“Was it like a candle, or a pocket-lamp?” jerked Dr. Cairn.
“Nothing like that, sir; a softer light, more like a glowworm; but much brighter. I went around and tried the door, and it was locked. Then I remembered the door at the other end, and I cut round by the path between the houses and the wall, so that I had no chance to see the light again, until I got to the other door. I found this unlocked. There was a close kind of smell in there, sir, and the air was very hot—”
“Naturally, it was hot,” interrupted Saunderson.
“I mean much hotter than it should have been. It was like an oven, and the smell was stifling—”
“What smell?” asked Dr. Cairn. “Can you describe it?”
“Excuse me, sir, but I seem to notice it here in this room tonight, and I think I noticed it about the place before—never so strong as in the orchid-houses.”
“Go on!” said Dr. Cairn.
“I went through the first house, and saw nothing. The shadow of the wall prevented the moonlight from shining in there. But just as I was about to enter the middle house, I thought I saw—a face.”
“What do you mean you thought you saw?” snapped Mr. Saunderson.
“I mean, sir, that it was so horrible and so strange that I could not believe it was real—which is one of the reasons why I did not speak before. It reminded me of the face of a gentleman I have seen here—Mr. Ferrara—”
Dr. Cairn stifled an exclamation.
“But in other ways it was quite unlike the gentleman. In some ways it was more like the face of a woman—a very bad woman. It had a sort of bluish light on it, but where it could have come from, I don’t know. It seemed to be smiling, and two bright eyes looked straight out at me.”
Crombie stopped, raising his hand to his head confusedly.
“I could see nothing but just this face—low down as if the person it belonged to was crouching on the floor; and there was a tall plant of some kind just beside it—”
“Well,” said Dr. Cairn, “go on! What did you do?”
“I turned to run!” confessed the man. “If you had seen that horrible face, you would understand how frightened I was. Then when I got to the door, I looked back.”
“I hope you had closed the door behind you,” snapped Saunderson.
“Never mind that, never mind that!” interrupted Dr. Cairn.
“I had closed the door behind me—yes, sir—but just as I was going to open it again, I took a quick glance back, and the face had gone! I came out, and I was walking over the lawn, wondering whether I should tell you, when it occurred to me that I hadn’t noticed whether the key had been left in or not.”
“Did you go back to see?” asked Dr. Cairn.
“I didn’t want to,” admitted Crombie, “but I did—and—”
“Well?”
“The door was locked, sir!”
“So you concluded that your imagination had been playing you tricks,” said Saunderson grimly. “In my opinion you were right.”
Dr. Cairn dropped into an armchair.
“All right, Crombie; that will do.”
Crombie, with a mumbled “Good night, gentlemen,” turned and left the room.
“Why are you worrying about this matter,” inquired Saunderson, when the door had closed, “at a time like the present?”
“Never mind,” replied Dr. Cairn wearily. “I must return to Half-Moon Street, now, but I shall be back within an hour.”
With no other word to Saunderson, he stood up and walked out to the hall. He rapped at the study door, and it was instantly opened by Robert Cairn. No spoken word was necessary; the burning question could be read in his too-bright eyes. Dr. Cairn laid his hand upon his son’s shoulder.
“I won’t excite false hopes, Rob,” he said huskily. “I am going back to the house, and I want you to come with me.”
Robert Cairn turned his head aside, groaning aloud, but his father grasped him by the arm, and together they left that house of shadows, entered the car which waited at the gate, and without exchanging a word en route, came to Half-Moon Street.
XXIV
Flowering of the Lotus
Dr. Cairn led the way into the library, switching on the reading-lamp upon the large table. His son stood just within the doorway, his arms folded and his chin upon his breast.
The doctor sat down at the table, watching the other.
Suddenly Robert spoke:
“Is it possible, sir, is it possible—” his voice was barely audible—“that her illness can in any way be due to the orchids?”
Dr. Cairn frowned thoughtfully.
“What do you mean, exactly?” he asked.
“Orchids are mysterious things. They come from places where there are strange and dreadful diseases. Is it not possible that they may convey—”
“Some sort of contagion?” concluded Dr. Cairn. “It is a point that I have seen raised, certainly. But nothing of the sort has ever been established. I have heard something, tonight, though, which—”
“What have you heard, sir?” asked his son eagerly, stepping forward to the table.
“Never mind at the moment, Rob; let me think.”
He rested his elbow upon the table, and his chin in his hand. His professional instincts had told him that unless something could be done—something which the highest medical skill in London had thus far been unable to devise—Myra Duquesne had but four hours to live. Somewhere in his mind a memory lurked, evasive, taunting him. This wild suggestion of his son’s, that the girl’s illness might be due in some way to her contact with the orchids, was in part responsible for this confused memory, but it seemed to be associated, too, with the story of Crombie the gardener—and with Antony Ferrara. He felt that somewhere in the darkness surrounding him there was a speck of light, if he could but turn in the right direction to see it. So, whilst Robert Cairn walked restlessly about the big room, the doctor sat with his chin resting in the palm of his hand, seeking to
