Andrews arrived punctually to the minute, and as was expected, Fletcher was with him. Sefton found seats for them, and began in quiet tones, different indeed from the irritable manner of the past weeks.
“You asked me the other day, what I was doing at The Red Cote. I am now in a position to tell you, thank God. When my father died, I had almost finished my course at the Hospital, and was within sight of being a qualified doctor. I was unable to go on through lack of funds. Before he died, my father entrusted a secret to me. He had been carrying out researches in certain obscure nervous diseases. My father firmly believed in Psychoanalysis, and had also a special appliance of an electrical nature with which he was experimenting.
“Not being qualified, I could not practice openly, nor did I wish to reveal to the medical world the exact nature of the process, until I had thoroughly tested it. You will remember, Ena,” he said turning to his sister, “that when we first came here, I was writing a large number of letters, and you thought that I was trying to get work of some sort. My real object was to get hold of patients, who wished to be treated privately. I was obliged to take a bungalow for the treatment, and was perhaps over-anxious to keep the matter secret, so constructed a room in which I could work, in the centre of the bungalow. I rather foolishly thought that if the place was lighted up it would be less conspicuous than if it was in darkness, but it seems to have called attention to it instead.
“I could not bring them here as they were practically lunatics.
“Among my patients was Summers the bank manager from Tunbridge Wells.” The listeners gave a start of surprise.
“Summers was in a curious state when he came to me,” Sefton continued. “He was not mad, but was on the border-line, and I was afraid that he would commit suicide. He should have told his people, but I could see that the slightest suggestion of such a thing would have spelt disaster. He was convinced that he was dead. The treatment was doing him good, and I had hopes that he would make a complete recovery, when you got busy over the so-called mystery, and I had to exercise the utmost caution. Then Summers disappeared.”
Andrews lifted his eyebrows and glanced at Fletcher.
Sefton was quick to notice it. “No,” he said. “I should not have been quite such a fool as to tell you this story, if I could not produce the man. He will be here presently, but for obvious reasons an explanation was first necessary.”
“When you called on me I had no more idea where he was than you had, and I could see that if he had committed suicide, my position would be black.”
Fletcher’s face was suffused with red, and he banged the table.