“You haven’t kissed me today, Margaret.”
The girl went red and white and the fingers that fidgeted with the tableware before her were trembling when she faltered:
“Haven’t—haven’t I, Felix?”
The bright eyes of Gonsalez never left the doctor. The man’s face had gone purple with rage.
“By God! This is a nice thing!” he almost shouted. “I’m engaged to you. I’ve left you everything in my will and I’m allowing your mother a thousand a year and you haven’t kissed me today!”
“Doctor!” It was the mild but insistent voice of Gonsalez that broke the tension. “I wonder whether you would tell me what chemical is represented by the formula Cl2O5.”
The doctor had turned his head slowly at the sound of Leon’s voice and now was staring at him. Slowly the strange look passed from his face and it became normal.
“Cl2O5 is Oxide of Chlorine,” he said in an even voice, and from thenceforward the conversation passed by way of acid reactions into a scientific channel.
The only person at the table who had not been perturbed by Viglow’s outburst had been the dumpy complacent lady on Manfred’s right. She had tittered audibly at the reference to her allowance, and when the hum of conversation became general she lowered her voice and leant toward Manfred.
“Dear Felix is so eccentric,” she said, “but he is quite the nicest, kindest soul. One must look after one’s girls, don’t you agree, señor?”
She asked this latter question in very bad Spanish and Manfred nodded. He shot a glance at the girl. She was still deathly pale.
“And I am perfectly certain she will be happy, much happier than she would have been with that impossible person.”
She did not specify who the “impossible person” was, but Manfred sensed a whole world of tragedy. He was not romantic, but one look at the girl had convinced him that there was something wrong in this engagement. Now it was that he came to a conclusion which Leon had reached an hour before, that the emotion which dominated the girl was fear. And he pretty well knew of whom she was afraid.
Half an hour later when the tail light of Dr. Viglow’s limousine had disappeared round a corner of the drive the two men went back to the drawing-room and Manfred threw a handful of kindling to bring the fire to a blaze.
“Well, what do you think?” said Gonsalez, rubbing his hands together with evidence of some enjoyment.
“I think it’s rather horrible,” replied Manfred, settling himself in his chair. “I thought the days when wicked mothers forced their daughters into unwholesome marriages were passed and done with. One hears so much about the modern girl.”
“Human nature isn’t modern,” said Gonsalez briskly, “and most mothers are fools where their daughters are concerned. I know you won’t agree but I speak with authority. Mantegazza collected statistics of 843 families—”
Manfred chuckled.
“You and your Mantegazza!” he laughed. “Did that infernal man know everything?”
“Almost everything,” said Leon. “As to the girl,” he became suddenly grave. “She will not marry him of course.”
“What is the matter with him?” asked Manfred. “He seems to have an ungovernable temper.”
“He is mad,” replied Leon calmly and Manfred looked at him.
“Mad?” he repeated incredulously. “Do you mean to say that he is a lunatic?”
“I never use the word in a spectacular or even in a vulgar sense,” said Gonsalez, lighting a cigarette carefully. “The man is undoubtedly mad. I thought so a few days ago and I am certain of it now. The most ominous test is the test of memory. People who are on the verge of madness or entering its early stages do not remember what happened a short time before. Did you notice how worried he was when I told him of the conversation we had this morning?”
“That struck me as peculiar,” agreed Manfred.
“He was fighting,” said Leon, “the sane half of his brain against the insane half. The doctor against the irresponsible animal. The doctor told him that if he had suddenly lost his memory for incidents which had occurred only a few hours before, he was on the high way to lunacy. The crazy half of the brain told him that he was such a wonderful fellow that the rules applying to ordinary human beings did not apply to him. We will call upon him tomorrow to see his laboratory and discover why he is paying £60 a week for typists,” he said. “And now, my dear George, you can go to bed. I am going to read the excellent but often misguided Lombroso on the male delinquent.”
Dr. Viglow’s laboratory was a new red building on the edge of Dartmoor. To be exact, it consisted of two buildings, one of which was a large army hut which had been recently erected for the accommodation of the doctor’s clerical staff.
“I haven’t met a professor for two or three years,” said Manfred as they were driving across the moor, en route to pay their call, “nor have I been in a laboratory for five. And yet within the space of a few weeks I have met two extraordinary professors, one of whom I admit was dead. Also I have visited two laboratories.”
Leon nodded.
“Some day I will make a very complete examination of the phenomena of coincidence,” he said.
When they reached the laboratory they found a post-office van, backed up against the main entrance, and three assistants in white overalls were carrying post bags and depositing them in the van.
“He must have a pretty large correspondence,” said Manfred in wonder.
The doctor, in a long white overall, was standing at the door as they alighted from their car, and greeted them warmly.
“Come into my office,” he said, and led the way to a large airy room
