But what was I to do? That was the urgent, the vital question. Escape was evidently impossible. There were no means of stopping up the numberless holes and weak places in the wall. The only vulnerable spot was the door. If I could establish some communication with the outer air, I could, for a time at least, disregard the poisonous gas with which I should presently be surrounded.
The first thing to be considered was the keyhole. That must be unstopped at once. Fumbling in my bag—for I had grown of a sudden niggardly with my matches—I found a good-sized probe, which I insinuated into the keyhole; and, in a moment, my hopes in that direction were extinguished. For the end of the probe impinged upon metal. The keyhole was not stopped with rag, but with a plate of metal fixed on the outside. With rapidly-growing alarm, but with a tidiness born of habit, I put the probe back in the bag and began feverishly to review the situation and consider my resources. And then I had an idea; only a poor, forlorn hope, but still an idea.
There is a certain ingenious type of pocket-knife, devised principally in the interest of the cutlery trade, that innocent persons (usually of the female persuasion) are wont to bestow as presents on their masculine friends. Such a knife I chanced to possess. It had been given to me by an aunt, and sentimental considerations had induced me to give it an amount of room in my trousers’ pocket that I continually grudged. However, there it was at this critical moment, with its corkscrew, gimlet, its bewildering array of blades, its hoof-pick, tooth-pick, tweezers, file, screw-driver and assorted unclassifiable tools; a ponderous lump of pocket-destroying uselessness—and yet, the appointed means of saving my life.
The gimlet was the first tool that I called into requisition. Very gingerly—for these tools are commonly over-tempered and brittle—I bored in the thick plank a hole at about the level of my mouth; and as I worked I turned over my further plans. When the gimlet was through the door, I selected a tool on whose use I had often speculated—a sharp-edged spike, like a diminutive and very stumpy bayonet—which I proceeded to use broach-wise to enlarge the hole. When this tool worked loose, I exchanged it for the screwdriver, with which I managed to broach the hole out to about half an inch in width. And this was as large as I could make it, and it was not large enough. True, one could breathe fairly comfortably through a half-inch hole, but, with the deadly gas circulating around, a freer opening was very desirable.
Then I bethought me that the magic knife contained a saw—a wretched, thick-bladed affair, but still a saw—which would actually cut wood if you gave it time. This implement suggested a simple plan which I forthwith put into execution, working as rapidly as I could without running the risk of breaking the tools. My plan was to make a second hole some two inches diagonally below the first, and from each hole to carry two saw-cuts at right angles to one another. The two pairs of cuts would intersect and take a square piece out of the door, giving me a little window through which I could breathe in comfort.
It was a trifling task, but yet, with the miserable tools I had, it took a considerable time to execute; the more since the saw-blade was wider than the holes, excepting at its point. However, it was accomplished at last, and I had the satisfaction of pushing out the little separated square of wood and feeling that I now had free access to the pure air outside my dungeon.
But it was none too soon. As I rested from my labours, it occurred to me to test the condition of the air inside. Lighting a wax match, I held the little taper so that the flame ascended steadily, and then lowered it slowly. As it descended the flame changed colour somewhat, and about eighteen inches from the floor it went out quite suddenly. There was, then, a layer of the pure gas about eighteen inches deep covering the floor, and, no doubt, rising pretty rapidly.
This was rather startling, and it warned me to have recourse without delay to my breathing hole. For though carbonic acid gas behaves somewhat as a liquid, it is not a liquid: like other gases, it has the power of diffusing upwards, and the air of the cellar must be already getting unsafe. Accordingly, after carefully wiping the surface of the door with my handkerchief, I applied my mouth, with some distaste, to the opening and took in a deep draught of undoubtedly pure air.
The position in which I had to stand with my mouth to the hole was an irksome one, and I foresaw that it would presently become very fatiguing. Moreover, when the gas reached the level of my head, it would be difficult to prevent some of it from finding its way into my mouth and nostrils; and if it did, I should most assuredly be poisoned. This consideration suggested the necessity of making another hole at a lower level to let out the gas and allow me to rest myself by a change of position. But this new task had to be carried out with my mouth glued to the breathing hole; and very awkward and tiring I found it and very slow was the progress that I made. This second hole was smaller than the first, for time was precious, and I reflected that I could easily enlarge it by fresh saw-cuts, each two of which would take out a triangular piece of wood.
But it was tedious work, and its completion left me with aching arms; indeed, I was beginning to ache all over from the constrained position. Taking a deep breath and shutting my mouth, I stood up and stretched myself. Then I lit a match and looked at my watch. Half-past eight. I had been over two hours in the cellar. And meanwhile the patients were waiting for me at the surgery, and, no doubt, murmuring at the delay. How soon would my absence lead to enquiries? Or were enquiries being made even now?
Looking at the match that I still held in my hand, I noticed that its flame was pallid and bluish; and as I lowered it slowly, it went out when it was a little over two feet from the floor. The gas, then, was still rising, though not so rapidly as I, had feared, but from the altered colour of the flame, it was evident that the air of the cellar, generally, contained enough diffused gas to be actively poisonous.
After a time, the erect position began to grow insupportably fatiguing. I felt that I must sit down for a few minutes’ rest, even though prudence whispered that it was highly unsafe. I struggled for awhile, but eventually, conquered by fatigue, sat down on the floor with my mouth applied closely to the lower breathing-hole. I persuaded myself that I would sit only just long enough to recover some of my strength, but minute after minute sped by and still I felt an unaccountable reluctance to rise.
Suddenly I because conscious of a vague feeling of drowsiness; of a desire to lean back against the wall and doze. It was only slight, but its significance was so appalling that I scrambled to my feet in a panic, and, putting my mouth to the upper breathing-hole, took several deep inspirations. But I soon realized that the upright position was impossible. The drowsy feeling continued and there was growing with it a lassitude and weakness of the limbs that threatened to leave me only the choice between sitting or falling. A wave of furious anger swept over me and roused me a little; a burst of hatred of the cowardly wretch who had decoyed me, as I now suspected, to my death. Then this feeling passed and was succeeded by chilly fear, and I sank down once more into a sitting position with my mouth pressed to the lower opening.
The time ran on unreckoned by me. Gradually, by imperceptible degrees, my mental state grew more and yet more sluggish. Anger and fear and ever-dwindling hope flitted by turns across the slowly-fading field of my consciousness. Intervals of quiet indifference—almost of placid comfort—began to intervene, with increasing lassitude and a growing desire for rest. To lie down; that was what I wanted. To lay my head upon the stony floor and sink into sweet oblivion.
At last I must have actually dozed, though, fortunately, without removing my mouth from the breathing-hole, for I had no sense of the passage of time, when I was suddenly aroused by the loud and continuous jangling of a bell.
I listened with a sort of dull eagerness and keeping awake with a conscious effort.
The bell pealed wildly and without a pause for what seemed to me quite a long time.
Then it ceased, and again my consciousness began to grow dim. After an interval, I know not how long, there came to me dimly and only half-perce
ived, the closing of a door, the patter of quick footsteps, and then the voice of a man calling me by name.
I struggled to get on to my feet, but could not move. But I still held the clasp-knife and was able to rap with it feebly on the door. Again I heard the voice—it sounded nearer now, and yet infinitely far away—and again I rapped on the door and shouted through the breathing-hole; a thin, muffled cry, such as one utters in a troubled dream. And then the drowsiness crept over me again and I heard no more.
The next thing of which I was conscious was a sounding thwack on the cheek with something wet that felt like a dead fish. I opened my eyes and looked vaguely into two faces that were close to mine and seemed to be lighted by a lamp or candle. The faces were somehow familiar, but yet I failed clearly to recognize them, and, after staring stupidly for a few moments, I began to doze again. Then the dead fish returned to the assault and I again opened my eyes. Another vigorous flop caused me to open my mouth with an unparliamentary gasp. “Ah! That’s better,” said a familiar and yet “unplaced” voice. “When a man is able to swear, he is fairly on the road to recovery.” Flop!
The renewed attentions of the dead fish (which turned out, later, to be merely a wet towel) evoked further demonstrations on my part of progressing recovery, accompanied by a nervous titter in a female voice. Gradually the clouds rolled away, and to my returning consciousness, the faces revealed themselves as those of Maggie, the housemaid, and Dr. Thorndyke. Even to my muddled wits, the presence of the latter was somewhat of a puzzle, and, in the intervals of anathematizing the deceased fish—which I had not yet identified—I found myself hazily speculating on the problem of how my revered teacher came to be in this place, and what place this was. “Come, now, Jardine,” said Dr. Thorndyke, emptying a jug of water on my face, and receiving a volley of spluttered expletives in exchange, “pull yourself together. How did you get in that cellar?”
“Hang’ ‘f I know,” said I, composing myself for another nap. But here the wet towel came once more into requisition, and that with such vigour that, in a fit of exasperation, I sat up and yawned. “I think you’d better fetch a cab,” said Thorndyke, as Maggie wrung out the towel afresh; “but leave the gate open when you go out.”
“Wasser cab for?” I asked sulkily. “Can’t I walk?”
“If you can, it will be better,” said Thorndyke. “Let us see if you are able to stand.” He hoisted me on to my feet and he and Maggie, taking each an arm, walked me slowly up and down the cobbled yard, which I now began to recognize as appertaining to the Mineral Water Works. At first I staggered very drunkenly, but by degrees the drowsy feeling wore off and I was able to walk with Thorndyke’s assistance only. “I think we might venture out now,” said he, at length, piloting me towards the gate, and when I had stumbled rather awkwardly through the wicket, we set forth homeward.
On my arrival home, Thorndyke ordered a supply of strong coffee and a light meal, after which—it being obvious that I was good for nothing in a professional sense, he suggested that I should go to bed. “Don’t worry about the practice,” said he. “I will send for my friend Jervis, and, between us, we will see that everything is looked after. If Maggie will give me a sheet of paper and an envelope I will write a note to him; and then she can take a hansom to my chambers and give the note either to Dr. Jervis or my man Polton. Meanwhile, I will stay here and see that you don’t go to sleep prematurely.”
He wrote the note; and Maggie, having made such improvements in her outward garb as befitted the status of a rider in hansoms, took charge of it and departed with much satisfaction and dignity. Thorndyke made a few enquiries of me as to the circumstances that had led to my incarceration in the cellar, but finding that I knew no more than Maggie—whom he had already questioned—he changed the subject; nor would he allow me again to refer to it. “No, Jardine,” he said. “Better think no more of it for the present. Have a good night’s rest and then, if you are all right in the morning, we will go into the matter and see if we can put the puzzle together.”
* * *
VI — A COUNCIL OF WAR
I AWOKE somewhat late on the following morning; indeed, I was but half awake when there came a somewhat masterful and peremptory tap at my bedroom door, followed by the appearance in the room of a rather tall gentleman of some thirty years of age. I should have diagnosed him instantly as a doctor by his self-possessed, proprietary manner of entering, but he left me no time for guessing as to his identity. “Good-morning, Jardine,” he said briskly, jingling the keys and small change in his trousers’ pockets, “my name is Jervis. Second violin in the Thorndyke orchestra. I’m in charge here pro tem. How are you feeling?”
“Oh, I’m all right. I was just going to get up. You needn’t trouble about the practice. I’m quite fit.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” said Jervis, “but you’d better keep quiet all the same. My orders are explicit, and I know my place too well to disobey. Thorndyke’s instructions were that you are not to make any visits or go abroad until after the inquest.”
“Inquest?” I exclaimed.
“Yes. He’s coming here at four o’clock to hold an inquiry into the circumstances that led to your being locked up in a cellar, and until then I’m to look after the practice and keep an eye on you. What time do you expect the offspring of the flittermouse?”
“Who?” I demanded.
“Batson. He’s coming back to-day, isn’t he?”
“Yes. About six o’clock to-night.”
“Then you’ll be able to clear out. So much the better. The neighbourhood doesn’t seem very wholesome for you.”
“I suppose I can do the surgery work,” said I.
“You’d better not. Better follow Thorndyke’s instructions literally. But you can tell me about the patients and help me to dispense. And that reminds me that a person named Samway called just now, a rather fine-looking woman—reminded me of a big, sleek tabby cat. She wouldn’t say what she wanted. Do you know anything about her?”
“I expect she came about her account. But she’ll have to see Batson. I told her so, only a night or two ago.”
“Very well,” said Jervis, “then I’ll be off now, and you take things easy and just think over what happened last night, so as to be ready for Thorndyke.”
With this he bustled away, leaving me to rise and breakfast at my leisure.
His advice to me to think over the events of the previous night was rather superfluous. The experience was not one that I was likely to forget. To have escaped from death by the very slenderest chance was in itself a matter to occupy one’s thoughts pretty completely, apart from the horrible circumstances, and then there was the mystery in which the whole affair was enveloped, a mystery which utterly baffled any attempt to penetrate it. Turn it over as I would—and it was hardly out of my thoughts for a minute at a time all day—no glimmer of light could I perceive, no faintest clue to any explanation of that hideous and incomprehensible crime.
At four o’clock punctually to the minute, Dr. Thorndyke arrived, and, having quickly looked me over to see that I was none the worse for my adventure, proceeded to business. “Have you finished the visits, Jervis?” he asked.
“Yes; and sent off all the medicine. There’s nothing more to do until six.”
“Then,” said Thorndyke, “we might have a cup of tea in the consulting-room and talk this affair over. I am rather taking possession of you, Jardine,” he added, “but I think we ought to see where we are quite clearly, even if we decide finally to hand the case over to the police. Don’t you agree with me?”
“Certainly,” I agreed, highly flattered by the interest he was taking in my affairs; “naturally, I should like to get to the bottom of the mystery.”
“So should I,” said he, “and to that end, I propose that you give us a completely circumstantial account of the whole affair. I have had a talk with your very intelligent little maid, Maggie, and now I want to hear what happened after she left you.”
“I don’t
think I have much to tell that you don’t know,” said I; “however, I will take up the story where Maggie left off,” and I proceeded to describe the events in detail, much as I have related them to the reader.
Thorndyke listened to my story with profound attention, making an occasional memorandum but not uttering a word until I had finished. Then, after a rapid glance through his memoranda, he said: “You spoke of a note that was handed in to you. Have you got that note?”
“I left it on the writing-table, and it is probably there still. Yes, here it is.” I brought it over to the little table on which our tea was laid and handed it to him; and as he took it from me with the dainty carefulness of a photographer handling a wet plate, I noted mentally that the habit of delicate manipulation contracted in the laboratory makes itself evident in the most trifling of everyday actions.
“I see,” he remarked, turning the envelope over and scrutinizing it minutely, “that this is addressed to ‘Dr. H. Jardine.’ It appears, then, that he knows your Christian name. Can you account for that?”
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