I slowly turned over in my mind the whole of the strange circumstances. It hardly seemed credible that Richard Knutton, the guardian of the treasure, should die without revealing its whereabouts to any one, especially as his family was to profit one-third on its distribution.
This I mentioned to Staffurth, but the latter pointed out that the secret was probably transmitted in some unintelligible form, and would therefore be useless without the key. Besides, the family of Knutton were most probably in ignorance of what was contained in those documents, considering that they had been always at sea for the past three centuries.
Leaving old Mr. Staffurth to continue the deciphering of the Italian manuscript, I returned to Chelsea.
The Mysterious Man was seated at the window, his sword against his chair, covering sheet after sheet of paper with grotesque arabesques, wherein the Evil One seemed to be constantly represented. He took no notice of my return, therefore I awaited the coming of Dr. Gordon Macfarlane, the great lunacy specialist of Hanwell Asylum, who shortly arrived.
I introduced my patient, but the latter only grasped his sword and fixed the specialist with a stony stare.
Macfarlane tried to humour him, and asked him a few questions. To the latter, of course, he received no response. We both examined the quaint drawings, and the more we looked into them the more marvellous seemed the execution—the work of a madman, certainly, but such an intricate design that few first-class artists could imitate.
Macfarlane was, I could see, much interested in the case, and was quite an hour making his diagnosis. Presently, however, he took me aside into the adjoining room and said: —
“A very remarkable case, Pickering. I have only met with one which at all bore resemblance to it. Now, my own opinion is that the old fellow is at certain brief moments quite sane—a sign that he will, in all probability, recover. I should be inclined to think that his mental aberration has not been of very long duration, six months perhaps. He has certain fixed ideas, one of them being the habitual carrying of his sword. He also, I noticed, is interested in any mechanical contrivance—my watch, for instance, attracted his attention. That is a symptom of a phase of insanity of which a cure is hopeful. And as regards his dumbness, I believe that it is due to some sudden and terrible fright combined, of course, with his unbalanced mind. Do you notice his eyes? At times there is a look of unspeakable terror in them. With a cure, or even partial cure, of his insanity, speech will, I believe, return to him.”
This favourable opinion delighted me, and I thanked the great specialist for his visit, whereupon he admitted his interest in the unusual case, and said that if I would allow him he would take it under his charge in his own private asylum down at Ealing.
So next day I conveyed the Mysterious Man to “High Elms,” as the place was called, and, having left him in charge of the superintendent, packed my bag, and set out on the first stage of my journey to discover the whereabouts of the hidden loot.