oned mansion.

Yes, he did note that old-fas.h.i.+oned mansion, in a wide street, too--it must have been a wide street to have allowed for so great a distance between the kerb and the two steps up from the pavement; and the house stood back, too, some distance.

That was something, but a chill of despair came over him as he felt that these features applied to thousands of houses.

Still, it was old-fas.h.i.+oned, and the hall was wide, just such a house as he would find in Bloomsbury.

"Or Westminster," he muttered. "But the cabman was told to drive to Chelsea. A blind to confuse me, on the chance that I did not notice when I was brought there that night.

"Bloomsbury or Westminster," he said to himself; "and chance or instinct may help me," he mused, as, feeble as was the clue, he felt that it was something to act upon, something to give him work that might deaden the wild excitement. He set off at once in the direction of the old-fas.h.i.+oned, grim-looking streets half a mile east of where he had stood thinking, ending by taking a pa.s.sing cab, for he felt faint and bathed in a cold perspiration, and being driven slowly through street and square till long after daylight, and then home, sick at heart in the despondent feeling which came over him.

"It's hopeless--impossible," he said to himself, as he wearily let himself in with his latch-key, while the cabman drove slowly off, saying--

"Not bad, as things go. Talk about seeing life, I think we kebbies do.

Why, that chap must be about cracked."

As Chester threw his overcoat on a chair in the hall, a slight rustling on the stairs took his attention.

"Watched!" he said to himself, while turning into his consulting-room, feeling convinced that either Laura or his aunt had been listening for his return.

"They must think me mad," he said, and after a pause, "are they right?"

He was calmer now, and his mind running in this direction, he could not help feeling there was a strange dash of insanity mingled with his actions since the night when he was called out, and that this last act of hunting through the streets for a house of whose location he was utterly ignorant seemed nearly the culminating point.

"Yes, the height of folly," he said softly. "I must try and devise some means of finding her. Chance may help me. I can do no more now."

He rose with the intention of going up to his bedroom, but the sun was now s.h.i.+ning brightly, and he opened the shutters before returning to his seat to try and think out some clue which he could follow up.

The light which flooded the room seemed to brighten his intellect, and in spite of the use to which he had put the latter part of the past night, his head felt cool and clear.

"Let's look the position fairly in the face," he said to himself.

"After all, I have done Isabel no substantial wrong; I was not a free agent. I could not return; and that course is open, to go to her and to her people, frankly explain, and make up to her by my future for the weak lapse of which I have been guilty. For what are these people to me?"

He sat back with his brow knit, feeling, though, that such a course was impossible--that he could not go and humble himself before his betrothed, and that it would be an act of base and cruel hypocrisy to resume their old relations when his heart seemed to have but one desire--to see Marion again.

"No, it is impossible!" he cried angrily. "It was not love. I never could have loved her. Heaven help me! What shall I do? Some clue-- some clue!"

He started mentally again from the moment when he was called down to see his visitor, and he seemed to see her once more, standing close by the table--just there! Then he once more entered the brougham with her and tried to get some gleam of the direction they took, but he could only recall that the horses were standing with their heads toward the east.

No more. The result was precisely the same as it had been at other times, utterly negative. He had thought of nothing but his companion till they reached the house, and he had not even the clue of the family name.

Then a thought struck him, and he brightened up. Those moments when, after his vain search for the bullet, he had dressed the wound. She had prepared bandages for him, and with eager fingers now he thrust his hand into his breast-pocket for his pocket-book, opened it, and took out a closely-folded, very fine cambric handkerchief, deeply stained with blood. She had given it to him, and he held it to the wound for a few minutes, while a bandage was torn, and had afterwards thrust it into his breast, only in his ecstasy to later on, unseen, take it out, carefully fold it, and place it in one of the pockets of his little Russia case.

His hands trembled as he opened it out and examined the corners, the fourth showing, carefully embroidered, the letters M.E.C.

He had hoped for the full name in marking ink, and with a faint sigh he refolded the delicate piece of fabric, and replaced it in his pocket-book, to sit thinking once more, with the new cloud growing blacker.

There was one way, he thought--the police. Some shrewd officer might make something out of this narrative and trace the house; but he felt that it was doubtful, and shrank from laying bare a mystery which he felt sure Marion was eager to keep hidden. Finally he came to the conclusion that he would know no rest until he had discovered the place of his strange imprisonment himself, and in despair, to relieve the pressure of his brain, he turned to the writing-table, which was pretty well covered with letters from patients, complaining that they had come up to find him away; from others asking him to make appointments; and again others of a tendency which showed him that he was injuring his practice.

Lastly, he picked up a letter which he had put aside, unwilling to open it; and he held it for some minutes, gazing straight before him, thinking deeply, and seeming to lack the resolution to read.

At last with a sigh he tore it open.

It was from Isabel's mother, telling him that her child was heart-broken, and asking him to give some explanation of the cruel treatment to which they had been subjected.

"Let them think the truth," he cried pa.s.sionately as he tore the letter into tiny fragments. "Let them think me half mad, I cannot--I dare not write."

There were two or three packets on the table, even then, and he winced as he turned them over. One was a bundle of proofs of an article he had written for a medical paper; the next was a carefully-sealed box, registered, and he threw it into a drawer with an angry e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n. It was from a jeweller, and contained a pearl bracelet he had bought as a present for his betrothed.

The other was also a box that had come by post, registered, and it was heavy. He did not know what that was; he had ordered no other present, and his curiosity being excited, he cut the green tape, tore off the great seals, and was in the act of opening the cartridge paper in which it was folded, when he stopped and s.n.a.t.c.hed up the tape to which the sealing-wax adhered.

There were three seals, two the coa.r.s.e splotches of common wax used by postal authorities; the other was fine and had been sealed with arms and crest, but a drop from the coa.r.s.e postal wax had half covered it and Chester could make nothing of the sender.

The box within was fastened down with brads, and he forced it open with some curiosity, to find a heavy packet of what seemed to be short, thick pieces of pipe, and with a vague idea that they were connected with some surgical instrument sent to him from the maker on trial, he pushed it aside impatiently, and threw himself back in his chair.

The next minute the thought occurred to him that a surgical instrument maker would not seal the packet with armorial bearings, and he would have sent some communication, so, catching up the box, he drew out the carefully-done-up packet within, tore it open, and then let his hands fall on the table, for the contents were rouleaux of sovereigns, all bright and fresh from the mint, the number written upon the packet--"210 pounds." Two hundred guineas--the fee promised to him for his services.