CHAPTER II.
"A VERY UGLY SECRET."
The consulting-room in Harley Street, where Sir Bernard Eyton saw hispatients and gathered in his guineas for his ill-scribbledprescriptions, differed little from a hundred others in the samesevere and depressing thoroughfare.
It was a very sombre apartment. The walls were painted dark green andhung with two or three old portraits in oils; the furniture was of astyle long past, heavy and covered in brown morocco, and the bigwriting-table, behind which the great doctor would sit blinking at hispatient through the circular gold-rimmed glasses, that gave him asomewhat Teutonic appearance, was noted for its prim neatness andorderly array. On the one side was an adjustable couch; on the other abookcase with glass doors containing a number of instruments whichwere, however, not visible because of curtains of green silk behindthe glass.
Into that room, on three days a week, Ford, the severely respectablefootman, ushered in patients one after the other, many of them Societywomen suffering from what is known in these degenerate days as"nerves." Indeed, Eyton was _par excellence_ a ladies' doctor, for somany of the gentler sex get burnt up in the mad rush of a Londonseason.
I had made up my mind to consult my chief, and with that objectentered his room on the following afternoon at a quarter before four.
"Well, Boyd, anything fresh?" he asked, putting off his severelyprofessional air and lolling back in his padded writing-chair as Ientered.
"No, nothing," I responded, throwing myself in the patient's chairopposite him and tossing my gloves on the table. "A hard day down atthe hospital, that's all. You've been busy as usual, I suppose."
"Busy!" the old man echoed, "why, these confounded women never let mealone for a single instant! Always the same story--excitement, latehours, little worries over erring husbands, and all that sort ofthing. I always know what's coming as soon as they get seated andsettled. I really don't know what Society's coming to, Boyd," and heblinked over at me through his heavy-framed spectacles.
About sixty, of middle height, he was slightly inclined to rotundity,with hair almost white, a stubbly grey beard, and a pair of keen eyesrather prominently set in a bony but not unpleasant countenance. Hehad a peculiar habit of stroking his left ear when puzzled, and wasnot without those little eccentricities which run hand in hand withgenius. One of them was his fondness for amateur theatricals, for hewas a leading member of the Dramatic Club at Hove and nearly alwaystook part in the performances. But he was a pronounced miser. Each daywhen he arrived at Victoria Station from Hove, he purchased three hamsandwiches at the refreshment bar and carried them in his black bag toHarley Street. He there concealed them in a drawer in thewriting-table and stealthily ate them instead of taking half-an-hourfor luncheon. Sometimes he sent Ford out to the nearest greengrocer'sin the Marylebone Road for a penny apple, which he surreptitiously ateas dessert.
Indeed, he was finishing his last sandwich when I entered, and hismouth was full.
It may have been that small fact which caused me to hesitate. At anyrate, sitting there with those big round eyes peering forth upon me, Ifelt the absurdity of the situation.
Presently, when he had finished his sandwich, carefully brushed thecrumbs from his blotting-pad and cast the bag into the waste-paperbasket, he raised his head and with his big eyes again blinkingthrough his spectacles, said:
"You've had no call to poor old Courtenay, I suppose?"
"No," I responded. "Why?"
"Because he's in a bad way."
"Worse?"
"Yes," he replied. "I'm rather anxious about him. He'll have to keepto his bed, I fear."
I did not in the least doubt this. Old Mr. Henry Courtenay, one of theDevonshire Courtenays, a very wealthy if somewhat eccentric oldgentleman, lived in one of those prim, pleasant, detached houses inRichmond Road, facing Kew Gardens, and was one of Sir Bernard's bestpatients. He had been under him for a number of years until they hadbecome personal friends. One of his eccentricities was to insist onpaying heavy fees to his medical adviser, believing, perhaps, that byso doing he would secure greater and more careful attention.
But, strangely enough, mention of the name suddenly gave me the clueso long wanting. It aroused within me a sense of impending evilregarding the very man of whom we were speaking. The sound of the nameseemed to strike the sympathetic chord within my brain, and I at oncebecame cognisant that the unaccountable presage of impendingmisfortune was connected with that rather incongruous household downat Kew.
Therefore, when Sir Bernard imparted to me his misgivings, I wasquickly on the alert, and questioned him regarding the progress of oldMr. Courtenay's disease.
"The poor fellow is sinking, I'm afraid, Boyd," exclaimed my chief,confidentially. "He doesn't believe himself half so ill as he is. Whendid you see him last?"
"Only a few days ago. I thought he seemed much improved," I said.
"Ah! of course," the old doctor snapped; his manner towards me in aninstant changed. "You're a frequent visitor there, I forgot. Feminineattraction and all that sort of thing. Dangerous, Boyd! Dangerous torun after a woman of her sort. I'm an older man than you. Why haven'tyou taken the hint I gave you long ago?"
"Because I could see no reason why I should not continue my friendshipwith Ethelwynn Mivart."
"My dear Boyd," he responded, in a sympathetic fatherly manner, whichhe sometimes assumed, "I'm an old bachelor, and I see quite sufficientof women in this room--too much of them, in fact. The majority areutterly worthless. Recollect that I have never taken away a woman'scharacter yet, and I refuse to do so now--especially to her lover. Imerely warn you, Boyd, to drop her. That's all. If you don't, dependupon it you'll regret it."
"Then there's some secret or other of her past which she conceals, Isuppose?" I said hoarsely, feeling confident that being so intimatewith his patient, old Mr. Courtenay, he had discovered it.
"Yes," he replied, blinking again at me through his glasses. "Thereis--a very ugly secret."