easy enough to hush up. The doctor was old. He thought it was heart failure. Then, when I came into the money, and there was a lot of it, Douglas showed himself for what he is. He said unless I gave him the money to buy Dream Ship he would circulate the story that I had stolen him from Janet and she had tried to kill me, but killed father, and had poisoned herself: all because of me. You can imagine what the papers would have made of that, and I should have lost everything. So I gave him the money for his beastly ship, but that didn’t satisfy him. He keeps coming to me for more money, and he watches every move I make. He found out you had started to make inquiries. He was afraid you would uncover the story, and, of course, if you did, he would lose his hold on me. He did everything he could to stop you. When he heard Stevens was meeting you, he kidnapped him. And now he’s going to wipe you out. I don’t know what to do! I’ve got to go somewhere and hide. I want you to help me. Will you help me? Will you?” She was clutching my hands now. “Will you promise you won’t give me away? I’ll do anything for you in return. I mean it! Will you help me?”
There was a slight sound behind us, and we both turned. A tall, powerfully-built man with dark curly hair, dressed in a scarlet sleeveless sweatshirt and dark blue slacks stood just behind us. He held a .38 automatic in his hand and it pointed directly at me. There was a cheerful, patronizing smile on his tanned face as if he was enjoying a private joke that was a little too deep for the average intelligence.
“She tells a pretty tale, doesn’t she?” he said in one of those ultra-masculine voices. “So she wants to run away and hide? Well, so she shall. She’ll be hidden all right, where no one will ever find her, and that goes for you, too, my inquisitive friend.”
I was calculating the distance between us, wondering if I could get up and reach him before he fired, when I heard the all too familiar swish of a descending cosh and the inside of my head seemed to explode.
The last sound I heard was Maureen’s wild, terrified scream.
Chapter IV
I
The room was big and airy, and the walls and ceiling were a dead Chinese white. Cold, white plastic curtains were drawn across the windows, and a shaded lamp made a pool of light over the opposite bed.
There was a man sitting up in the bed. He was reading. His small-boned face with its high, wide forehead gave the impression of a young student reading for an examination.
I watched him through half-closed eyes for some minutes, wondering in a vague, detached sort of way who he was and what he was doing in this room with me. There was something odd about the book he was reading. It was a big volume, and the print was close set and small. It was only when he turned a page and I saw a chapter heading that I realized he was holding the book upside down.
I wasn’t surprised to find myself in this room. I had a vague idea I had been in it for some time: perhaps days, perhaps weeks. The feel of the narrow high bed I was lying in was familiar: almost as familiar as the feel of my own bed in my beach cabin which now seemed as remote as last year’s snow.
I knew in an instinctive kind of way—I was quite sure I hadn’t been told—that I was in hospital, and I tried to remember if I had been knocked down by a car, but my mind was working badly. It refused to concentrate, and kept jumping across the room to the man in the opposite bed. Its only interest was to find out why he was holding his book the wrong way up, for it seemed to me the book looked dry and complicated enough without adding to the difficulty of reading it.
The man in the bed was young; not more than twenty-four or so, and his thick fair hair was over long and silky-looking. He had very deep-set eyes, and the lamp cast shadows in them so they seemed to be two dark holes in his face.
I suddenly became aware that he was also watching me, although he pretended to be reading; watching furtively from under his eyelids; watching as he turned a page slowly with a concentrated frown on his face.
“You’ll find it easier if you turn the book the right way up,” I said, and was surprised how far away my voice sounded, as if I were speaking in another room.
He glanced up and smiled. He was a nice-looking youngster : a typical collegian, more at home with a baseball bat than a book.
“I always read books this way up,” he said; his voice was unexpectedly high pitched. “It’s more fun, and it’s just as easy once you get the knack of it, but it does take a lot of practice.”
He laid the book down. “Well, how do you feel, Mr. Seabright? I’m afraid you have had a pretty rotten time. How’s the head?”
It was a funny thing, but now he mentioned it I discovered my head ached and an artery was pounding in my temple.
“It aches,” I said. “Is this a hospital?”
“Well, not exactly a hospital. I think they call it a sanitarium.”
“You mean a sanatorium, don’t you? A sanitarium is a nut foundry.”
He smiled and nodded his blond head.
“That’s it exactly: a nut foundry.”
I closed my eyes. Thinking was difficult, but I made the effort. It took me several minutes to remember the swish of a descending cosh, the man in the scarlet sweatshirt, and Maureen’s wild, terrified scream. A sanitarium. I felt a little prickle of apprehension run up my spine like spider’s legs. A sanitarium!
I sat up abruptly. Something held my left wrist, pinning it to the bed. I turned to see what it was. A bright nickle-plated, rubber-lined handcuff gripped my wrist. The other cuff was fastened to the rail of the bed.
The blond man was watching me with mild interest.
“They think it’s safer for us to be chained up like that,” he said. “Ridiculous, really, but I have no doubt they mean well.”
“Yes,” I said and lay back. More spider’s legs ran up my spine. “Who runs this place?”
“Why, Dr. Salzer, of course. Haven’t you met him? He’s quite charming. You’ll like him. Everyone does.”
Then I remembered the man in the scarlet sweatshirt had said he would hide me away where no one would ever find me. An asylum, of course, was a pretty fool-proof hiding-place. But Salzer didn’t run an asylum. His place was a retreat for the over-fed: Nurse Gurney had said so.
“But I thought Salzer ran a kind of Nature Cure racket,” I said carefully. “Not a nut foundry.”
“So he does, but there’s a wing set aside for the mentally sick,” the blond man explained.
He walked two fingers along the edge of the night table. “It is not usually talked about.” He walked his fingers back again. “It’s so much more pleasant for relatives to say you are having a health cure than that you’re locked up in a padded cell.”
“Is that where we are?” I asked.
“Oh, yes. The walls are padded. They don’t look like it, but try punching them. It’s quite fun.” He leaned out of bed and hit the wall. His fist made no sound. “It’s rubber, I think. By the way, my name’s Duncan Hopper. You may have heard of my father: Dwight Hopper.”
As far as I could remember, Dwight Hopper was something big in the paint and distemper trade. I didn’t know he had a son.
“I’m Malloy,” I said. “Victor Malloy.”
He cocked his head on one side and regarded me fixedly.
“Who?”
“Malloy.”
“Are you sure?” He smiled slyly now. “They tell me your name is Edmund Seabright.”
“No; Malloy,” I said, again feeling spider’s legs run up my spine.
“I see.” He began once more to walk his fingers along the edge of the night table. He seemed to like doing that. “I wonder if you would mind if I called you Seabright? Bland calls you Seabright. Dr. Salzer calls you Seabright.
