Part 46 (1/2)

”I am taking you to my friend, Andrew McTavish, who has a commodious residence in Mecklenburg Square--just handy. There, over a gla.s.s of whisky, Mr. Lamb will be able to tell us just what his wife told him. He'll find us interested listeners.”

There was a dryness in the doctor's tone which was lost upon the gentleman at his side, who occupied the short distance they had to traverse by protestations of the regard he had always felt for the old acquaintance whom fortune, or destiny, had again thrown across his path.

That night Mr. Brown was his partner's guest at dinner. Both gentlemen were still smarting from the outrage to which Mrs.

Gregory Lamb had subjected them that afternoon. Dinner was finished; they were in the library, planning schemes of vengeance, when the servant announced that Dr. Twelves was outside, and was desirous of seeing Mr. McTavish. Before the servant was able to explain that the visitor was not alone, the doctor himself marched in with his retinue. The partners rose from their chairs in surprise.

”McTavish--Brown--I have the honour to introduce you to Miss Margaret Wallace, a young lady of whom you have heard a good deal, and whom I am sure you'll be delighted to know. This is Mr. Harry Talfourd, of whom you may have also heard something.

And this, gentlemen--this is Mr. Gregory Lamb, the husband of the lady of whom, I fancy, you have perhaps heard rather too much.”

If the look upon the partners' faces meant anything, there could be no doubt upon the latter point. Both Mr. McTavish and Mr.

Brown stared at Mr. Lamb as if he were not only the strangest, but also the most unwelcome, object they had ever beheld. Then Mr. McTavish turned to the doctor, with a gasp.

”I'd have you to know, Dr. Twelves, that you're taking a great liberty. You're presuming on our friends.h.i.+p in venturing to bring this individual to my house, and at this time of night.

Brown, I'll trouble you to ring the bell. Mr. Lamb shall be shown to the door, before we have him behaving as his wife did this afternoon.”

Mr. McTavish had become rubicund with agitation; the doctor remained placid.

”In less than five minutes, Andrew, you'll be acknowledging that I've done you a very considerable service in bringing Mr. Lamb to this house, and you'll be begging my pardon for the remarks which you have just made.”

Mr. Brown, obedient to his partner's request, had rung the bell.

A servant appeared. Him Dr. Twelves addressed before Mr.

McTavish had a chance of speaking.

”You'll have the goodness to bring a decanter of whisky, and the other necessaries, at once.”

When the man looked at his master for an endors.e.m.e.nt of this order the doctor explained.

”Andrew, Mr. Lamb has a communication to make which I think you will find of interest; he proposes to make it while enjoying a gla.s.s of prime whisky.”

”I cannot imagine what Mr. Lamb has to say which can be of interest to me, but, since you wish it--John, bring the whisky.”

A decanter being placed upon a table, the doctor prepared a potent mixture which he handed to Mr. Lamb.

”I think, Mr. Lamb, I understood you to say that Mrs. Lamb was married to you before she met Cuthbert Grahame?”

”Of course she was--ever so long. She was never his wife; that was only her bluff. This is something like whisky. Gentlemen, your very good health, and the lady's--never overlook a lady.”

”You perceive, Andrew, that Mrs. Lamb was already Mrs. Lamb when she encountered your late client, Mr. Cuthbert Grahame, and, therefore, any doc.u.ment in which she is described as his wife is, I believe, on the face of it, null and void.”

Mr. McTavish made as if about to speak, but a movement of the doctor's left eyelid seemed to act as a check. The doctor turned to Mr. Lamb, grimly affable.

”You like this whisky, Mr. Lamb?” Judging from the fact that that gentleman had already emptied his tumbler it seemed as if he did. ”Allow me to fill your gla.s.s.” The speaker suited the action to the word; he did very nearly fill the gla.s.s with neat spirit. ”From what you said I should imagine that you have recently had rather a singular scene with your wife, Mr. Lamb.

You were about to tell us what occurred. Was it anything very remarkable?”

”I should think it was remarkable. Your very good health, gentlemen. After the stuff she forced down my throat this is something like whisky; ether she forced down my throat--rank poison. Why, do you know she sees things--actually sees things--give you my word--makes your blood cold to hear her talking. She made out we were in a bedroom--Cuthbert Grahame's bedroom she called it; it was only the boudoir. She talked about the things which were in it just as if they were in it, when of course they were nothing of the kind--just the ordinary furniture! 'You see that bed?' she said. Of course I didn't; there wasn't a bed to see; not even the ghost of a bed. 'That's Cuthbert Grahame lying in it. You see how he's propped up by pillows?' The idea of such a thing in a boudoir! 'Now I'm going to pull away those pillows from under his head.' She actually pretended to be pulling at pillows, or something--positive fact!