The Great Impersonation by E. Phillips Oppenheim (books to read now txt) 📕

have seen the truth these few minutes. There is a reason, Everard, why I should not kill you.”

“What is it?” he demanded.

She shook her head with all the joy of a child who keeps a secret.

“You are clever,” she said. “I will leave you to find it out. I am excited now, and I want you to go away for a little time. Please send Mrs. Unthank to me.”

The prospect of release was a strange relief, mingled still more strangely with regret. He lingered over her hand.

“If you walk in your sleep tonight, then,” he begged, “you will leave your dagger behind?”

“I have told you,” she answered, as though surprised, “that I have abandoned my intention. I shall not kill you. Even though I may walk in my sleep⁠—and sometimes the nights are so long⁠—it will not be your death I seek.”

XI

Dominey left the room like a man in a dream, descended the stairs to his own part of the house, caught up a hat and stick and strode out into the sea mist which was fast enveloping the gardens. There was all the chill of the North Pole in that ice-cold cloud of vapour, but nevertheless his forehead remained hot, his pulses burning. He passed out of the postern gate which led from the walled garden on to a broad marsh, with dikes running here and there, and lapping tongues of sea water creeping in with the tide. He made his way seaward with uncertain steps until he reached a rough and stony road; here he hesitated for a moment, looked about him, and then turned back at right angles. Soon he came to a little village, a village of ancient cottages, with seasoned, redbrick tiles, trim little patches of garden, a church embowered with tall elm trees, a triangular green at the crossroads. On one side a low, thatched building⁠—the Dominey Arms; on another, an ancient, square stone house, on which was a brass plate. He went over and read the name, rang the bell, and asked the trim maidservant who answered it, for the doctor. Presently, a man of youthful middle-age presented himself in the surgery and bowed. Dominey was for a moment at a loss.

“I came to see Doctor Harrison,” he ventured.

“Doctor Harrison retired from practice some years ago,” was the courteous reply. “I am his nephew. My name is Stillwell.”

“I understood that Doctor Harrison was still in the neighbourhood,” Dominey said. “My name is Dominey⁠—Sir Everard Dominey.”

“I guessed as much,” the other replied. “My uncle lives with me here, and to tell you the truth he was hoping that you would come and see him. He retains one patient only,” Doctor Stillwell added, in a graver tone. “You can imagine who that would be.”

His caller bowed. “Lady Dominey, I presume.”

The young doctor opened the door and motioned to his guest to precede him.

“My uncle has his own little apartment on the other side of the house,” he said. “You must let me take you to him.”

They moved across the pleasant white stone hall into a small apartment with French windows leading out to a flagged terrace and tennis lawn. An elderly man, broad-shouldered, with weather-beaten face, grey hair, and of somewhat serious aspect, looked around from the window before which he was standing examining a case of fishing flies.

“Uncle, I have brought an old friend in to see you,” his nephew announced.

The doctor glanced expectantly at Dominey, half moved forward as though to greet him, then checked himself and shook his head doubtfully.

“You certainly remind me very much of an old friend, sir,” he said, “but I can see now that you are not he. I do not believe that I have ever seen you before in my life.”

There was a moment’s somewhat tense silence. Then Dominey advanced a little stiffly and held out his hand.

“Come, Doctor,” he said. “I can scarcely have changed as much as all that. Even these years of strenuous life⁠—”

“You mean to tell me that I am speaking to Everard Dominey?” the doctor interposed.

“Without a doubt!”

The doctor shook hands coolly. His was certainly not the enthusiastic welcome of an old family attendant to the representative of a great family.

“I should certainly never have recognised you,” he confessed.

“My presence here is nevertheless indisputable,” Dominey continued. “Still attracted by your old pastime, I see, Doctor?”

“I have only taken up fly fishing,” the other replied drily, “since I gave up shooting.”

There was another somewhat awkward pause, which the younger man endeavoured to bridge over.

“Fishing, shooting, golf,” he said; “I really don’t know what we poor medical practitioners would do in the country without sport.”

“I shall remind you of that later,” Dominey observed. “I am told that the shooting is one of the only glories that has not passed away from Dominey.”

“I shall look forward to the reminder,” was the prompt response.

His uncle, who had been bending once more over the case of flies, turned abruptly around.

“Arthur,” he said, addressing his nephew, “you had better start on your round. I dare say Sir Everard would like to speak to me privately.”

“I wish to speak to you certainly,” Dominey admitted, “but only professionally. There is no necessity⁠—”

“I am late already, if you will excuse me,” Doctor Stillwell interrupted. “I will be getting on. You must excuse my uncle, Sir Everard,” he added in a lower tone, drawing him a little towards the door, “if his manners are a little gruff. He is devoted to Lady Dominey, and I sometimes think that he broods over her case too much.”

Dominey nodded and turned back into the room to find the doctor, his hands in his old-fashioned breeches pockets, eyeing him steadfastly.

“I find it very hard to believe,” he said a little curtly, “that you are really Everard Dominey.”

“I am afraid you will have to accept me as a fact, nevertheless.”

“Your present appearance,” the old man continued, eyeing him appraisingly, “does not in any way bear out the description I had of you