On my way back to the carriage, the dog met me. Truly, a grand creature. I called him by his name, and patted him. He licked my hand. Something made me speak to him. I said: “If I was to tell you to tear Mr. Philip Dunboyne to pieces, would you do it?” The great good-natured brute held out his paw to shake hands. Well! well! I was not an object of disgust to the dog.
But the coachman was startled, when he saw me again. He said something, I did not know what it was; and he produced a pocket-flask, containing some spirits, I suppose. Perhaps he thought I was going to faint. He little knew me. I told him to drive back to the place at which I had hired the cab, and earn his money. He earned it.
On getting home, I found Mrs. Tenbruggen walking up and down the dining-room, deep in thought. She was startled when we first confronted each other. “You look dreadfully ill,” she said.
I answered that I had been out for a little exercise, and had over-fatigued myself; and then changed the subject. “Does my father seem to improve under your treatment?” I asked.
“Very far from it, my dear. I promised that I would try what Massage would do for him, and I find myself compelled to give it up.”
“Why?”
“It excites him dreadfully.”
“In what way?”
“He has been talking wildly of events in his past life. His brain is in some condition which is beyond my powers of investigation. He pointed to a cabinet in his room, and said his past life was locked up there. I asked if I should unlock it. He shook with fear; he said I should let out the ghost of his dead brother-in-law. Have you any idea of what he meant?”
The cabinet was full of old letters. I could tell her that—and could tell her no more. I had never heard of his brother-in-law. Another of his delusions, no doubt. “Did you ever hear him speak,” Mrs. Tenbruggen went on, “of a place called Low Lanes?”