“Of course, Herriard,” Count Prosper struck in. “That is why the Professor is here. One does not travel a thousand miles to make experiments: one need not leave Vienna for that, eh? But what is fame? Here is Herriard, a great man at the Bar and in Parliament who has never heard of the wonders which Professor Rudolph Hallamar performs.”

“When one is deeply immersed in one’s own profession, one has little opportunity for looking round at the work of other men in other spheres,” the doctor observed, in polite excuse. “I have found that pathological work has little interest for healthy laymen.”

“Nevertheless,” Herriard replied, with more truth than the two other men gave him credit for, “your work, now I have heard of it, does interest me exceedingly.”

CHAPTER XII
THE PROFESSOR IS PUZZLED

IN spite of the sceptical attitude which Gastineau seemed inclined to maintain towards it, the evidence of the man Campion, having been closely sifted and tested, was regarded on all hands as practically conclusive, and certain to win the case for the Countess Alexia.

The mouthpieces of public opinion, as is usual in such cases, hastened to hedge, and the vane of prejudice showed signs of swinging round. The defendants and their advisers were now concentrating their energies upon getting out of an awkward position with least damage to their purses and reputations: and it was generally admitted that this new evidence, although it went but a little way towards proving who was the slayer of Captain Martindale, must at least, if unshaken, exonerate the Countess.

Still the mystery remained almost as deep as ever. Who, every one now began to ask, was the mysterious man whom Campion saw? A scrutiny among the list of the guests failed to give any hopeful clue, and only served to increase the puzzle. For there had been a great crowd at Vaux House that night. The ball had been one of those entertainments which great hostesses give periodically to include all who can have any sort of claim upon their hospitality. Cards had been sent out to every one of the Lancashires’ acquaintance, social, political, and casual; there had been the usual crush, a constant stream of incomers and outgoers, and no record kept of those who actually were present. How could the identity of one man be discovered? Campion was confident that he would recognize him; but where was the chance of bringing into review before him the hundreds of men who had been included in that big social sweeping-up? The dead man might be supposed to have had enemies, disappointed rivals of the notorious supplanter: but that was only vague conjecture; nothing definite of any one was known.

But one evening Herriard rushed up to the house in Mayfair with a great piece of news. To his discomfiture Gastineau was, for the second time during their acquaintance, denied him. Hencher had the same tale as before to tell. Mr. Murray had had a very bad day; had been and still was in great pain; the seizure would surely go off soon, and then he would see Mr. Herriard, but not now; he was sure Mr. Herriard would understand and would be kind enough to return in an hour or two.

Herriard turned away from the door, his disappointment at the delay merged in remorse for what he told himself was cruelty and vile ingratitude. Here was this man who had been to him more than a friend or a brother, who had been, from a worldly point of view at least, his good genius, the mainspring of his success, lying writhing in pain, while he, selfish coward, with the healer, this great Viennese specialist at his very door, hesitated to bring him to his succour. For it was now some days since he had known the field of Dr. Hallamar’s surgical skill; he had, amid great pressure of work, so much must be admitted in his excuse, debated the question with himself, and hesitated as to his course. Why had he delayed? His conscience told him that it was because Gastineau’s recovery meant his own ruin. With an active life again open to him it was not to be supposed that his master would care to continue the strange partnership. Besides, would he not at once become his rival, and, with the shining forth again of the stronger natural light, must not his artificial beam be effectually paled? Still, these considerations were not, he told himself, those which a man of honour could entertain. His duty to his friend and helper was clear. He must do it, and chance the consequences, relying upon Gastineau’s generosity and, perhaps, gratitude.

He was not so certain of these. There came at times into Gastineau’s eyes an ugly, wolfish look, a cold, merciless gleam that seemed to say that nothing but the physical strength was lacking for him to fall upon and rend any one who might stand in his way. And on such occasions Herriard had, in spite of himself, experienced a kind of satisfaction from the thought that the man lying before him with the fierce, pitiless will was crippled; that the bitter, unscrupulous soul was fettered in that prison of the half-dead body. At times Gastineau would almost frighten his pupil when for a moment he unleashed the hounds of his almost Satanic spite; then he would laugh off the outburst, and ascribe it to his condition. But there was no doubt that fear, though scarcely acknowledged, had something to do with Herriard’s hesitation in the matter of calling in Dr. Hallamar.