"Sit down for a moment," said Miss Whitby; "you must have some refreshment. What can I give you? I am always stupid about opening champagne bottles; but perhaps you can do it for yourself. This is Jules Mumm. If my father were here I am sure he would recommend it."
"I don't care for anything," I replied. "If your father is ill, I should like to see him. Have you told him that I am here?"
"No. Do you think I would dare? Did not I tell you how he hated doctors?"
"Then perhaps he is not ill enough to need one," I said, rising to my feet. "In that case I will wish you good evening."
"Now you are angry with me," said Miss Whitby; "I am sure I am not surprised, for I have taken a most unwarrantable liberty with you. But if you only would have patience! I want you to see him, of course, but we must manage it."
She sank down on a sofa, and pressed her hand to her brow. She was wonderfully beautiful. I can frankly state that I had never seen anyone so lovely before. A strange sensation of admiration mixed with repulsion came over me, as I stood by the hearth and watched her.
"Look here," I said, suddenly, "I have come to this house for the express purpose of seeing your father, who is supposed to be ill. If you do not take me to him immediately, I must say good-night."
She laughed when I said this.
"It's so easy to say good-night," she replied. Then, of a sudden, her manner changed. "Why do I tease you," she said, "when you have been more than kind to me? In truth, there never was a girl in all London who had less cause for laughter than I have now. There is one being in the world whom I love. My fears about my father have been verified, Dr. Halifax. He has just gone through one of those strange and terrible seizures. When he left the theatre I knew he would have it, for I am so well acquainted with the signs. I hoped we should have returned in time to see him in the unconscious stage. He has recovered consciousness, and I am a little anxious about the effect on him of your presence in the room. Of course, beyond anything, I want you to see him. But what do you advise me to do?"
Her manner was so impressive, and the sorrow on her young face so genuine, that once more I was the doctor, with all my professional instincts alive and strong.
"The best thing to do is this," I said. "You will take me to your father's room, and introduce me quite quietly as Dr. Halifax. The chances are a hundred to one that when he sees the real doctor, his prejudices against the imaginary ones will melt into air. One thing at least I can promise—he shall not blame you."
Miss Whitby appeared to ponder over my advice for a moment.
"All right," she said, suddenly. "What you suggest is a risk, but it is perhaps the best thing to do. We will go upstairs at once. Will you follow me?"
The house was well furnished, but very dark. There was a strange and unusual absence of gas. Miss Whitby held a lighted candle in her hand as she flitted upstairs.
We paused on the next landing. She turned abruptly to her right, and we entered a room which must have been over the sitting-room where the supper was laid. This room was large and lofty. It was furnished in the old-fashioned style. The four-post bedstead was made of dark mahogany. The wardrobe and chairs were of the same. When we entered the room was in darkness, and the little flicker of the candle did not do much to light it up.
Leonora laid it down on a table, and walked directly up to the bed. A man was lying there stretched out flat with his arms to his sides. He was in evening dress, and it did not take me an instant to recognise him as the old man who had accompanied the girl to the theatre. His eyes were shut now, and he looked strikingly handsome. His whole face was so pale, that it might have been cut in marble. He did not move an eyelid nor stir a finger when I approached and bent over him.
"Father," said Miss Whitby.
He made her no answer.
"He is unconscious again—he is worse," she exclaimed, clasping her hands, and looking at me with terror.
"No, no," I answered. "There is nothing to be alarmed about."
I said this in confidence, for I had taken hold of my patient's wrist, and found that the pulse was full and steady. I bent a little closer over the man, and it instantly flashed through my mind with a sensation of amazement that his unconscious condition was only feigned.
I remembered again the sinister expression of his eyes as he left the theatre, and the thought which flashed then through my brain returned to me.
"He does not look ill."
I put his hand back on the bed, but not too quietly, and asking Miss Whitby to bring
