The phantasmagoria of life is very curious. Only a fortnight before I was a penniless medico, feeling pulses and examining tongues in order to earn a shilling or two to keep the wolf from the door, yet, within eight days, I had entered into the possession of a thousand pounds, and was, moreover, the guest of one of the smartest hostesses in England.
I had been at Atworth about a fortnight, and had written twice to Hoefer, but, as yet, had received no response. He was a sorry correspondent, I knew, for when he wrote it was a painful effort with a quill.
Bob Raymond had written me one of those flippant notes characteristic of him; but to this I had not replied, for I could not rid myself of the belief that he had somehow played me false.
One evening, while sitting in the hall with my hostess, in the quiet hour that precedes the dressing-bell, she, of her own accord, began to chat about the curious phenomena in Gloucester Square.
“I have told my husband nothing,” she said. “I do hope your friend will discover the cause before we return to town.”
“If he does not, then it would be best to keep the door locked,” I said. “At present the affair is still unexplained.”
“Fortunately Beryl is quite as well as ever—thanks to you and to him.”
“It was a happy thought of yours to call me,” I said. “Hoefer was the only man in London who could give her back her life, and, if ever the mystery is solved, it is he who will solve it.”
I noticed that she was unusually pale, whether on account of the heat, or from mental agitation, I could not determine. The day had been a blazing one—so hot, indeed, that no one had been out before tea. At that moment every one had gone forth except ourselves, and, as she sat in a cane rocking-chair, swinging herself lazily to and fro, she looked little more than a girl, her cream serge tennis-dress imparting to her quite a juvenile appearance.
“I hope you are not bored here, Doctor,” she said presently, after we had been talking for some time.