Mysterious Mr. Sabin by E. Phillips Oppenheim (read books for money TXT) 📕

“Dear Lady Deringham,—My old friend, Franklin Wilmot, who has been staying at Cromer, has just called upon me. We have been having a chat, and he is extremely interested in Lord Deringham’s case, so much so that I had arranged to come over with him this evening to see if you would care to have his opinion. Unfortunately, however, I have been summoned to attend a patient nearly ten miles away—a bad accident, I fear—and Wilmot is leaving for town to-morrow morning. I suggested, however, that he might call on his way back to Cromer, and if you would kindly let him see Lord Deringham, I should be glad, as his opinion would be of material assistance to me. Wilmot’s reputation as the greatest living authority on cases of partial mania is doubtless known to you, and as he never, under any circumstances, visits patients outside London, it would be a great pity to lose this opportunity.

“In great haste and begging you to excuse this scrawl,

“I am, dear Lady Deringham,
“Yours sincerely,
“John Whitlett.

“P.S.—You will please not offer him any fee.”

Wolfenden folded up the letter and returned it.

“Well, I suppose it’s all right,” he said. “It’s an odd time, though, to call on an errand of this sort.”

“So I thought,” Lady Deringham agreed; “but Dr. Whitlett’s explanation seems perfectly feasible, does it not? I said that I would consult you. You will come in and see him?”

Wolfenden followed his mother into the drawing-room. A tall, dark man was sitting in a corner, under a palm tree. In one hand he held a magazine, the pictures of which he seemed to be studying with the aid of an eyeglass, the other was raised to his mouth. He was in the act of indulging in a yawn when Wolfenden and his mother entered the room.

“This is my son, Lord Wolfenden,” she said. “Dr. Franklin Wilmot.”

The two men bowed.

“Lady Deringham has explained to you the reason of my untimely visit, I presume?” the latter remarked at once.

Wolfenden assented.

“Yes! I am afraid that it will be a little difficult to get my father to see you on such short notice.”

“I was about to explain to Lady Deringham, before I understood that you were in the house,” Dr. Wilmot said, “that although that would be an advantage, it is not absolutely necessary at present. I should of course have to examine your father before giving a definite opinion as to his case, but I can give you a very fair idea as to his condition without seeing him at all.”

Wolfenden and his mother exchanged glances.

“You must forgive us,” Wolfenden commenced hesitatingly, “but really I can scarcely understand.”

“Of course not,” their visitor interrupted brusquely. “My method is one which is doubtless altogether strange to you, but if you read the Lancet or the Medical Journal, you would have heard a good deal about it lately. I form my conclusions as to the mental condition of a patient almost altogether from a close inspection of their letters, or any work upon which they are, or have been, recently engaged. I do not say that it is possible to do this from a single letter, but when a man has a hobby, such as I understand Lord Deringham indulges in, and has devoted a great deal of time to real or imaginary work in connection with it, I am generally able, from a study of that work, to tell how far the brain is weakened, if at all, and in what manner it can be strengthened. This is only the crudest outline of my theory, but to be brief, I can give you my opinion as to Lord Deringham’s mental condition, and my advice as to its maintenance, if you will place before me the latest work upon which he has been engaged. I hope I have made myself clear.”

“Perfectly,” Wolfenden answered. “It sounds very reasonable and very interesting, but I am afraid that there are a few practical difficulties in the way. In the first place, my father does not show his work or any portion of it to any one. On the other hand he takes the most extraordinary precautions to maintain absolute secrecy with regard to it.”

“That,” Dr. Wilmot remarked, “is rather a bad feature of the case. It is a difficulty which I should imagine you could get over, though. You could easily frame some excuse to get him away from his study for a short time and leave me there. Of course the affair is in your hands altogether, and I am presuming that you are anxious to have an opinion as to your father’s state of health. I am not in the habit of seeking patients,” he added, a little stiffly. “I was interested in my friend Whitlett’s description of the case, and anxious to apply my theories to it, as it happens to differ in some respects from anything I have met with lately. Further, I may add,” he continued, glancing at the clock, “if anything is to be done it must be done quickly. I have no time to spare.”

“You had better,” Wolfenden suggested, “stay here for the night in any case. We will send you to the station, or into Cromer, as early as you like in the morning.”

“Absolutely impossible,” Dr. Wilmot replied briefly. “I am staying with friends in Cromer, and I have a consultation in town early to-morrow morning. You must really make up your minds at once whether you wish for my opinion or not.”

“I do not think,” Lady Deringham said, “that we need hesitate for a moment about that!”

Wolfenden looked at him doubtfully. There seemed to be no possibility of anything but advantage in accepting this offer, and yet in a sense he was sorry that it had been made.

“In case you should attach any special importance to your father’s manuscripts,” Dr. Wilmot remarked, with a note of sarcasm in his tone, “I might add that it is not at all necessary for me to be alone in the study.”

Wolfenden felt a little uncomfortable under the older man’s keen gaze. Neither did he altogether like having his thoughts read so accurately.

“I suppose,” he said, turning to his mother, “you could manage to get him away from the library for a short time?”

“I could at least try,” she answered. “Shall I?”

“I think,” he said, “that as Dr. Wilmot has been good enough to go out of his way to call here, we must make an effort.”

Lady Deringham left the room.

Dr. Wilmot, whose expression of absolute impassiveness had not altered in the least during their discussion, turned towards Wolfenden.

“Have you yourself,” he said, “never seen any of your father’s manuscripts? Has he never explained the scheme of his work to you?”

Wolfenden shook his head.

“I know the central idea,” he answered—“the weakness of our navy and coast defences, and that is about all I know. My father, even when he was an admiral on active service, took an absolutely pessimistic view of both. You may perhaps remember this. The Lords of the Admiralty used to consider him, I believe, the one great thorn in their sides.”

Dr. Wilmot shook his head.

“I have never taken any interest in such matters,” he said. “My profession has been completely absorbing during the last ten years.”

Wolfenden nodded.

“I know,” he remarked, “that I used to read the newspapers and wonder why on earth my father took such pains to try and frighten everybody. But he is altogether changed now. He even avoids the subject, although I am quite sure that it is his one engrossing thought. It is certain that no one has ever given such time and concentrated energy to it before. If only his work was the work of a sane man I could understand it being very valuable.”

“Not the least doubt about it, I should say,” Dr. Wilmot replied carelessly.

The door opened and Lady Deringham reappeared.

“I have succeeded,” she said. “He is upstairs now. I will try and keep him there for half an hour. Wolfenden, will you take Dr. Wilmot into the study?”

Dr. Wilmot rose with quiet alacrity. Wolfenden led the way down the long passage which led to the study. He himself was scarcely prepared for such signs of unusual labours as confronted them both when they opened the door. The round table in the centre of the room was piled with books and a loose heap of papers. A special rack was hung with a collection of maps and charts. There were nautical instruments upon the table, and compasses, as well as writing materials, and a number of small models of men-of-war. Mr. Blatherwick, who was sitting at the other side of the room busy with some copying, looked up in amazement at the entrance of Wolfenden and a stranger upon what was always considered forbidden ground.

Wolfenden stepped forward at once to the table. A sheet of paper lay there on which the ink was scarcely yet dry. Many others were scattered about, almost undecipherable, with marginal notes and corrections in his father’s handwriting. He pushed some of them towards his companion.

“You can help yourself,” he said. “This seems to be his most recent work.”

Dr. Wilmot seemed scarcely to hear him. He had turned the lamp up with quick fingers, and was leaning over those freshly written pages. Decidedly he was interested in the case. He stood quite still