“You can take me to Mr. Moole,” said T. B. with a smile; “short of that—nothing.”
The man hesitated.
“If you insist,” he began.
The detective nodded.
“I am his secretary and his doctor—Doctor Fall,” the other introduced himself, “and it may mean trouble for me—perhaps you will tell me your business?”
“My business is with Mr. Moole.”
The doctor bowed.
“Come this way,” he said, and he led the detective across the broad hall. He opened a plain door, and disclosed a small lift, standing aside for the other to enter.
“After you,” said T. B. politely.
Dr. Fall smiled and entered, and T. B. Smith followed.
The lift shot swiftly upward and came to a rest at the third floor.
It was not unlike an hotel, thought T. B., in the general arrangement of the place.
Two carpeted corridors ran left and right, and the wall before him was punctured with doorways at regular intervals. His guide led him to the left, to the end of the passage, and opened the big rosewood door which faced him. Inside was another door. This he opened, and entered a big apartment and T. B. followed. The room contained scarcely any furniture. The panelling on the walls was of polished myrtle; a square of deep blue carpet of heavy pile was set exactly in the centre, and upon this stood a silver bedstead. But it was not the furnishing or the rich little gilt table by the bedside or the hanging electrolier which attracted T. B.’s attention; rather his eyes fell instantly upon the man on the bed.
A man with an odd yellow face, who, with his steady unwinking eyes might have been a figure of wax save for the regular rise and fall of his breast, and the spasmodic twitching of his lips. T. B. judged him to be somewhere in the neighbourhood of seventy, and, if anything, older. His face was without expression; his eyes, which turned upon the intruder, were bright and beady.
“This is Mr. Moole,” said the suave secretary. “I am afraid if you talk to him you will get little in the way of information.”
T. B. stepped to the side of the bed and looked down. He nodded his head in greeting, but the other made no response.
“How are you, Mr. Moole?” said T. B. gently. “I have come down from London to see you.”
There was still no response from the shrunken figure under the bedclothes.
“What is your name?” asked T. B. after a while.
For an instant a gleam of intelligence came to the eyes of the wreck. His mouth opened tremulously and a husky voice answered him.
“Jim Moole,” it croaked, “poor old Jim Moole; ain’t done nobody harm.”
Then his eyes turned fearfully to the man at T. B.’s side; the old lips came tightly together and no further encouragement from T. B. could make him speak again.
A little later T. B. was ushered out of the room.
“You agree with me,” said the doctor smoothly, “Mr. Moole is not in a position to carry on a very long conversation.”
T. B. nodded.
“I quite agree,” he said, pleasantly. “An American millionaire—Mr. Moole—is he not?”
Dr. Fall inclined his head. His black eyes never left T. B.’s face.
“An American millionaire,” he repeated.
“He does not talk like an American,” said T. B.; “even making allowances that one must for his mental condition, there is no inducement to accept the phenomenon.”
“Which phenomenon?” asked the other, quickly.
“That which causes an American millionaire, a man probably of some refinement and education, at any rate of some lingual characteristics, to talk like a Somerset farm labourer.”
“What do you mean?” asked the other harshly.
“Just what I say,” said T. B. Smith; “he has the burr of a man who has been brought up in Somerset. He is obviously one who has had very little education. My impression of him does not coincide with your description.”
“I think, Mr. Smith,” said the other, quietly, “that you have had very little acquaintance with people who are mentally deficient, otherwise you would know that those unfortunate fellow-creatures of ours who are so afflicted are very frequently as unrecognizable from their speech as from their actions.”
He led the way to the lift door, but T. B. declined its service.
“I would rather walk down,” he said.
He wanted to be better acquainted with this house, to have a larger knowledge of its topography than the ascent and descent by means of an electric lift would allow him. Dr. Fall offered no objection, and led the way down the red carpeted stairs.
“I am well acquainted with people of unsound mind,” T. B. went on, “especially that section of the insane whose lunacy takes the form of dropping their aitches.”
“You are being sarcastic at my expense,” said the other, suddenly turning to him with a lowered brow. “I think it is only right to tell you that, in addition to being Mr. Moole’s secretary, I am a doctor.”
“That is also no news to me,” smiled T. B. “You are an American doctor with a Pennsylvania degree. You came to England in eighteen hundred and ninety-six, on board the Lucania. You left New York hurriedly as the result of some scandal in which you were involved. It is, in fact, much easier to trace your movements since the date of your arrival than it is to secure exact information concerning Mr. Moole, who is apparently quite unknown to the American Embassy.”
The large face of the secretary flushed to a deep purple.
“You are possibly exceeding your duty,” he said, gratingly, “in recalling a happening of which I was but an innocent victim.”
“Possibly I am,” agreed T. B.
He bowed slightly to the man, and descended the broad steps to the unkempt lawn in front of the house. He was joined at the gate by the
