All was chaos and disorder in that usually calm, well-ordered household. Just about seven o’clock Redwood came to me and called me to one of the upstairs rooms, where the great specialist awaited me alone.
“I believe that a friend of yours, a Mr Nicholson, died a little time ago in somewhat similar circumstances to the present case,” said Sir George, standing upon the hearthrug with his arms folded. “Now, as far as I can make out, the young lady’s illness is due to brain trouble, brought on perhaps by fright. I have seen several similar cases in my experience—and I have treated them.”
“But Miss Seymour—will she live?” I asked in frantic anxiety.
“Ah! That I cannot foretell,” he replied calmly, in his soft-spoken voice. “I have administered two injections, and I’m glad to tell you that she is infinitely better. Indeed, I expect her very soon to regain consciousness, and we may hope for a turn.”
“Thank God!—thank God!” I cried, with over burdened heart. “She is very dear to me, Sir George,” I added with emotion, “and I thank you deeply for your efforts to save her.”
“I understand—I quite understand, my dear sir,” he said with professional calmness. “Yet, from what my two colleagues have told me, I can’t help thinking that there is—well, a little mystery somewhere, eh?”
“A little mystery?” I echoed. “Ah, Sir George, there is a very great mystery, one which I intend at all hazards to investigate—now that Asta has fallen a victim.”
But as I spoke the door was unceremoniously pushed open, and Shaw, who had put on a dark blue suit, and who looked unusually pale and haggard, entered, and inquired for the latest bulletin of the patient.
“I’m glad to tell you, Mr Shaw, that she will probably recover,” replied the eminent man. “In an hour we trust to have her conscious again, and then she will, I hope, tell us what happened—what she indicated when, in her fright, she made mention of this mysterious hand.”
The hand! I recollected those written words of Melvill Arnold.