Part 9 (1/2)
”Any plaster of Paris?”
”No.”
”Any wax?”
”Only a small quant.i.ty.”
”Too bad; I must have some. There will be a drug store open?”
”At this hour? oh, yes.”
”Then get me some, half a pound at least. Now move on, I hear a horse coming down the road.”
”Some farmer going home. Well, I'm off, then.”
”And so am I.”
Half an hour later Doctor Heath was standing in his open doorway, wondering what had become of the detective, when a light touch upon his shoulder caused him to start suddenly, and turning, he saw the man for whom he watched, standing behind him, and within the dimly-lighted hall.
”Are we alone?” whispered the detective; ”is the coast clear?”
[Ill.u.s.tration: ”Are we alone?”]
”Quite clear; but how the mischief did you get in there, man?”
”Through the door,” replied Bathurst, as he followed his host into a cozy parlor, where a shaded lamp burned. ”You are not a good sentinel; why, I all but brushed you; have you no sense of feeling, then; why, man, I can recognize a near presence in the darkest room.”
”Now that I think of it,” retorts the doctor, maliciously, ”I did feel a queer sensation in the ends of my thumbs. Make yourself at home now; take that chair,” rolling a comfortable-looking monster close to the round table; ”there are segars and--why--I say man, have you eaten any thing since you started on this chase?”
”Now you mention it, I distinctly recollect, that I have not.”
”Of course not; I will wake up Mrs. Gray.”
”Pray don't; I couldn't think of eating Mrs. Gray.”
”Nonsense!” laughs his host; ”Mrs. Gray is my housekeeper, and she is deaf as a post.”
”Well, that's a comfort, the deafness. Is she dumb, too?”
”Unfortunately, no; but as I have not been home to dine, she will think she is preparing my supper, and I will tell her you are a patient come to be treated, and that I am going to give you a bed; here,” tossing something which he finds upon a bookcase, across to his guest, ”tie your face up in that rag, before she comes in. She will not give you a second glance; she never troubles her head about my patients.”
So saying, he goes out, and the detective proceeds to spread out the ”rag,” to prepare his bandage. Suddenly he starts; scrutinizes closer, turns it about, and looks again, then----
”Ah!” says Mr. Bathurst; ”Oh! really!”
And he folds up his bandage, and puts it in one pocket, whips a clean pocket handkerchief from another, and subst.i.tuting it for the ”rag,”
awaits the coming of his host.
”Very comfortable quarters,” he muttered, looking about him, ”Luxurious too; quite so. Our doctor has not forgotten how people ought to live.”
The doctor's ”quarters” were all that he described them. Luxurious, comfortable; and luxury and comfort do not always go hand in hand; tasteful, too. Nothing too much; nothing lacking--just the beau-ideal of a bachelor's parlor. Warm browns brightening here and there into bronze.
Books, a great many and of the best. Pictures, a very few, and all rare and beautiful. Bronzes and statuettes in plenty. Bric-a-bric, not any, for no fair and foolish woman has trailed her skirts through these apartments, leaving traces of her presence in the shape of those small and costly abominations, yclept ”ceramics.”