My brisk tattoo on the little brass knocker brought to the door no less a person than Thorndyke himself; and the warmth of his greeting made me at once proud and ashamed. For I had not only been an absentee; I had been a very poor correspondent.
“The prodigal has returned, Polton,” he exclaimed, looking into the room. “Here is Dr. Jervis.”
I followed him into the room and found Polton—his confidential servant, laboratory assistant, artificer and general “familiar”—setting out the tea-tray on a small table. The little man shook hands cordially with me, and his face crinkled up into the sort of smile that one might expect to see on a benevolent walnut.
“We’ve often talked about you, sir,” said he. “The doctor was wondering only yesterday when you were coming back to us.”
As I was not “coming back to them” quite in the sense intended I felt a little guilty, but reserved my confidences for Thorndyke’s ear and replied in polite generalities. Then Polton fetched the teapot from the laboratory, made up the fire and departed, and Thorndyke and I subsided, as of old, into our respective armchairs.
“And whence do you spring from in this unexpected fashion?” my colleague asked. “You look as if you had been making professional visits.”
“I have. The base of operations is in Lower Kennington Lane.”
“Ah! Then you are ‘back once more on the old trail’?”
“Yes,” I answered, with a laugh, “ ‘the old trail, the long trail, the trail that is always new.’ ”
“And leads nowhere,” Thorndyke added grimly.
I laughed again; not very heartily, for there was an uncomfortable element of truth in my friend’s remark, to which my own experience bore only too complete testimony. The medical practitioner whose lack of means forces him to subsist by taking temporary charge of other men’s practices is apt to find that the passing years bring him little but grey hairs and a wealth of disagreeable experience.
“You will have to drop it, Jervis; you will, indeed,” Thorndyke resumed after a pause. “This casual employment is preposterous for a man of your class and professional attainments. Besides, are you not engaged to be married and to a most charming girl?”
“Yes, I know. I have been a fool. But I will really amend my ways. If necessary, I will pocket my pride and let Juliet advance the money to buy a practice.”
“That,” said Thorndyke, “is a very proper resolution. Pride and reserve between people who are going to be husband and wife, is an absurdity. But why buy a practice? Have you forgotten my proposal?”
“I should be an ungrateful brute if I had.”
“Very well. I repeat it now. Come to me as my junior, read for the Bar and work with me, and, with your abilities, you will have a chance of something like a career. I want you, Jervis,” he added, earnestly. “I must have a junior, with my increasing practice, and you are the junior I want. We are old and tried friends; we have worked together; we like and trust one another, and you are the best man for the job that I know. Come; I am not going to take a refusal. This is an ultimatum.”
“And what is the alternative?” I asked with a smile at his eagerness.
“There isn’t any. You are going to say yes.”
“I believe I am,” I answered, not without emotion; “and I am more rejoiced at your offer and more grateful than I can tell you. But we must leave the final arrangements for our next meeting—in a week or so, I hope—for I have to be back in an hour, and I want to consult you on a matter of some importance.”
“Very well,” said Thorndyke; “we will leave the formal agreement for consideration at our next meeting. What is it that you want my opinion on?”
“The fact is,” I said, “I am in a rather awkward dilemma, and I want you to tell me what you think I ought to do.”
Thorndyke paused in the act of refilling my cup and glanced at me with unmistakable anxiety.
“Nothing of an unpleasant nature, I hope,” said he.
“No, no; nothing of that kind,” I answered with a smile as I interpreted the euphemism; for “something unpleasant,” in the case of a young and reasonably presentable medical man is ordinarily the equivalent of trouble with the female of his species. “It is nothing that concerns me personally at all,” I continued; “it is a question of professional responsibility. But I had better give you an account of the affair in a complete narrative, as I know that you like to have your data in a regular and consecutive order.”
Thereupon I proceeded to relate the history of my visit to the mysterious Mr. Graves, not omitting any single circumstance or detail that I could recollect.
Thorndyke listened from the very beginning of my story with the closest attention. His face was the most impassive that I have ever seen; ordinarily as inscrutable as a bronze mask; but to me, who knew him intimately, there was a certain something—a change of colour, perhaps, or an additional sparkle of the eye—that told me when his curious passion for investigation was fully aroused. And now, as I told him of that weird journey and the strange, secret house to which it had brought me, I could see that it offered a problem after his very heart. During the whole of my narration he sat as motionless as a statue, evidently committing the whole story to memory, detail by detail; and even when I had finished he remained for an appreciable time without moving or speaking.
At length he looked up at me. “This is a very extraordinary affair,
