"Certainly not," I replied. "You are fixed here for a week or a fortnight at the very least."
"You don't say so? We meant to go home on the Saturday of this week. We intended to finish our honeymoon at home. Unconventional, of course, but just what we wished for. The tenants were getting up no end of demonstrations. I have just received a letter from my steward, Berring."
"You must postpone everything for the present," I replied, and then I ran downstairs to get the address of the doctor. His name was Grey—he was a middle-aged man, and lived in a small side street not far away. I called, found him at home, and gave him full particulars with regard to Mrs. Raymond's case. I was not predisposed in his favour. He seemed narrow-minded and old-fashioned. It was necessary, however, that some medical man should take charge of my patient, and as Grey alone represented the faculty in this little, out-of-the-world town, I was forced to make the best of circumstances. I took him to see Mrs. Raymond; marked out very carefully a certain line of treatment, which he promised to adopt, and finally was able, through his assistance, to secure the services of a fairly capable nurse, who would remain with the patient until I could send down a professional nurse from town.
During the day that followed there was no change whatever in the condition of the young wife. She still sat up in bed, and played with her hair, and seemed feebly and childishly happy. She laughed with pleasure when she saw the nurse, clapped her hands as if she were a child of six, and whispered to her to be sure to keep Raymond out of the room. I shall never forget the expression on my poor friend's face when he witnessed this action; and when the nurse was forced to tell him what the poor girl had said, he turned away with a groan, and clutching my arm with his strong hand, said, half to himself:—
"It's all up, then. That dream of happiness is shattered."
He saw me into the train, and I returned to town much disturbed and more fearful as to the results than I cared to own.
I arrived in London at an early hour the next morning, and going straight to Hanover Square, saw the matron of the excellent establishment for trained nurses which is to be found there. I described the case, and chose a bright-looking young woman who I was sure had tact as well as experience. Making hasty arrangements that she should start at once, I wired what I had done to Will.
My own duties were sufficiently arduous to occupy every moment of my time and every atom of my thoughts during the rest of that day. I returned home, fagged out, at a late hour that evening, and had just desired my servant to bring up supper, of which I stood much in need, when, instead, he handed me a telegram on a salver.
"When did this come?" I asked, looking at it suspiciously, and my thoughts instantly darting away to poor Will Raymond and his unhappy little wife.
"The telegram came half an hour ago, sir," replied the servant.
I tore it open and uttered a groan. I was not prepared for the news which it contained.
"Mrs. Raymond died at three o'clock this afternoon.—Grey."
The pink slip of paper fluttered out of my hand, and I sat in an almost dazed condition for several minutes. I had not time, however, for any long meditation. There came a sharp peal to my front door, and another telegram was brought to me.
This was from Will. It contained the sort of news which I might have expected:—
"For God's sake, come to me, Halifax. Come to-night."
Alas, it was impossible for me to comply. I had a case to attend to which by no possibility could I depute to another. I telegraphed to Will telling him that I could not leave for Wales until the following evening, but that then nothing should hinder my joining him.
I have nothing special to say about the time which intervened. I had the satisfaction of knowing that I had pulled my patient through a severe illness, and, weary but thankful, I stepped into the midnight train which was to take me to Wales.
Once again I arrived there in the morning, but this time Grey was waiting for me on the platform. He came forward to meet me with much eagerness, shook my hand and looked into my face. His manner was disturbed, and his somewhat phlegmatic nature evidently stirred to its depths.
"I am more than glad you have come," he said. "Raymond is in a very queer way. I thought his wife insane before her death; I now think that unless something is immediately done for his relief, his brain will go."
"Nonsense, nonsense," I retorted. "Raymond has as steady a brain as any fellow I know."
But then I stopped abruptly. Certain peculiarities with regard to his past history occurred to me, and I was silent. Raymond
