Chapter XIII.
Enter Dr. Priestley
That eccentric scientist, Dr. Priestley, sat in his study on the Monday morning following the death of Mr. Copperdock, busily engaged in sorting out a mass of untidy-looking papers. Most of them he tore up and placed in the waste-paper basket by his side; a few he glanced at and put aside. The April sun lit up the room with a pale radiance, lending an air of Spring even to this dignified but rather gloomy house in Westbourne Terrace.
Dr. Priestley was thus engaged when the door opened and his secretary, Harold Merefield, came into the room. There was an air of heaviness about both men, the old and the young, as though the Spring had not yet touched them, and Winter held them still in its grip. One might have guessed that some absorbing work had monopolized their energies, leaving them no leisure for anything but the utmost concentration. And one would have guessed right. For the last six months Dr. Priestley had been engaged upon the writing of a book which was to enhance his already brilliant reputation. Its title was Some Aspects of Modern Thought, and in it Dr. Priestley had, with his usual incontrovertible logic, shattered the majority of the pet theories of orthodox science. It was, as the reviews were to say, a brilliant achievement, all the more entertaining from the vein of biting sarcasm which ran through it.
When Dr. Priestley settled down to writing a book, he concentrated his whole attention upon it, to the exclusion of everything else. He allowed nothing whatever to distract his mind, even for a few minutes. He lived entirely in his subject, refusing even to read the newspapers, except certain scientific periodicals which might happen to contain something relevant to the work he had in hand. As he expected his secretary to follow his example, it was hardly to be wondered at that both of them looked jaded and worn out.
“I took the manuscript to the Post Office myself, sir,” said Harold Merefield listlessly. “Here is the registration receipt.”
“Excellent, my boy, excellent,” replied the Professor, looking up. “So the work is finished at last, eh? I have been destroying such notes as we shall not require again. The rest you can file at your leisure. Dear me, you look as if you needed a change of occupation.”
He stared at his secretary through his spectacles, as though he had seen him that morning for the first time for many months. “Yes, I think we both need a change of occupation,” he continued. “I feel that I should welcome some enticing problem, mathematical or human. It is time we stepped from our recent absorption back into the world. Let me see. What is the date?”
“April 28th, sir,” replied Harold with a smile. He knew well enough that the Professor would have accepted any other day he chose to mention.
“Dear me! Then the world is six months older than when we retired from it. No doubt many interesting problems have arisen in the interval, but I fear that their solutions lie in other hands than ours. By the way, when does our friend Inspector Hanslet return from America?”
Harold turned to one of the big presses which lined the walls of the room, and took from it a folder marked “Inspector Hanslet.” He consulted this for a moment, then looked up towards his employer. “At the end of this month, sir. There is no definite date mentioned. I dare say he is in London already.”