 
THE GENTLEMAN WHO VANISHED.A Psychological Phantasy.
BYFERGUS HUME,Author of | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
CONTENTS | |
| CHAP. | |
| I. | Flying From Justice |
| II. | The Recluse |
| III. | The Dissection Of A Soul |
| IV. | A Curious Transformation |
| V. | New Wine In An Old Bottle |
| VI. | The Tortures Of Hell |
| VII. | The Woman He Loved |
| VIII. | The Man She Hated |
| IX. | The Philosophy Of Mr. Dentham |
| X. | Teddy Rudall's Ideas |
| XI. | A Modern Judas |
| XII. | A Perilous Situation |
| XIII. | A Startling Discovery |
| XIV. | Dentham Makes Terms |
| XV. | Resurgam |
Chapter I.
Flying From Justice
It was an oppressively hot night towards the end of June, and the heavy still atmosphere surcharged with electricity was full of premonitions of storm. Here in London the glare and glitter of myriad lamps seemed to be crushed down by a lowering sky, in which the stars were almost hidden by great masses of sombre clouds. Every now and then a thin thread of lightning flashed ghost-like through the murky air and the low hoarse roll of the thunder which followed, seemed to warn mankind that Nature was in one of her angry moods. So hot, terribly hot, one could hardly breathe in the crowded streets, where throngs of people, well-dressed and otherwise principally otherwise were sweeping along intent on business and pleasure, paying no attention to the sultry heavens pressing so cruelly down upon the panting earth.
The signs and tokens of heaven were not for them, with their sordid souls longing for gold, or their empty stomachs yearning for bread, as they worked, danced, sang, and busied themselves with the material things of this life, the same to-day as their forefathers centuries ago on the eve of that Deluge they did not believe would ever come.
In a handsomely-furnished room, in a large house which stood in one of the fashionable streets off Piccadilly, sat two young men playing cards. The windows of the apartment were open on to a flower-decorated balcony, from whence one could see the people walking, and the cabs flashing past. The rhythmical beat of the horses' hoofs, the quick tread or weary dragging gait of passers-by, the subdued murmur of distant voices and the sultry air of the hot night, penetrated into the room, but the occupants were too busy with their game to pay any attention to outside disturbances. A handsome room it was, but evidently that of a bachelor, as in the picturesque confusion there was wanting that subtle touch of refinement and order which indicates the hand of woman. Curiously-patterned carpets of Turkish workmanship were scattered about on the polished floor and here and there stood small tables laden with photographs in chased silver frames, books, principally consisting of English and French novels, flowers and other things too numerous to mention. A pipe rack, fencing foils and boxing gloves over the mantelpiece, pictures of race-horses and pretty women on the walls, and plenty of plush-covered lounging-chairs placed in luxurious corners, with spirit-stand, glasses, pipes, cigarettes and tobacco jars, handy to anyone who sat down.
In the centre of all this confusion was a green covered table at which sat the two young men aforesaid in evening dress, with several packs of cards scattered at their feet and their eyes intent upon the game, which seemed to be rather an expensive one, judging by the pile of gold pieces that lay on the green cloth.
One of the players was tall, with clearly cut features, dark hair, closely cropped, and a small dark moustache, beneath which gleamed regular white teeth when he smiled, which he did not seem inclined to do at the present moment. Adrian Lancaster was not at all pleased, as luck was dead against him, and he frequently took deep draughts of a brandy-and-soda which stood near him, in order to console himself for his bad fortune. His friend Philip Trevanna was short, fair, and insignificant-looking, so much so that not even the well-cut clothes he wore could give him a distinguished appearance.
The Louis Quinze clock on a bracket in one corner of the room chimed eleven, with a silvery ring, but still the two young men played on steadily. The savage look on Adrian's face showed that he was losing still, until at last the look of triumph on his companion's smug countenance proved too much for his philosophy, and rising from his seat with a stifled oath he flung down his cards, upset the table by his sudden movement and lounging over to the fireplace, lighted a cigarette.
"Hullo," said Trevanna lazily, looking at the overturned table and the scattered cards with an air of well-bred surprise, "what's the matter?"
"Nothing," replied Adrian, thrusting his hands into his pockets and looking down at the debris from his height of six feet odd, "only I'm sick of playing you've won a deuce of a lot, so unless I want to leave myself a pauper, I think I'll give the game best for to-night."
"Better luck next time," said Trevanna, rising and stretching himself, "you're a bad loser."
"There never yet was a philosopher who could bear the toothache patiently," quoted Adrian with a grim smile.
"You call losing at cards, toothache," murmured Philip indolently, "I daresay you're right, it's quite as disagreeable at all events." He glanced complacently over the bundle of I.O.U's he held in his hand, added the amounts together, then offered them to his companion.
"I'm rather in luck's way to-night," he said in a satisfied tone, "if you don't mind, old chap, I'd like a cheque for a thousand."
Adrian bit his nether lip angrily, then walking towards his desk, and pulling out a blank cheque, made it out for the amount named, which he handed to Philip without a word, then taking the I.O.U's he tore them up and threw the pieces on the floor.
"That pretty well clears me out of ready money," he said at length, resuming his position in front of the mantelpiece, while Philip filled himself a glass of brandy-and-soda, "it will pull me up for a bit."
"Never mind," said Trevanna with an evil smile, "your marriage with Olive Maunders will put you straight."
"Leave Miss Maunders out of the question," observed Adrian imperiously, "you've no right to use her name."
"I'll use the name of anybody I like," retorted Trevanna, into whose head the liquor he had drunk was rapidly mounting.
"Except hers," said Lancaster quietly, although his dark face was flushed with anger.
Philip Trevanna laughed insolently at the remark and taking up a few cards, lightly balanced them in his hand.
"A nice one you are, to preach morality," he said scoffingly, "you're about as bad a lot as there is in Town."
"You're not much better, at all events," observed Adrian wrathfully. "Look here, Trevanna, shut up—I'm not in the best of tempers, and you know I've got hot blood in my veins, so when I get angry it's dangerous. Don't rouse the tiger in me."
"Don't talk bosh," said Trevanna politely, "you know you only want to marry Olive Maunders for her money."
"Speak for yourself," cried Lancaster, going over to a side table and taking up a decanter to pour himself out some brandy. "I know you'd give anything to be in my place."
"Tell you what," said Trevanna, with an ugly look. "I'll play you for her—if I win, I marry her."
"Hold your tongue," retorted Adrian, grasping the stem of the decanter in a paroxysm of rage.
"I'll back this thousand against Olive Maunders," observed Trevanna, ignoring the menacing look of his friend. "Will you play?"
"No."
"Then go to the devil," shouted Philip, losing control of himself and flinging the cards he was holding into the face of Adrian. "Take that."
The hot blood flamed in Lancaster's face, and with a stifled roar of anger he threw the heavy decanter he was holding at Philip Trevanna's head. It struck him full on the temple, and without a word the young man fell like a log on the floor, while the decanter, smashing into a thousand pieces, was scattered over the carpet, and the contents diffused an odour of spirits through the room.
There was a dead silence for one awful moment, broken only by the steady tick of the clock. Suddenly a woman in the street laughed shrilly, and the sound seemed to arouse Adrian out of the lethargy into which he had fallen. A red mist floated before his eyes and his limbs seemed paralysed. Even when he strove to cry out his voice died away in a hoarse whisper, and he stood with a terrible look of anguish on his face staring at the overturned card-table, the broken pieces of glass, and the figure lying at his feet so still and deathlike, with a thin red stream of blood flowing from an ugly wound in the temple.
Once more the woman laughed, and Adrian rapidly sprang to the windows, in a stealthy manner, closed them and pulled down the blinds so as to shut out this terrible sight from the eyes of the prying world.
A sullen roll of thunder startled him, and with a hurried glance around he crept towards the still form of his friend.
"Philip," he whispered, kneeling beside Trevanna's body, "Philip."
No answer! Adrian opened Trevanna's shirt and placed his hand on the heart—it did not beat—he leaned his face downward to the slightly parted lips; there was no breath, and then, for the first time, a sense of what he had done seemed to break on him.
"Dead!" he whispered with ashen grey lips, in a paroxysm of terror, clasping his hands. "Dead!—I've killed him."
He arose slowly to his feet, looked vacantly round the room, at the still, white face, at the stream of blood, then staggering to a side table he snatched up a bottle of whisky, and without waiting to fill a glass placed it to his lips. The fiery spirit put new life into him, and as his blood coursed swiftly through his veins, he braced his muscles, shook his head to clear the clouds which seemed to fog his brain, and nerved himself for action.
"I can't stay here," he whispered to himself, putting one hand up to his throat, "they would arrest me for murder—I would be hanged—Oh, God, the disgrace—poor Olive!"
The storm so long threatening had burst at last over the city, and the rain was pouring down with tropical violence, while every now and then, through the interstices of the Venetian blinds, gleamed the blueish flash of the lightning, and the deep roll of thunder which followed seemed to the ears of Adrian like the voice of an accusing angel denouncing him as a murderer.
There was no time to be lost, for at any moment someone might come up to his rooms and discover his crime; he would have to fly—but where could he fly to? where, in all this great city, was there a refuge for a murderer? Still, he dare not stay; he could give no plausible explanation, the evidence of his guilt was too strong; the police would come up, he would be arrested, then the inquest, the trial, the verdict—with the rapidity of lightning the possibility of these things flashed across his mind—and with a hoarse cry he sprang past the body on the floor into his bedroom.
There he put on a heavy ulster, which, reaching nearly to his feet, effectually hid the evening clothes he had no time to change. Then he put on a soft hat, pulled it down over his eyes, caught up a heavy stick and stole out again into the sitting-room, half thinking that it was all some hideous dream. But no, it was only too true—there on the floor lay the body of the man he had killed, and he, Adrian Lancaster, was a murderer.
The clock struck twelve with a silvery chime as he slowly pulled the dead man's cloak off the back of a chair, and with a sudden movement flung it over the body as if terrified to look upon his handiwork. He turned out the gas which was flaring in the pink globes, and then crept towards the door in the darkness, carefully avoiding the place where the body lay. Once outside the door, which opened with a loud creak as if to denounce him, he locked it, and dropping the key into his pocket stole stealthily downstairs out into the stormy night, feeling that on his brow burned the mark of Cain, which, from henceforth, would make him a hunted fugitive on the face of the earth.
He walked slowly down the street towards Piccadilly, not heeding the direction, but only longing to get as far away from the scene of his crime as he could, and when a hansom suddenly drew up at the side of the pavement he felt a sudden convulsion of terror at hearing the voice of the driver asking if he wanted a cab. For a moment he hesitated, then, without a word, sprang in and flung himself back among the cushions, closing the doors, as if he could thus hide himself from the eyes of Justice.
"Where to, sir?" asked the driver, peering down through the trapdoor
in the roof of the cab.
Where to, indeed? Was there any sanctuary in this mighty London where he could hide? No, he could think of none; but with that instinct of self-preservation which is strong in the breast of every human being, he wished to fly as far away as he could, so said at a venture the first name that came into his head.
"Hampstead!"
"Right sir," said the driver, and closing the trapdoor with a bang he let down the glass and drove off.
The wheels spun round, the lights of the gas-lamps flashed dully in through the blurred windows, and the man shrinking back among the cushions clenched his teeth and stared out at the night, painting with vivid fancy on the curtain of the dark the hideous scene from which he was flying.
II.
The Recluse
The rapidity or slowness with which time passes depends entirely upon the feelings, and although the drive to Hampstead occupied only an hour, it seemed to Adrian Lancaster as if centuries had passed since he left his chambers. Between his past life of carelessness and ease and this one of agonizing feelings, a great gulf had widened which he knew would ever more separate him from his former state. A short time ago, he was a pleasure-loving man, rich, honoured and courted, but now he was a hunted fugitive—a social outcast, scorned of all men and pitied by none. The shock had been so great that he did not yet understand his position, but lay back among the cushions in a kind of dull apathy, the whole journey seeming to him to be a kind of hideous nightmare.
Suddenly the cab stopped, and the trapdoor in the roof was opened by the driver.
"This is Hampstead, sir," he said in a hoarse voice, "and the limit of the radius."
"Very good," replied Adrian dully, "I will get out here."
He jumped out on to the sodden ground, turning up the collar of his coat, for the rain was still coming down heavily, and gave the cabman ten shillings in gold.
"I have no change, sir," began the driver. "I—"
"It doesn't matter," said Adrian, waving his hand. "Good night," and he tramped off into the darkness, while the cabman, with a muttered expression of thanks, drove back to town.
It was a lonely road, with a high fence on each side, topped by trees, and, beyond, great houses all in darkness, as the inmates had apparently gone to bed. Adrian had no idea where he was, but walked slowly along the muddy path with downcast head, and his hands thrust well into his pockets. His boots were more adapted to Piccadilly than to country roads, and the cold chill struck through the thin soles, but he paid no attention, mechanically walking onward without heeding where he was going. Above, the heavens were slightly clearing of their masses of clouds, and a few stars showed brightly in the cold blue, while the trees on each side shook their branches complainingly in the cold wind, and heavy drops of rain fell from their moist leaves.
At last he found himself walking along under a weather-stained brick wall, on the top of which grew luxurious ivy, and towards the end a low door appeared, which stood slightly open. Half thinking that it would admit him into some park where he could conceal himself, Adrian, with no very definite purpose in his mind, pushed it wide open and entered.
He found himself in dense darkness, standing in a path which apparently ran through a belt of beech trees whose branches meeting overhead shut out the midnight sky. With outstretched hands he carefully advanced, following the windings of the path, and carefully avoiding collision with the trunks of the tall trees on either side. At last he emerged into a wide lawn, half ringed by dense masses of trees, while at one end stood a large house with many gables and turrets standing black against the clear sky beyond.
Adrian recognized it as one of those old country houses which still remain in Hampstead, isolating themselves in sullen pride amid their wide parks, although enclosed on all sides by rows of red-brick villas and desirable residences. The long drive, the frightful excitement through which he had passed, and the dampness of the night were all telling on him physically, and he longed to find some place where he could lie down and rest. With this idea he stole across the lawn towards the house, and on turning the corner of a great beech tree which stood high up in a little knoll, he saw a bright light shining through an open French window. With stealthy steps and bated breath, he stepped up to it, keeping in the shadow beyond the stream of light, and on looking through espied a large comfortably-furnished apartment, with a man seated in a chair near a table covered with a white table-cloth, on which was spread a comfortable supper. Hardly knowing what he was doing, but only anxious to have someone to talk to and relieve his overburdened mind, Adrian boldly stepped into the room, a tall, sombre figure with muddy boots and wet with rain.
"Sir," said Lancaster, taking off his hat, "will you permit me to—"
Suddenly he broke off his speech with a low cry for the figure in the chair, that of an old man wrapped in a comfortable dressing-gown did not stir, but remained in the same position with still limbs and closed eyes. Adrian at first thought he was asleep, but his case was too urgent to permit him remaining till the man awoke, so stepping forward he touched him on the shoulder. To his dismay, the figure did not stir, and on looking closely at the still face, the closed eyes, and the rigid limbs, Lancaster saw that he was dead. This fearful sight in connection with the horrors he had already undergone was too much for his nerves, and with an ejaculation of terror he put on his hat, and strode rapidly towards the window with the intention of seeking safety once more in flight.
"Stay!"
Adrian faced round rapidly with a thrill of horror, for it was the man whom he had thought dead was speaking, and who was now standing up with outstretched hand.
"Do not be alarmed," he said in a full rich voice, with a reassuring smile. "I am not dead although you thought I was. Sit down for a few moments, and tell me who you are, and what you want here." Adrian was too astonished at this reception to make any remark, and still felt inclined to retreat, but his host seemed to exert some mesmeric power over him, and he mechanically sank down into a chair near the table, letting his walking-stick fall on the floor. The unknown was a tall, massive looking man, with boldly cut features and a head of grey hair, worn rather long. He also had a heavy grey beard which swept his chest, and his hands were long and slender with sinewy fingers; but what attracted Adrian's attention most were his eyes—dark brilliant eyes which had a look of power in their depths, and seemed to dominate everything with their piercing gaze. The expression of his features was calm, a terrible calm such as is seen upon the faces of Egyptian sphinxes, giving the onlooker the idea of some dread power concealed under the placid exterior.
"My name," observed this man in his musical voice, resuming his seat, "is Doctor Michael Roversmire, and I shall be very glad if you will kindly explain your presence in my house, but first take a glass of wine, as you seem quite worn out."
The young man, whose face looked worn and ill in the mellow light of the lamp, took the glass pushed forward by the doctor and drank off the contents. The generous liquor did him good, for it took away his feeling of fatigue, and as he replaced the glass on the table he felt able to reply to the question of his host. A feeling of caution, however, dictated his answer as he felt too much afraid of this calm man with the brilliant eyes to reveal all the events of the night.
"What my name is does not matter," he said in a somewhat defiant manner, "but for the rest I was walking along the road and finding the garden door open, I entered. Coming into this room I saw you sitting apparently dead, and was going away to seek assistance when you called on me to stop."
"A very fair explanation," said Roversmire, calmly fixing his gaze steadily on the young man, "but one that does not satisfy me—what right had you to come into my garden at this hour, and why are you in such a dishevelled state? Gentlemen don't usually walk about country roads in evening dress."
"I came from town," replied Adrian sullenly.
"That's more like it—but you're not telling me everything. I could compel you to do so but at present prefer you to exercise your free will."
"I won't tell you a thing."
"Reflect," said the doctor, a faint smile curling his lips, "you are in my power. I have only to touch a bell and my servants will come in—I can give you in charge as a burglar and then, once in the clutches of the law, who knows what truths may be revealed?"
Adrian drew a long breath and looked earnestly at his host, who on his part eyed him in a masterful manner, which seemed to compel him to answer even against his will. He sank back in his chair with a groan, feeling that in this room he was utterly powerless and at the absolute disposal of Dr. Roversmire.
"Come," said the latter quietly, "why set your will against mine? you are sure to be overpowered. I do not need to summon aid to enable me to retain you here; although apparently you can escape with the utmost ease through yonder window, yet unless I give you leave you will not be able to do so."
Adrian cast a frightful look of anguish at this man who seemed able to unveil the whole of the events of the night, which he was desirous of concealing, and made an effort to rise but in vain, for his limbs felt paralyzed and refused to obey his will, so he remained seated in his chair waiting for Roversmire to speak.
"You see," said that gentleman with a slight laugh, "you can do nothing contrary to my will, so your best plan is to tell me who you are and why you came here—perhaps I can help you."
"Impossible."
"That depends," replied the doctor placidly. "I possess powers, as you can see for yourself, which can do more for you than ordinary assistance—now there is no time to lose—tell me your name."
"Adrian Lancaster."
Roversmire's face flushed, and with an effort he preserved his composure, but it was evident that the young man's name conveyed some meaning to him for he muttered to himself:
"Adrian Lancaster—the man she loves—this is better than I thought—he will be of service to me and while helping him I may teach her a lesson she sorely needs. I must learn all this youth has to tell me."
He gazed steadily at the young man, and Adrian felt that in another moment he would reveal all he wished to keep secret, when by a powerful effort of will he checked the impulse.
"No! no!" he said thickly. "I won't tell you—I dare not—I dare not."
"You must," replied the doctor, in a relentless voice. "Judging from your speech you are in great trouble. I alone can help you, and to do so I must learn all the events which have brought you here—speak!"
"No! no! no!" cried Lancaster, with a terrible contortion of his face, "I refuse."
It was all in vain, however, setting his feeble will against that of the other, for little by little he felt the influence of the master mind dominate his own until at last all his resolution gave way with a rush, and in a quick, hurried voice, he told his tormentor all the events which had happened since he was playing cards with Philip Trevanna.
"Is that all?" said Roversmire, when Lancaster stopped in his recital from utter exhaustion. The young man made a motion with his head to signify it was, and the doctor, seeing that the effort had exhausted him both mentally and physically, made him drink another glass of wine, and then sitting down again in his own chair began to talk in a slow, deliberate manner.
"Judging from the explanation you have given me, you are in a very unpleasant position—however the man may be only stunned."
"No—no," interrupted Lancaster hurriedly, clasping his hands, "he is dead—I feel sure I killed him—oh, if I could only undo what I have done."
"That is impossible," said Roversmire a little sadly, "whatever we do always bears fruit either for good or evil, and we must abide by the consequences of our own acts—of course you killed Trevanna in a fit of passion, but I'm afraid such a plea will not hold good with a jury."
"Do you intend to give me up?" cried Adrian in a voice of anguish.
"By no means—I was only putting a supposititious case—far from wishing to give you up for a crime committed in such an irresponsible manner I am going to save you."
"But how?"
"That I will explain, but in order to do so I must tell you my history—it will sound like a romance to you, but luckily I shall be able to prove the truth of it to you by putting you in my own place."
"In your own place," said the young man in amazement.
"Exactly!" replied Roversmire gravely, "literally in my own place; as it happens I want to do something for which I must have assistance and you are the very person I want to assist me."
"Then the garden door—"
"Was standing open on purpose. I thought sooner or later it would catch some bird, but I tell you frankly I expected a rough customer—say a burglar—not a gentleman like yourself who is—"
"A murderer," groaned Adrian, hiding his face in his hands.
"Do not call yourself hard names," said Roversmire with a mocking smile; "you'll find plenty of people who will do that for you, if they see you, and even if they don't—the absent are always wrong."
"But they must see me—where can I hide?"
"In a very curious place," observed the doctor, "and one where they will never find you. I intend you to vanish."
"And fly the country?"
"No, you will stay in London, go about everywhere, meet your friends, and lead whatever life pleases you."
"But how can I do this if I vanish? I will be arrested if I go out."
"No, you will not."
"I don't understand."
"Nor will you till you hear my story."
"I'm ready."
The doctor looked piercingly at the young man for a moment, and then gave a satisfied laugh.
"I think you'll do," he said coolly, "desperate diseases require desperate remedies, and if you want to escape the strong arm of the law, you will have to undergo a very curious experience."
"And that experience."
"Forms the sequel to the story I am now going to tell you."
Chapter III.
The Dissection Of A Soul
"The history of my life which I am about to relate to you is known to no one, and I only reveal it now as it is necessary for the success of the experiment I contemplate making that you should know all about me. I am generally supposed to be a cosmopolitan as I speak many languages, have travelled a great deal, and physically resemble the natives of no particular country. As a matter of fact, however, I am of mixed blood, my father being an Irish adventurer, and my mother a pure-blooded Hindoo. This blending of the East and the West gave me on the one hand a strong physique, and on the other a reflective brain, so that I was eminently fitted for the strange career I chose to lead during the earlier part of my life.
"My father went out to India when it was ruled by the H.E.I.C. and, being an unscrupulous man, determined to make money in the easiest way he could. A chance soon presented itself, for my mother, the daughter of a high priest of Brahma, fell in love with his handsome face, and yielding to his protestations of love, gave up her country, religion and parents in order to fly with him, which she did, carrying with her no inconsiderable amount of wealth, principally consisting of gems stolen from the treasury of the temple.
"My parents came to England and, shortly after I was born, my mother, unable to bear the rigour of the English climate, died, while my father shortly afterwards followed her to the grave, being assisted there, as I strongly suspect, by a Hindoo servant who resented his treatment of my mother. This servant, by name Lai Chunder, then returned to India, taking with him the remnant of the stolen jewels and myself, the offspring of the ill-fated marriage. The jewels were restored to the temple of the offended god, and I was given in charge of my grandfather, the high priest, while Lai Chunder, having lost caste by crossing the ocean, was purified before the shrine of Brahma and then sent forth as a fakir to do penance for the rest of his life.
"Seeing that I was partly Irish, and the offspring of a man he hated, my grandfather was not at all prepossessed in my favour, and I have often wondered that he did not kill me by some subtle means known to his sect, but whatever power may have withheld his hand, he did not do so, but at first tolerated my presence and afterwards grew very fond of me. My mixed blood prevented me from becoming a priest, but my grandfather taught me all the lore of the temple, and being a remarkably quick child I soon picked up a great deal of curious knowledge. The East, as you know, has always been much more accomplished in esoteric learning than the West, seeing that the Asiatics study the operations of the spirit, while the Europeans confine themselves mostly to the material wants of man, so that having a vein of Eastern mysticism in my blood coming from my mother's side, I became deeply versed in occult science.
"As the years rolled by, I was initiated into the most profound mysteries and by subjecting my body to the ordeal of fasting, as practised by the fakirs and yoghis of Hindostan, I gained a wonderful command over the spiritual part of myself. Unluckily, my grandfather died just as I was attaining the last secrets of Eastern psychology, and, his influence being withdrawn, his fellow priests determined to kill me as one knowing too much of their secrets and dangerous to the brotherhood. Fortunately, however, my learning stood me in good stead for I discovered my danger and fled from the neighbourhood. This would not have saved me, seeing that the priests had at their command secrets which, if used, would have annihilated me physically by disintegrating my body, and sending my soul forth to the infinite without its fleshy envelope.
"At this critical stage of my career, however, I chanced to meet my old friend, Lai Chunder, who was still engaged in his life-long penance, and by his power I was protected in a great measure from the malignity of the Brahmins. Lai Chunder was a man who had a marvellous knowledge of those secrets of psychological science for which the self-complacent savants of Europe profess such profound contempt. For them the Hindoo trinity of Brahma the Creator, Vishnu the Preserver, and Siva the Destroyer, instead of being the visible emblems of a subtle religious system, are merely the proof of a gross idolatry. Thanks to my Indian blood, my initiation into the secret brotherhood, and my acquaintance with the learned yoghi, Lai Chunder, I was enabled to pierce the painted veil which hid the shrine from the eyes of the common people and participate in the wonderful secrets of metempsychosis won from the spiritual world through long centuries of patient work.
"I remained a long time with Lai Chunder, submitted myself to prolonged fastings, to terrible ordeals which required a soul of iron to withstand, and after years of self-torture, months of motionless contemplations, and long weeks of ardent study, I arrived at a profound knowledge of the hidden mysteries of the spiritual world. The ordeal was a frightful one, physically as well as mentally, but thanks to the tremendous vital powers I inherited from my father, and the subtle intellect which was the gift of my mother, I survived years of anguish and suffering, attaining at last the wished-for goal. I could leave this tenement of clay at will, and could send my astral body whither I desired.
"I could indulge in the dreams of a god, and partake of the joys of Paradise even before my body had perished from this earth. Willingly would I have remained away for ever and let my pain-twisted, scarred body return to the earth from whence it originally sprung, but the laws of the Universe prevented me; my time had not yet come, and I was forced to return at certain intervals and re-incarnate myself in this body which I now wear.
"One secret Lai Chunder withheld from me—a secret which I ardently desired to learn, namely, how to incarnate my own soul or that of another human being's in a separate body. I have seen my master leave his own body apparently lifeless, and re-incarnate his soul in a corpse; the dead arose, walked, talked, and lived under the animating influence of the soul of Lai Chunder, and then returned to its former lifeless condition when the animating soul came back once more to its accustomed tenement. This secret was withheld from me, as Lai Chunder considered I had not achieved a sufficient degree of purification to be blessed with such a boon, so in order to gain this last secret I travelled to Thibet and took up my abode with the mystic brotherhood who have their home in those distant wilds. I remained some years with them, and, at last, having attained the highest degree of spirituality possible for a denizen of this planet, I returned to Lai Chunder, whom I found on the point of death. His hour had come, and his soul was about to leave his emaciated body for the last time. Previous, however, to his departure, being satisfied with my efforts to deserve knowledge, he initiated me into the last secret of all, and then his soul departed from this earth for ever, to return to the spirit world from whence it originally came.
"When this took place I eagerly tried the effect of my newly-acquired knowledge, and, leaving my own body, I projected my soul into the shell of Lai Chunder. The experiment was entirely successful, for in the guise of Lai Chunder I arose and walked, while at my feet my former tenement remained motionless and empty. The laws of the universe, however, forced me to return once more to my own body, and having done so, I buried the mortal part of the yoghi in the earth to resolve into its original elements, and then left India for Europe.
"I did this as I was still an object of enmity to the priests, and although I now possessed spiritual powers equal to their own, was unwilling to come into collision with them in any way. I had plenty of money, and, as far as material wants were concerned, I was amply provided; while, of course, my life-long studies gave me complete command over the spiritual part of myself.
"I only arrived in England last year, and established myself in this house, which I found convenient to the city and also isolated enough to permit me to live my own life without comment. I have one servant, whom I hired when I first settled down, and he serves me sufficiently well—that is, he does everything necessary for my material wants, and speaks to no one about the life I lead. I frequently leave my body for days, and soar, untrammelled, through the wide expanse of the infinite—I have strange visions, wild dreams, unexplainable ecstacies—and my only regret is, that being bound by the laws of the universe, which are fixed and unalterable, I have to return at certain intervals to this body. Of course, my servant knows nothing of my trances, as his knowledge of me is bounded by the life I lead in this house.
"Curiously enough, in spite of my years of spiritual training, my material desires were not yet conquered, and six months after my arrival in this country I fell in love. What attracted me most about the young lady I became attached to, was not her beauty of face and form, although in both of these she was pre-eminent, but the strong masculine spirit which inhabited her feminine body. I was introduced to her through the medium of her father, on whom I called to deliver a letter of introduction from a friend in India. Finding that my material nature had surrendered to the spell she had cast over me, I determined to marry her and initiate her into the mysteries of occult science, so that, like myself, her soul would be able to leave her body and fly side by side with mine through infinite space. She, however, was already in love with a young man about her own age, and, not finding my ancient years and my scarred and emaciated body sufficiently attractive, refused to marry me—so, after many trials, failing to shake her resolution, I gave up all thought of attaining my object and returned here to await in patience the period of my solution, when my soul will at last leave this body and reside for ever in the unseen world which it loves.
"You may imagine that, now the only being I ever loved has so disdainfully trampled on the affection I offered her, I have no wish to stay on the earth longer than I can help. As I told you, however, the laws of the universe do not permit me to leave my body until the period appointed by God. Although I am now sixty years of age, and my body has been exposed to tortures and privations which would have killed an ordinary man, yet I still live on, and, so far as I can see, there is no probability of my dying for some years. Ardently desiring, however, to cut short my period of earth-life, I sought for some other solution of the enigma besides death. I could not die, and I dare not kill myself, for suicide is terribly punished in the spiritual world as soul-murder, but by means of my communings, while in the spirit, with the inhabitants of distant spheres, I have discovered that if I can obtain a soul willing to inhabit my own body and work out its allotted years, my own soul can leave the world for ever.
"This solution perplexed me very much, as I did not know where to find a man who would be willing to leave his own body and incarnate himself in this withered trunk which goes by the name of Dr. Michael Roversmire.
"I thought, however, that chance might send me someone willing to do what I wanted, and the garden door was left open by me so that some stranger might be drawn hither by my strong desire for his services. Had it been a burglar, I would have offered him the choice of being arrested for his attempt to rob my house, or of being incarnated in my body, enjoying my income and working out the balance of my life.
"Though some weeks have passed, no one came however, but to-night you presented yourself, and I think you will be an excellent subject for my purpose. You have committed a murder, and in your own body are in danger of being hanged. I therefore propose that you should conceal yourself in my frame and work out my allotted span of life, so that my soul can leave the world without sin and mingle for ever with the pure spirits who inhabit the unseen universe.
"You see, therefore, that if you are agreeable to my plan, I can secure you from all earthly harm by incarnating your soul in my body. As Adrian Lancaster, to-morrow will see you in prison, and a few weeks, possibly on the scaffold, but concealed in the personality of Dr. Michael Roversmire, you will be able to defy everyone and lead whatever life you desire.
"Now I have told you my story you can ask me whatever questions you please, but I think I have put the question plainly before you, and it remains with yourself whether you will accede to my request and incarnate yourself in my body or, as Adrian Lancaster, run the risk of arrest and an ignominious death at the hands of the law."
Chapter IV.
A Curious Transformation
Adrian listened to this strange recital in silent astonishment, and in spite of the trouble in which he was involved, felt inclined to regard the whole as the whimsical outcome of a madman's brain. He had heard a great deal about occult science, theosophy, and spiritist belief, but, engaged in a frivolous life, had not paid much attention to their teachings and looked upon them as the religions of charlatans and quacks. But here was a man who far outstripped the powers which theosophists and spiritists professed to exercise, arrogating to himself the functions of the Creator in dealing with souls. The whole narration was too fantastical for belief, still he was in such desperate danger that he gladly seized any chance that promised safety, and proceeded to interrogate Roversmire in order to find out if there was anything tangible in the weird belief he held.
"If I accept your offer," he said slowly, "and permit you to incarnate my soul in your body, what becomes of my own?"
"It will remain, to all appearances, dead, until your soul again returns to animate it."
"I will go back to it again, then?"
"Yes!—I think so. My body is sixty years old, yours is, I should say, about twenty-six years, and as things stand now, there is every prospect that you will outlive me. When, therefore your soul inhabits my body, such body will die at my allotted time, and your soul, having no habitation, will be forced to return to your own body in order to work out its period."
"But, suppose I am incarnated in your body for years, will not my own decay?"
"No—because it is not dead—only asleep. If, however, it is fated that you should die before myself, your body will begin to decay, and then you will remain in mine till the period fixed by God for solution, and your soul will then mingle in the world of spirits as if you had died in your own frame."
"I understand," said Adrian thoughtfully; "it is a curious idea."
"It is a very fortunate one—for you," replied Roversmire quietly.
"Where will my body remain during the time I am incarnated in yours?"
"In this house," said the doctor, rising and going over to the fireplace. "As there was danger that my body might be meddled with by ignorant people during the periods my soul was absent, it was necessary to place it in safety, so I sent my servant away for a few weeks and had a secret chamber constructed, about which he knows nothing. When I want to assume my astral body I tell him I am going out of town for a few days so that he may not think my disappearance strange. Then I enter into my secret chamber, leave my body there and go where I will, knowing that my fleshly envelope is safe till I return. When you entered to-night, however, I left my body sitting in yonder chair, but your presence warned my spirit of danger to the physical part of myself, so I returned in time to stay your exit."
"Where is this secret chamber," asked Adrian, rising, now more inclined to believe the fantastic story of the doctor. "Can I see it?"
"Certainly, it is important you should know it as you will have to leave your present body in it for safety. Look!"
He touched a spring in the mantelpiece, whereupon the whole of the fireplace swung round on a kind of pivot, showing that the back was hollow and that a narrow flight of steps led downward into darkness. Roversmire lighted a candle which stood on the mantelpiece, then taking it in his hands, bent down and entered into the cavity, beckoning to Adrian to follow. The young man did so, and as soon as they were on the verge of the steps, the doctor, touching another spring in the stone wall, caused the fireplace to swing back again into its place.
"You see, anyone in the room could not tell we were hidden here," said Roversmire, smiling. "Come downstairs and I will show you the secret of the pyramid."
Somewhat bewildered by this strange experience, Adrian followed the doctor down the narrow stairs guided by the glimmering light of the taper. They went down for some distance, then found themselves in a small square vault, with room enough for three people to stand in it. Roversmire again touched a spring and one part of the wall slid slowly aside, showing a space beyond in utter darkness.
"Another precaution, you see," said the doctor, pointing to the third spring. "Anyone who found the first secret would never guess the second. Come!"
He advanced into the vault, and going towards one end of it turned an ivory handle fixed in the wall, whereupon the whole apartment was irradiated with a powerful electric light. Adrian gave an exclamation of surprise and put his hands over his eyes as they felt quite painful in the sudden glare after the dense darkness, only lighted by the candle.
It was a moderate-sized apartment, circular in shape, with a domed roof of pure white, painted with signs of the Zodiac, and from the centre blazed the electric light hidden in a large semi-opaque globe. The walls were hung with strange tapestries of brilliant colours, whereon were depicted the animal gods of Egypt and the fantastic deities of India, while the floor was covered by a thick, soft carpet with a bizarre pattern in blue, yellow and red, the outcome of some opium-confused, oriental imagination. At one side of this queer place was a low couch covered with a magnificent tiger skin, and near at hand a mother-of-pearl inlaid Moorish table, whereon stood a decanter of red wine and some glasses, together with a plate of white bread.
"The existence of this is only known to ourselves," said Dr. Roversmire, casting a satisfied look around, "and here you can leave your body until such time as it is fated mine should die, when your soul will of course return to its former dwelling-place, but as the body left so long without action or food will be weak, you will find the wine and bread of great service in restoring your vital powers."
"But suppose your body dies soon and I have to return to my own," said the young man miserably. "I will then be arrested."
"That, of course, will be your own look out," retorted the doctor, shrugging his shoulders. "I provide you with a hiding-place for a time, and if my body dies and you lose your city of refuge—well, it is not my fault; but I think you can rest assured that unless some accident happens or you commit suicide, my body will continue on this earth for a few more years, and by the time it dies the whole affair of this murder will have blown over and you can re-animate your own body, go out of the county and live on my money, which I freely make over to you."
"Are you rich?"
"Yes, I think you will find plenty of ready money standing in my name in the International Bank, and moreover in my desk is a small box of gems which are worth a great deal; whatever income you may possess now, I don't think you'll suffer by the change into my body."
"But are you not sorry to give up all this wealth?"
Dr. Roversmire laughed in an amused manner, as if Adrian had asked a childish question, which, indeed, he had, from the doctor's point of view.
"Sorry," he echoed, "sorry to exchange this weary body for an astral one—sorry to give up the gross pleasures of earth for the pure delights of the spiritual world? No, I am not sorry; the change to me will be like that of a beggar man passing suddenly from abject poverty to kingly affluence."
"But reflect," said Adrian earnestly, "if I accept your offer, think of what I am—I have committed a crime. According to my own showing I am not a good man; my soul in your body may commit many foolish actions, and yet you will be held guilty of them."
"My body will, not my soul," replied Roversmire coolly. "Whatever you do in my body will have to be expiated by your own soul since it is your freewill that acts and not mine—as to my personality, which you seem afraid of harming, it does not matter to me in the least—I have no relations on whom your actions in my body would bring disgrace; you can do what you like with my shell—I am only concerned about my soul.
"But how about your past life?"
"I have told you all my past life, but should you need to know more there are plenty of papers in my desk which will tell you every action of mine since my arrival in England; with my Indian life you have nothing to do, as no trouble will come from there; my reputation is that of a savant and a recluse; when you occupy my body you can indulge in whatever pranks you like, but I warn you, that however youthful your soul may be, the body is old and weak, and if you play with it you will kill it and thus lose your city of refuge sooner than you expect, so your safety rests entirely with yourself."
"It's impossible to undo the past," said Adrian gloomily, "and although I committed the crime in a moment of passion, I will never cease to feel remorse.
"That is part of your punishment," said Roversmire seriously. "I can give you a new body but not a new soul, so whatever acts of evil you have done in your past life the remembrance will always cling to you; but if you expiate your crime on earth by prayers and repentance in my body and in your own, it will purify your spirit for the world beyond. Now I think everything has been explained, so if you will lie down on that couch I will release my own soul and accomplish the transformation of yours into my body."
"One moment," cried Adrian, as he sat down on the couch, "how can I sign your name to cheques and imitate your handwriting?"
"You will do so mechanically," said Roversmire, who was lighting a fire in a small brazier; "writing is an operation of the body, not of the soul. I cannot give you my learning, as that pertains to the soul and I take it with me, but all material knowledge I possess or physical dexterity I have acquired will be yours, to use as you will—now, are you ready?"
"Yes," said Adrian, obediently lying down, "but I am engaged to marry a girl called Olive Maunders—how will that affect me in your body?"
"Of course she won't know you," replied the doctor with a peculiar smile, fanning the fire which was now at red heat. "You will have to wait till you reassume your own body before marrying her—but it is simply a question of safety for you just now, so you'd better leave love out of the question or you will lose your life, your love, and everything else."
Adrian gave a sigh of sorrow, and slightly turning his head, watched the preparations of the doctor. The fire was now burning a deep red, and the brazier was standing in the centre of a ring of white powder which had been strewn around it. The doctor bent down and touched this powder with his finger, muttering some words, whereupon a blue lambent flame sprang up and ran round the circle. Roversmire then cast some herbs on the fire, which he took out of a small silver box, and raising his arms chanted a kind of hymn in a low soft voice. The wild music, barbaric in the extreme, rose and fell like the rhythmical fall of waves on a lonely beach, and a thick white smoke curled upward from the brazier, spreading a pungent odour through the vault.
After a time Roversmire, looking strange and spectral amid the veil of smoke, paused in his chanting, crossed over to the young man and spoke solemnly:
"I am about to leave this world for that of the spirits and I leave your soul in charge of my body—make good use of it, for what you do will be of your own free will and must be expiated by your own spirit. Are you ready and willing to take this burden upon you?"
"I am ready," replied Adrian slowly.
"Then close your eyes," commanded Roversmire going over to the brazier. "Farewell, and may your crime-stained soul be cleansed by prayer, repentance and expiation."
In obedience to the instructions, Adrian closed his eyes and felt the acrid odour of the smoke titillate his nostrils, while the doctor resumed his measured chant. The strange melody which sounded like the wailing of a lost spirit seemed to recede further and further away as the senses of the young man became clouded by the fumes spreading through the apartment. Suddenly his whole body felt contorted with extreme pain, every muscle, every nerve seemed to be wrenched asunder, and in a paroxysm of terror he strove to cry out, but was unable to do so. Fire seemed to run all through his body, burning up his physical frame, and he writhed and twisted in an agony of torture, then a thick darkness seemed to descend on his brain and he remembered no more.
How long the thick darkness continued he did not know, for when he opened his eyes again he was lying on the floor near the brazier, from whence all the fire had died away. A cold air pervaded the vault, and raising himself from the floor, Adrian saw with a sudden thrill of horror that his body, pale and still, was lying on the couch while he himself, looking down at his limbs, saw that they were wrapped in Roversmire's dressing-gown. With a cry which did not sound like his own voice he walked to a mirror which was hanging on the wall and then recoiled with a shudder, for the face which looked from the glass was not his own handsome countenance, but the old, grey-bearded, wrinkled face of Roversmire, now no longer calm and placid but convulsed with terror and anguish.
The transformation had taken place.
Adrian, in the person of Dr. Michael Roversmire, walked languidly over to the table, already feeling in his limbs the difference between youth and age, and pouring out a glass of wine drank it up. Then looking at his own body lying so still on the couch, he folded the arms across the chest, lighted the candle, and after turning out the electric light, left the vault.
He soon found his way back to the room above, as his hands seemed to mechanically discover the secret springs, then putting back the fireplace into its original condition, he blew out the candle and replaced it on the table, then falling on his knees prayed long and earnestly.
He was safe so far, for his guilty soul now inherited the body of Roversmire, and his outward semblance, which would have caused his arrest, was safely hidden in the secret room below.
The events of the night had been terrible, and quite worn out with the anguish and misery his soul had undergone, he staggered to a couch, flung himself down on it and was soon fast asleep.
Chapter V.
New Wine In An Old Bottle
When Adrian awoke next morning he half thought that the fantastic events of the night were but the outcome of some strange dream, but a single glance in the mirror soon disillusioned him as he saw reflected back the countenance of Dr. Michael Roversmire. It was true then—he had voluntarily placed his soul in the outward semblance of the old man, and would have to lead his life, be bound by his physical restrictions and be to all intents and purposes another person, until such time as the worn-out body died and he could return once more to his own frame. And then there would be the danger of paying the penalty of the crime he had committed. No! there was no safety for him save in the guise of age, and he would have to patiently endure this servitude which he had brought upon himself.
While he was seated on the couch in the disordered sitting-room, wondering what was the first step to take in his new existence, the door opened and a pale, lean man, quietly dressed in black, appeared. This was Dentham, the servant alluded to by Doctor Roversmire, and his appearance by no means impressed Adrian in a favourable manner. Tall, thin and supple, his movements seemed to have the sinuosity of a serpent, and his pallid face, clean shaven and serious, looked cold and cunning under a sparse crop of thin red hair, giving the young man an uneasy feeling of repulsion, similar to that provoked by the sight of a noxious animal. The shifty grey eyes, habitually downcast, the thin lips twitching involuntarily at the corners and the air of self-restraint, all clearly pointed to the fact that this man had a cunning nature and would by no means be averse to performing any treacherous action for the sake of money. Adrian took an immediate dislike to his physiognomy, which dislike was not lessened when he heard the soft, hissing voice which issued from the thin lips.
"Have you not been in bed, sir?" he asked, closing the door softly after him, and coming forward to the centre of the room.
"No," replied Adrian, in a dull voice, feeling it incumbent upon him to keep up the character he had assumed, "I have been engaged in writing and just slept here for a few hours."
Dentham cast a swift glance at the writing materials lying on a desk standing near the window, let his cold glance dwell doubtfully for a moment on his master's face and then spoke again.
"What would you be pleased to have for breakfast, sir?"
"The same as usual," replied Adrian, who had not the slightest idea but that Roversmire might have been a vegetarian, and therefore felt afraid to say anything. "Meanwhile I'll go up to my room and have a bath."
"You will find everything ready, sir," answered Dentham, respectfully holding the door open.
Adrian did not know where the bedroom was, but did not like to ask Dentham, knowing it would look curious in his eyes, so left the room, trusting to chance to find it. Luckily he had not proceeded very far when he saw through an open door a sponge-bath filled with water, and guessing this to be Roversmire's bedroom, went-inside, closing the door after him.
Left alone in the sitting-room, Dentham's manner underwent a rapid change and from wearing an air of cold self-restraint he became as eager and as anxious as a ferret. He glanced rapidly round the room, went across to the writing-desk, turned over the papers quickly with his lean hands, marked the two arm-chairs set opposite one another near the table, noticed that two glasses had been filled with wine, then suddenly caught sight of Adrian's stick, which he had thrown down the previous evening.
"I knew I was right," murmured Dentham to himself, pouncing eagerly on the stick. "It was the voice of a stranger. Someone's been to see him. I wonder what's up; this ain't his stick."
He looked carefully at the stick, a massive oaken staff, round the top of which was a gold band, marked with the letters "A. L.," which discovery seemed to afford him much satisfaction.
"I wonder who it was came," he repeated, twisting the stick round and round. "The letters of his name are 'A. L.,' and he's gone off again, leaving his stick behind him. That's queer! Rum old cove, my master. I can't make him out."
The fact was, Dr. Roversmire's peculiar mode of life had roused the curiosity of Mr. Dentham, who was of a very suspicious nature, and he was anxious to find out the reason of his master's solitary life, and if possible turn it to his own advantage. Up till the present, although he had watched the movements of the doctor closely, nothing had occurred to justify his suspicions that anything was wrong, but on the previous night he had heard two voices in conversation, and now that he saw two separate glasses of wine had been drunk, and had found the tangible evidence of the walking-stick, he became assured that his master had received a visitor during the night.
"Wish I'd listened," said Mr. Dentham, in a disappointed tone. "I might have found out what was up. I wouldn't be a bit surprised to find the old cove was a forger or a thief—there must be some reason for the way he lives, and if I find out anything, I'll make some money out of it."
He went off to his own room, hid the stick safely away, returning with a self-satisfied air to lay the table, fully determined to keep his eyes open and watch the actions of Dr. Roversmire so as to trip him up should he espy anything wrong.
Meanwhile Adrian had freshened himself with a bath, and changed his clothes for some which he found in the wardrobe, still, however, retaining the dressing-gown, as he did not want to make too sudden a change in his outward appearance. He intended to make a close examination of all Roversmire's papers in order to get himself thoroughly conversant with the daily life of the recluse. It was curious that he should take so much trouble in learning all the tricks, manners and daily actions of his usual body, seeing that it was impossible anyone could comprehend the change that had taken place, and however strikingly he altered his habits it would be put down by every person to the well-known eccentricities of the doctor. Assuming a new body as a disguise is very different from assuming a new garb, and it was this very novelty that made Adrian so painfully careful, as it seemed almost impossible to him that no one should notice the transformation.
Having finished his toilet, he returned to the sitting-room and found the table spread for breakfast consisting of milk, eggs, watercress and fruit.
Dentham was in attendance, but Adrian speedily dismissed him, as he felt ill at ease under the stealthy glances which the servant bestowed upon him whenever he felt himself unobserved.
"I wonder if he notices any difference," said Adrian to himself when Dentham had retired, closing the door softly after him, "Pshaw! of course not—it would be a clever person who could find the soul of Adrian Lancaster in the body of Michael Roversmire."
He made a very good breakfast and was about to devote himself to the task of looking over Roversmire's private papers, when he suddenly recollected his hat, cloak and stick, not wishing to leave them about, lest the keen eyes of Dentham should see them and an awkward explanation might ensue. Although he searched the sitting-room yet he could not find them; then suddenly recollected that he might have taken them down with him to the secret chamber. In order to be certain of this and set his mind at rest, he lighted a candle, touched the spring and having replaced the fireplace in its normal condition so as to obviate discovery by Dentham, descended into the vault, turned on the electric light and looked around.
The sight of his former body lying so still and deathlike gave him a momentary pang, and he could not help contrasting its handsome face and fine figure with his present uncouth exterior, for owing to the ordeals to which it had been subjected, the body of Dr. Roversmire was in a rather battered condition. Adrian saw that his own frame was still wrapped in the ulster, and the hat lay beside the couch on the floor, but although he hunted in every corner of the vault he could not find the stick. With a thrill of terror he extinguished the electric light and then in the darkness, feebly lighted by the glimmering taper, he seemed to feel the spiritual presence of the old fakir, who had doubtless returned to see how the occupant of his body was getting on. A cold breath of air seemed to break suddenly into the warm atmosphere of the vault, and Adrian half thought he saw a luminous cloud hovering near him. The half vision however soon vanished, and the young man put it down to the excited state of his mind. Still, the vault seemed to be occupied by some strange presence, and he hurriedly left this nether apartment and returned hurriedly to the upper room, which he luckily found still untenanted.
"Thank heaven that infernal servant didn't discover my absence," he thought, blowing out the candle. "I don't trust him in any way, and the old doctor was more easily gulled than I should have thought possible if he believed in a man with such a treacherous face."
At this moment the subject of his reflections entered the room and proceeded to clear away the breakfast things, at the same time handing the Daily Telegraph of the day to his master.
"By-the-way, Dentham, you did not see a walking-stick lying about here—an oak stick with a gold band round it?" asked Adrian unfolding the paper.
"No sir, I did not," replied Dentham, telling the lie without moving a muscle of his pale face, "was it yours sir?"
"Yes! I carried it yesterday and left it lying about the room."
"I did not know you were out yesterday, sir."
"You don't know a good many things," said Adrian tartly, smoothing out the newspaper, "you can go."
Dentham withdrew without a word and smiled subtly to himself when safe outside.
"Says it's his own stick," he muttered under his breath. "Oh, yes, I dare say—but your name don't begin with 'A. L.' Dr. Roversmire—there's something queer about all this; I believe he's the head of a gang of forgers and one of 'em came to see him. I'll keep my eyes open in case there's a row."
Adrian soon dismissed the episode of the stick from his mind, as he did not remember all the events of the previous night and half thought he might have lost the stick in his journey from the garden door to the house. Meantime he looked at the paper anxious to see if there was anything about his crime of the previous night. As he anticipated there was a short statement, but owing to the late hour at which the affair had taken place, a very full report had not come to hand.