“You raise other forces,” he said—and his voice, though steady was very low; “evil forces, also.”
Antony Ferrara, invoker of nameless horrors, shrank before him—before the primitive Celtic man whom unwittingly he had invoked. Dr. Cairn was spare and lean, but in perfect physical condition. Now he was strong, with the strength of a just cause. Moreover, he was dangerous, and Ferrara knew it well.
“I fear—” began the latter huskily.
“Dare to bandy words with me,” said Dr. Cairn, with icy coolness, “answer me back but once again, and before God I’ll strike you dead!”
Ferrara sat silent, clutching at the arms of his chair, and not daring to raise his eyes. For ten magnetic seconds they stayed so, then again Dr. Cairn turned, and this time walked out.
The clocks had been chiming the quarter after eleven as he had entered Antony Ferrara’s chambers, and some had not finished their chimes when his son, choking, calling wildly upon Heaven to aid him, had fallen in the midst of crowding, obscene things, and, in the instant of his fall, had found the room clear of the waving antennae, the beady eyes, and the beetle shapes. The whole horrible phantasmagoria—together with the odour of ancient rottenness—faded like a fevered dream, at the moment that Dr. Cairn had burst in upon the creator of it.
Robert Cairn stood up, weakly, trembling; then dropped upon his knees and sobbed out prayers of thankfulness that came from his frightened soul.
VII
Sir Elwin Groves’ Patient
When a substantial legacy is divided into two shares, one of which falls to a man, young, dissolute and clever, and the other to a girl, pretty and inexperienced, there is laughter in the hells. But, to the girl’s legacy add another item—a strong, stern guardian, and the issue becomes one less easy to predict.
In the case at present under consideration, such an arrangement led Dr. Bruce Cairn to pack off Myra Duquesne to a grim Scottish manor in Inverness upon a visit of indefinite duration. It also led to heart burnings on the part of Robert Cairn, and to other things about to be noticed.
Antony Ferrara, the co-legatee, was not slow to recognise that a damaging stroke had been played, but he knew Dr. Cairn too well to put up any protest. In his capacity of fashionable physician, the doctor frequently met Ferrara in society, for a man at once rich, handsome, and bearing a fine name, is not socially ostracised on the mere suspicion that he is a dangerous blackguard. Thus Antony Ferrara was courted by the smartest women in town and tolerated by the men. Dr. Cairn would always acknowledge him, and then turn his back upon the dark-eyed, adopted son of his dearest friend.
There was that between the two of which the world knew nothing. Had the world known what Dr. Cairn knew respecting Antony Ferrara, then, despite his winning manner, his wealth and his station, every door in London, from those of Mayfair to that of the foulest den in Limehouse, would have been closed to him—closed, and barred with horror and loathing. A tremendous secret was locked up within the heart of Dr. Bruce Cairn.
Sometimes we seem to be granted a glimpse of the guiding Hand that steers men’s destinies; then, as comprehension is about to dawn, we lose again our temporal lucidity of vision. The following incident illustrates this.
Sir Elwin Groves, of Harley Street, took Dr. Cairn aside at the club one evening.
“I am passing a patient on to you, Cairn,” he said; “Lord Lashmore.”
“Ah!” replied Cairn, thoughtfully. “I have never met him.”
“He has only quite recently returned to England—you may have heard?—and brought a South American Lady Lashmore with him.”
“I had heard that, yes.”
“Lord Lashmore is close upon fifty-five, and his wife—a passionate Southern type—is probably less than twenty. They are an odd couple. The lady has been doing some extensive entertaining at the town house.”
Groves stared hard at Dr. Cairn.
“Your young friend, Antony Ferrara, is a regular visitor.”
“No doubt,” said Cairn; “he goes everywhere. I don’t know how long his funds will last.”
“I have wondered, too. His chambers are like a scene from the Arabian Nights.”
“How do you know?” inquired the other curiously. “Have you attended him?”
“Yes,” was the reply. “His Eastern servant phoned for me one night last week; and I found Ferrara lying unconscious in a room like a pasha’s harem. He looked simply ghastly, but the man would give me no account of what had caused the attack. It looked to me like sheer nervous exhaustion. He gave me quite an anxious five minutes. Incidentally, the room was blazing hot, with a fire roaring right up the chimney, and it smelt like a Hindu temple.”
“Ah!” muttered Cairn, “between his mode of life and his peculiar studies he will probably crack up. He has a fragile constitution.”
“Who the deuce is he, Cairn?” pursued Sir Elwin. “You must know all the circumstances of his adoption; you were with the late Sir Michael in Egypt at the time. The fellow is a mystery to me; he repels, in some way. I was glad to get away from his rooms.”
“You were going to tell me something about Lord Lashmore’s case, I think?” said Cairn.
Sir Elwin Groves screwed up his eyes and readjusted his pince-nez, for the deliberate way in which his companion had changed the conversation was unmistakable. However, Cairn’s brusque manners were proverbial, and Sir Elwin accepted the lead.
“Yes, yes, I believe I was,” he agreed, rather lamely. “Well, it’s very singular. I was called there last Monday, at about two o’clock in the morning. I found the house upside-down, and Lady Lashmore, with a dressing-gown thrown over her nightdress, engaged in bathing a bad wound in her husband’s throat.”
“What! Attempted suicide?”
“My first idea, naturally. But a glance at the wound set me wondering. It was bleeding profusely, and from
