The Mystery of the Green Ray - William le Queux (ebook reader .txt) 📗

son,” said Dennis, in an authoritative voice. “You mustn’t imagine I’m dealing with your trouble, whatever it is (for you are in trouble, Ronald), in a matter-of-fact and unsympathetic way. But what you’ve got to do now is to get up, have a tub, slip into a dressing-gown, and have a quiet little dinner with me here. It’s just gone eight, so you ought to be ready for it.”

He disappeared to turn on the bath-water, and then, when he met me in the passage making for the bathroom, he handed me a glass.

“Drink this, old chap,” he said.

“What is it?” I asked suspiciously. “I don’t want any fancy pick-me-ups. They only make you worse afterwards.”

“That was prescribed by Doctor Common Sense,” he answered lightly. “It’s peach bitters!”

After my tub I was able to tackle my dinner, with the knowledge that I was badly in need of something to eat, a feeling which surprised me very much. Throughout the meal Dennis told me of the enlistment of Jack and poor Tommy Evans, and we discussed their prospects and the chances of my seeing them before they disappeared into the crowded ranks of Kitchener’s Army. Dennis himself had been ruthlessly refused. He spoke of trying his luck again until they accepted him, but I knew, from what he told me of the doctor’s remarks, that he had no earthly chance of being passed. He seemed to have entirely mastered his regret at his inability to serve his country in the ranks, but I understood at once that he was merely putting his own troubles in the background in face of my own. The meal over, we “got behind” two of Dennis’s excellent cigars, and made ourselves comfortable.

“Now then, old man,” said my friend, “a complete and precise account of what has happened to you since you left King’s Cross two days ago.”

“It has all been so extraordinary and terrible,” I said, “that I hardly know where to begin.”

“I saw you last at the station,” he said, laying a hand on my knee. “Begin from there.” So I began at the beginning, and told him just what had happened, exactly as I have told the reader.

Dennis was deeply moved.

“And then you saw Olvery?” he asked. “What did he say?”

I got up, paced the room. What had Olvery said? Should I ever forget those blistering words to the day of my death?

“Come, old boy,” said Dennis kindly. “You must remember that Olvery is merely a man. He is only one of the many floundering about among the mysteries of Nature, trying to throw light upon darkness. You mustn’t imagine that his view is necessarily correct, from whichever point he looked at the case.”

“Thank you for that,” I said. “I am afraid I forgot that he might possibly be mistaken. He says he knows nothing of this case at all; he can make nothing of it; it is quite beyond him. He is certain that no such similar case has been brought to the knowledge of optical science. His view is that there is the remotest possibility that this green veil may lift, but he says he is sure that if there were any scientific reason for saying that her sight will be restored he would be able to detect it.”

“I prefer your Dr. Whitehouse to this man any day,” said Dennis emphatically. “He took just the opposite view. This man Olvery, like so many specialists, is evidently a dogmatic egotist.”

“I’m very glad you can give us even that hope. But the eyes are such a delicate instrument. It is difficult to see how the sight can be recovered when once it has gone. Of course, Olvery is going to do what he can. He has suggested certain treatment, and massage, and so forth, and he has no objection to her going back home again. Myra, of course, is tremendously anxious for me to take her back to her father. She is worrying about him already; and, fortunately, Olvery knows Whitehouse, and has the highest opinion of him.”

“Go back as soon as you can, old chap,” Dennis advised. “Wire me if there is anything I can do for you at this end. I’ll make some inquiries, and see if I can find out anything about any similar cases, and so on. But you take the girl back home if she wants to go.”

While we were still talking, Dennis’s man, Cooper, entered.

“Telegram for Mr. Ewart, sir,” he said.

I took the yellow envelope and opened it carelessly.

“What is it?” cried Dennis, springing to his feet as he saw my face.

“Read it,” I said faintly, as I handed it to him. Dennis read the message aloud:

“Come back at once. I can’t stand this. Sholto is blind.—McLeod.”

CHAPTER VI. CONTAINS A FURTHER ENIGMA.

Back again at King’s Cross. I seemed to have been travelling on the line all my life. Myra turned to Dennis to say good-bye.

“I hope,” she said bravely, “that when we meet again, Mr. Burnham, I shall be able to tell you that I can see you looking well.”

“I do hope so, indeed, Miss McLeod,” said Dennis fervently, with a quick glance at me. He was lost in admiration at the quiet calm with which my poor darling took her terrible affliction.

“Good-bye, old chap,” my friend said to me cheerily. “I hope to hear in a day or two that Miss McLeod is quite well again. And,” he added in a whisper, “wire me if I can be of the slightest use.”

I readily agreed, and I was beginning, even at that early stage, to be very thankful that my friend was free to help me in case of need.

When at last we reached Invermalluch Lodge again I sat for an hour in the library with the old General, telling him in detail the result of the specialist’s examination, but I took care to put Dennis’s point of view to him at the outset. I was glad I had done so, for he seized on the faint hope it offered, and clung to it in despair.

“What is your own impression of Olvery?” he asked.

“I fancy his knighthood has got into his head,” I replied. “He gave me the impression that he was quite certain he knew everything there was to be known, and that the mere fact of his not being sure about the return of her sight made him positive that it must be complete and absolute blindness. Of course he hedged and left himself a loophole in the event of her recovery, but I could have told him just as much as he told me.”

“You say you took it on yourself to take Myra out of his hands altogether. Why?”

“When I received your wire, I rang him up at once, and asked him to see me immediately,” I replied. “Eventually he agreed, and I took a taxi to his place, and told him about Sholto. He gave his opinion without any consideration whatever. He said: ‘The merest coincidence, Mr. Ewart—the merest coincidence—and you may even find that the dog has not actually lost his sight at all.’ So naturally I thanked him, gave him his fee, and came away. I propose now that you should try and get this man—Garnish, is it——?”

“Garnesk,” interposed the General, consulting a note Dr. Whitehouse had left—“Herbert Garnesk.”

“Well, I want you to try and get him sufficiently interested to come here—and stop here—until he has come to some decision, no matter what it is.”

“A thundering good idea, Ronald,” agreed the old man. “But we can’t tell him this extraordinary story in writing.”

“I’ll go and find him, and fetch him back with me, if I have to hold a gun to his head.”

Accordingly I dashed off to Mallaig again, and caught the evening train to Glasgow. I spent an unhappy night at the Central Station Hotel—though it was certainly not the fault of the hotel—and looked up Mr. Garnesk as early in the morning as I dared disturb a celebrated consultant oculist. I took a fancy to the man at once. He was young—in the early ’forties—very alert-looking, and exceedingly businesslike. His prematurely grey hair gave an added air of importance to the clever eye and clean-cut features, and he had a charm of manner which would have made his fortune had he been almost ignorant of the rudiments of his calling.

“So that’s the complete story of Miss McLeod and her dog Sholto,” he mused, when I had finished speaking. For a brief second I thought he was about to laugh at the apparent absurdity of the yarn, but before I had time to answer he spoke again.

“Miss McLeod and her dog are apparently blind, and Mr. Ewart is a bundle of nerves—and this is very excellent brandy, Mr. Ewart. Allow me.”

I accepted the proffered glass with a laugh, in spite of myself.

“What do you think of it?” I asked.

He sat on the edge of the table and swung his leg, wrapt in thought for a moment.

“I’m very glad to say I don’t know what to think of it,” he replied presently.

“Why glad?” I asked anxiously.

“Because, my dear sir, this is so remarkable that if I thought I could see a solution I should probably be making a mistake. This is something I am learning about for the first time; and, frankly, it interests me intensely.”

Suddenly he sat down abruptly, with a muttered “Now, then,” and began to catechise me in a most extraordinarily searching manner, firing off question after question with the rapidity of a maxim gun.

I shall not detain the reader with details of this catechism. His inquiries ranged from the system on which the house was lighted and the number of hours Myra averaged per week on the sea to the make of the engine in her motor-boat. His last question was: “Does anybody drink the river water?”

“Windows that flash in the sun seem to me to be confusing the issue,” he said at last. “Windows must always reflect light in a certain direction at a certain time, and though they may be irritating they could not possibly produce even temporary blindness. Still, we won’t forget them, Mr. Ewart, though we had better put them aside for a moment. Now, how soon can you bring Miss McLeod to see me?”

“We had hoped,” I ventured to suggest, “that you would be able to run up and see her, and have a look at the ground. You could then examine the dog as well.”

“I’ll be perfectly candid with you, Mr. Ewart,” he replied. “I was just going to start on a short holiday. I was going to Switzerland; but the war has knocked that on the head, so I am just running up to Perthshire for a week’s fishing. I need a holiday very badly, more especially as I have undertaken some Government work in connection with the war. Fortunately, I am a bachelor, and I will willingly give up a couple of days to Miss McLeod.”

“Why not combine business with pleasure?” I suggested. “There’s good fishing at Invermalluch, gorgeous scenery, a golf-course a mile or two away, and you can do just as you please on the General’s estate. He’ll be delighted.”

“Are you sure?” he asked. “Well, anyway, I can go to the Glenelg Hotel and fish up Glenmore. Now, Mr. Ewart, we will catch the afternoon train, the earliest there is—though I suppose there’s only one.”

“I can’t tell you how grateful I am, Mr. Garnesk,” I said. “It may mean a very great deal to us that you are so anxious to see Miss McLeod.”

“I am not anxious to see Miss McLeod,” he answered, cryptically. “I’m anxious to see the dog.”

I left him, to telegraph to the General that I was arriving that night bringing the specialist with me; and