COLONEL McCLURE'S VERDICT

I moved quickly towards the bed, and in the dim light of the lamp which stood near saw that a change had come over my friend's face. A look of perfect peace and tranquility had taken the place of anguish.

'Tell me,' I cried, 'he isn't dead, is he?'

'He is out of pain, at all events,' and Colonel McClure spoke abruptly.

Unmindful of what they might say, I went close to Edgecumbe, and gazed at him steadily. As far as I could judge, there was no sign of life.

'Have—have you done anything for him?' I said, turning to the doctors.
But neither of them spoke. They might have been waiting for something.

I noticed that Edgecumbe's hands were lying on the coverlet almost easily and naturally. Why I should have done it, I cannot tell, but I seized the lamp and held it close to them. They did not look like the hands of a dead man. In spite of everything, there was a suggestion of nervous energy in the long, capable-looking fingers. Then I put down the lamp, and took one of the hands in mine.

'He is alive,' I said; 'the right hand is warm, and it is not rigid.'

Still the doctors did not speak, but each looked at the other as if questioningly. They did not appear to resent my action; perhaps they made allowances for my anxiety; both of them knew how dear he was to me.

Then something struck me. I saw that one of his hands, although both were browned by exposure and hardened by labour, was different in colour from the other.

'Have you noticed that?' I said.

'Noticed what?'

'That his left hand is slightly blue. You can see it beneath the tan.'

'By gad, you are right!' It was Colonel McClure who whispered this excitedly, and I saw that my words had a meaning to him. What was in his mind I could not tell, but that he was thinking hard I was sure.

'He isn't dead,' I said excitedly; 'I am sure he isn't!' And again I took his left hand in mine, and lifted it. Then I saw something else. It was very little, but it meant a great deal to me. I remembered how that morning Edgecumbe had been using a pair of Indian clubs, and had rolled up his shirt sleeves. I had remarked to myself at the time the wonderful ease with which he had swung the clubs, and what perfectly shaped arms he had. They were large and hard, and firm, without a mark of any sort. Now, just below the elbow, in the lower part of the arm, was a blue spot. It was so small that it might have been covered by a threepenny-piece, and in the dim light of the lamp would not be easily seen.

'Did you see this? Did you do it?' I almost gasped.

Colonel McClure examined the spot closely, and then nodded to Dr. Merril.

'Did you see this, Merril?' he asked.

'No,' replied Dr. Merril excitedly. 'As you know you—you——!' He stopped suddenly like one afraid.

Colonel McClure took a powerful glass from his case and examined the spot closely for some seconds. Then he said to his fellow doctor, evidently with satisfaction, 'By gad, we've done the right thing!'

'What does it mean?' I asked. 'Tell me.'

'I will tell you in an hour from now,' and I saw a new light in the colonel's eyes. Then I heard him mutter to himself, 'I was an ass to have missed that.'

I put my hand upon Edgecumbe's forehead; and I could have sworn that it was warm and moist. The moisture was different from the clammy sweat which had poured out on his face when first we had brought him to bed hours before.

Excitedly I told the doctors of my impression, and then McClure commanded me to stand aside, as if I were an interloper. Although I believe the old military doctor was as excited as I, he made no sign, save that his lips moved as if he were talking to himself.

'Do you know what it means?' I asked, as he left the bed.

'It means that you must get out of this,' he replied gruffly.

'I won't,' I answered, for I had wellnigh lost control over myself. Something, I could not tell what, made me sure that an important change was taking place in my friend's condition, and I forgot all about the etiquette of a sick-room. The experiences through which I had passed, my long, midnight journey, together with the feverish anxiety under which I was suffering, made me forget myself.

'I am his only friend,' I went on, 'and I have a right to be here, and I have a right to know everything. What is it? What have you done?'

Scarcely realizing what I was doing, I went to the window and pulled up the blinds. Day was breaking, the sky was clear, and the eastern horizon was tinged with the light of the rising sun. In the light of the new-born day, the lamp looked sickly and out of place. I remember, too, that it made a strange impression upon me; it seemed as though light were fighting with darkness, and that light was being triumphant.

'Don't be an ass, Luscombe,' said the Scotchman; 'I will tell you everything presently, but can't you see that——'

'I can see that he's going to live,' I interrupted. 'His face is more natural; it doesn't look so rigid. I believe there is colour coming into his lips.'

'Find your way into the kitchen, there are some servants there, and bring some hot water immediately.'

For the next hour, I scarcely remember anything that happened. I imagine that I was so excited that my experiences left no definite impress upon my brain. I have indistinct remembrances of alternating between hope and despair, between joy and sorrow. I remember, too, that I was called upon to perform certain actions, but to this day I do not know what they were. I was more like an automaton than a man.

At the end of the hour, however, Colonel McClure accompanied me into my bedroom, which, as I have said, adjoined that of Edgecumbe.

'We've done it, my boy,' he said, and I noted the satisfaction in his voice.

'He will live, then?'

He nodded. 'Barring accidents, he will. But it's a mystery to me.'

'What is a mystery?'

'I hardly like to tell you. But you are no hysterical woman, and you have a steady head on you. Until an hour and a half ago, I was acting in the dark, acting blindly. Even now I have no proof of anything. You say your friend was in India?'

'I have told you all I know,' was my answer.

'I spent twelve years there,' went on the colonel. 'A great part of the time I was with native regiments, and I have had some peculiar experiences. India's a strange country, and in many things the people there can teach us Westerners a lot. Look here, why did you come for me?'

'Instinct,' I replied.

'But instinct has a basis in reason.'

'Has it? I am not enough of a psychologist to answer that question.
Tell me why you are asking me all this.'

'Because I am afraid to tell you what is in my mind. Do you remember what Merril said?'

'Yes,' I replied; 'he said that according to symptoms my friend had been poisoned. But he didn't see how it could possibly be, and he said that the case was completely beyond him.'

'Exactly. When I went into that room, I of course had your words in my mind. India has a hundred poisons unknown to the West, many of them are subtle, almost undiscoverable. I called to my mind what I had learned in India, what I had seen and done there. Frankly, I don't understand your friend's case. Had it been in India, I should have understood it, and what was possible, ay, what would have amounted to certainty there, was utterly impossible in England—at least, so it seemed to me. But I acted on the assumption that I was in India.'

'You mean that you injected an antidote for a poison that you know of?' I ventured.

He looked at me steadily for a few seconds, but he did not speak.

'Now look here, Luscombe,' he said, after a long silence, 'I hesitated to tell you this, because it is a serious business.'

I nodded.

'You see,' he went on, 'we are not in the realm of proof. But as sure as I am a living man, if your friend was poisoned, some one poisoned him, unless he had a curious way of trying to commit suicide.'

'He didn't try to commit suicide,' I replied.

'You remember that mark in the arm?'

I nodded.

'In another hour it will be gone. If he had died, it would not be there. I was a blind fool not to have seen it. I examined his arm just before we came in here,—the discolourment has nearly passed away. In an hour there'll be only a little spot about the size of a pin-prick. Do you feel free to tell me anything of your suspicions? Remember, they can only be suspicions. There can be no possible proof of anything, and even although you may have drawn conclusions, which to you are unanswerable, you might be committing the cruellest crime against another man by speaking them aloud.'

'Then I'll not tell you my suspicions,' I said. 'I will only recount certain incidents.'

Then I told him the things I remembered.

Colonel McClure looked very grave.

'No,' he said, at length, 'this is something which we dare not speak of aloud. I must think this out, my boy, so must you, and when our minds are settled a bit we can talk again.'

When we returned to Edgecumbe's room, my friend was sleeping almost naturally, while the relief of every member of the household, who had all been informed of Edgecumbe's remarkable recovery, can be better imagined than expressed.

'Have the doctors told you what is the matter with him?' asked Sir Thomas eagerly.

'No,' I replied; 'perhaps they are not sure themselves.'

'But they must know, man! I gather that they performed a certain operation, and they wouldn't do that without some definite object.'

'The ways of doctors are very mysterious,' I laughed; 'anyhow, we are thankful that the danger is over. Merril tells me that Edgecumbe is sleeping quite naturally, while McClure is quite sure that in a few hours he will awake almost well.'

'But that seems impossible, man! A few hours ago he despaired of his life, and now——'

'The great thing is he is better,' I interrupted. I did not want the old baronet to have the least inkling of my suspicion. After all, I could prove nothing, and indeed, as McClure had said, it might be a crime to accuse any man of having anything to do with Edgecumbe's illness.

During the time I had been in the Army, I had heard of cases of men losing their memory, and of a sudden shock bringing their past back to them. I wondered if this would be so in Edgecumbe's case. Might not the crisis through which he had passed, the crisis which had brought him close to the gates of death, tear aside the veil which hid his past from him? Might not the next few hours reveal the mystery of his life, and make all things plain?