He Who Whispers

“Which part of what he said?”

“'Some people cause something-or-other wherever they go.'”

“Yes. I heard it.”

“We were all worked up and overwrought last night,” Miles went on. “When Rigaud made that sign against the evil eye, I shouldn't have been surprised to see hell open. In daylight”--he nodded towards the grey and green and sun-gold forest through the eastern windows—“it's hard to be afraid of vampire-teeth. And yet . . .something. Something that troubles the waters. Something that troubles the waters. Something that brings pain and disaster to whatever it touches. Do you understand?”

“Oh, ah. I understand. But before you blame yourself--”

“Well?”

“Hadn't we better be sure,” said Dr. Fell, “that Miss Fay Seton is the person who troubles the waters?”

Miles sat up straight with a jerk.

Dr. Fell, peering sideways at him past the crooked eyeglasses, with a look of Gargantuan distress on his face, fished in the pockets of a baggy alpaca coat. He produced the meerschaum and filled it from an obese pouch. With some effort he lowered himself into a big chair, spreading out over it; he struck a match and lighted the pipe.

“Sir,” he continued, firing up himself as he blew out smoke, “I could not credit Rigaud's vampire theory from the time I read his manuscript yesterday. I could credit, mind you, a vampire who materialized in the daytime. I could even credit a vampire who killed with a sword-stick. But I could not credit, not at any time, a vampire who pinched somebody's brief-case containing money.

“That jarred my sense of the fitness of things. That somehow failed to convince. And late last night, when you told me Fay Seton's own story—including, by the way, a point which is not in the manuscript—I had a vision. Through the whole business I saw not real devilishness, but human devilishness.

“Then came the frightening of your sister.

“And that was different, by thunder! That was the authentic touch of Satan. It still is.

“Until we know what was in the room, or what was outside the window, we can't give any king of final verdict on Fay Seton. These two events, the murder of the tower and the frightening of your sister are connected. They interlock. They depend on each other. And they both in some fashion centre round this odd girl with the red hair.” He was silent for a moment. “Forgive the personal question; but do you happen to be in love with her?”

Miles looked him in the eyes.

“I don't know,” he replied honestly. “She . . .”

“Disturbs you?”

“That's putting it mildly.”

“Supposing her to be—harrumph!--a criminal of some kind, natural or supernatural, would that have any influence on your attitude?”

“For the love of Mike, are you warning me against her too?”

“No!” thundered Dr. Fell. And made a hideous face and smote his fist on the arm of the chair with remarkable vehemence. “On the contrary! If one wool-gathering idea of mine is correct, there are many persons who ought to get down in the dust and beg her pardon. No, sir: I put the question in what Rigaud would call an academic way. Would this (shall we say) make any difference to your attitude?”

“No, I can't say it would. We don't fall in love with a woman because of her good character.”

“That,” said Dr. Fell, taking a number of reflective puffs at the meerschaum, “is an observation none the less true for not being generally admitted. At the same time, this whole situation disturbs me even more. One person's motive (forgive me if I seem cryptic) seems to make nonsense of another person's motive.

“I questioned Miss Seton last night,” he continued, “and I hinted. Today I propose to question her without hints. But I fear it won't be any good. The best thing to do is perhaps to get in touch with Miss Barbara Morell . . .”

“Wait a minute!” Miles rose to his feet. “We've got in touch with Barbara Morell! She rang up here not five minutes before you came in!”

“So?” observed Dr. Fell, instantly alert. “What did she want?”

“Come to think of t,” said Miles, “I haven't the remotest idea. I forgot to ask her.”

Dr. Fell eyed him for a long moment.

“My boy,” Dr. Fell said with an expansive sigh, “it is more and more borne in on me that you and I are spiritually kin. I refrain from making frantic comments; that is the sort of thing I always do myself. But what did you say? did you ask her about Jim Morell?”

“No. Steve Curtis came in just then, and I didn't have time. But I remembered you said it might help us to get the information, so I've arranged to see her today in town. I might as well,” Miles added bitterly. “Dr. Garvice is getting a nurse for Marion, an everyone claims I'm in the way in addition to being the pigheaded swine who introduced the disturbing element into the house.”

Miles was getting lower and lower, blacker and blacker, in his mind and spirit.

“Fay Seton's not guilty!” he shouted; and he might have gone on to enlarge on this if Dr. Laurence Garvice himself, with a bowler hat in one hand and a medicine-case in the other, had no put his head in at the doorway to the reception hall.

Dr. Garvice, a middle-aged, pleasant-faced man with a grizzled head and a scrubbed antiseptic manner, obviously had something on his mind. He hesitated before coming in.

“Mr. Hammond,” he said, giving a half-smile to Miles and Dr. Fell, “before I see the patient again, I wonder if I could have a word with you?”

“Yes, of course. Don't hesitate to speak in front of Dr. Fell.”

Dr. Garvice closed the door behind him and turned round.

“Mr. Hammond,” he said, “I wonder whether you would mind telling me what frightened the patient?”

Then he held up his hand with the bowler hat.

“I ask,” he went on, “because this is the worst case of plain nervous shock in my experience. That's to say: there's often, nearly always, severe shock attendant on physical injury. But there's no physical injury of any kind.” He hesitated. “Is the lady of a highly strung type?”

“No,” sad Miles. He felt his throat contract.

“No, I shouldn't have thought so myself. Medically she's as sound as a bell.” There was a little pause, faintly sinister. “Apparently someone tried to get at her from outside the window?”

“That's the trouble, Doctor. We don't know what happened.”

“Oh, I see. I was hoping you could tell me.--There's no other sign of . . . burglars being here?”

“None that I've noticed.”

“Have you informed the police?”

“Good God, no!” Miles blurted this out, and then steadied himself to casualness. “You can understand, Doctor, that we don't want the police mixed up in this.”

“Yes. No doubt.” With his eye on the pattern of the carpet, Dr. Garvice slowly tapped his bowler hat against his leg. “The lady doesn't suffer from—hallucinations?”

“No. Why do you ask?”

“Well,” and the physician lifted his eyes, “she keeps on muttering, over and over, about something whispering to her.”

“Whispering?”

“Yes. It rather worries me.”

“But 'whispering,' someone whispering to her, couldn't have caused . . .?”

“No, Exactly what I thought myself.”

Whispering . . .

The eerie word, with its sibilant note, seemed to hang in the are between them. Dr. Garvice still tapped his bowler hat slowly against his leg.

“Well!: He woke up and looked at his wrist-watch. “I dare say we shall find out soon enough. In the meantime, as I told you last night, there's nothing to worry about. I was lucky enough to get a nurse, who's