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Bachelor's Dream

<h3 id="id00073" style="margin-top: 3em">CHAPTER II.</h3> Doctor Brudenell's first rapid glance about him as he recovered his balance assured him that pursuit would be futile. The man had darted off down a narrow turning which had led into a maze of streets. Already his rapid footsteps had ceased to echo on the pavement; he was lost by this time in the busy restless throng of Saturday night foot-passengers. The Doctor, abandoning any idea of chasing and securing him, lost not a moment in doing what he could. The short street was a new one, having on one side a neglected piece of waste land, where bricks, gravel, and mortar were flung in confusion; upon the other a row of half-finished houses. A curve at its upper end hid the thoroughfare beyond, although the sound of wheels and the hoarse cries of hucksters were audible to him as he dropped upon one knee, and gently raised the inert figure. Blood was upon it; he felt it and knew that it was staining his hand. Had no one heard that dreadful, thrilling cry but himself? It seemed not. He shouted loudly with the full power of his lungs: "Help, help! Murder! Here—help!" He was heard, for, as he loudly shouted again, voices answered him; and in a few moments a group of men and women had gathered about him, eager, excited, questioning. Before he could answer them they made way for a sergeant of police whom Doctor Brudenell happened to know. He explained hastily; the knot commented; the sergeant was cool and professional. "Pity you weren't quick enough to nab him, sir!" He went down upon his knee and turned the light of his lantern upon the ghastly face. "H'm! Young, and a spanker to look at, I should say! Wonder if it was robbery? Is she dead, sir?" "No." The Doctor laid her gently down, his practiced hand over the heart. "No; she's not dead. The blow was aimed at her heart, but something in her dress—a corset, probably—turned the weapon aside. Call me a cab, somebody. You're off duty, I think, sergeant—can you come with me?" "I am, sir. Always happens so when there's anything doing," muttered the sergeant, discontentedly. "Here's another of our people that ain't, though," as a second sergeant forced his way through the group, followed by a constable. "Baxter, you'd best step round and report this little job, and not lose any time about it, either. It's attempted murder—that's what the game is. Chap made off as if he'd got springs in his heels." The second officer bent down as the first had done, glanced at the bloodless face, asked a question or two, and started off at a smart pace, the fringe of the crowd hurrying after him. The Doctor looked at his companion, repeating: "Can you come with me? I may want assistance." "With pleasure, sir! You'll take her to the hospital, I suppose?" "No. My house is nearer; and, unless the wound is looked to at once, I don't answer for the consequences. There is no objection, I suppose?" The sergeant thought there could be no objection, although the hospital was "the usual thing." The Doctor put aside that consideration contemptuously. From what he could see of the wound, he was prepared to state professionally that any delay would be highly dangerous. The sergeant yielded the point respectfully, but protestingly; and the cab came, bringing an excited crowd in its train. There was no lack of proffered help; but the Doctor and the sergeant lifted the insensible woman into the cab between them. On arriving at the Doctor's house the two men carried her indoors; then bells rang, maid-servants hurried, exclaimed, and questioned; and soon the door of the library was closed upon all except Mrs. Jessop and the Doctor. The sergeant retired to the dining-room, and meditatively took an inventory of its furniture and appointments, as he awaited further developments. Noticing the Doctor's decanter of choice old port, which was still upon the table where he had left it, the officer helped himself to a glassful, drinking it with evident relish. Half an hour passed before the Doctor entered. He took his seat thoughtfully by the fire, and motioned to the sergeant to draw his chair nearer. "The wound is not much—merely a deep flesh-wound," he observed, abruptly. "Glad to hear it, I'm sure," returned the sergeant, politely. "She has lost a great deal of blood, will be much weakened, and is totally insensible now," Doctor Brudenell continued; "but no vital part is touched—not the fault of that scoundrel, though, sergeant." "Ah!" replied the sergeant, intelligently. The Doctor had motioned to him to help himself to the wine, and he did so now with contemplative deliberation. "Then you think it is a case of intended murder, I take it, sir?" "As far as my judgment serves me—yes. I should say the blow was meant to kill her—indeed, only the steel of her corset saved her." "H'm, I thought as much! Now, as to motive, sir; have you got any theory?" "Robbery, I suppose. Ah"—as the sergeant shook his head with a wise air—"you don't think so, then!" "No, I don't, sir. Maybe, of course, but I doubt it. A man don't use a knife when his fists will do, as a rule. And look you here, sir," said the sergeant, leaning forward to place his broad hand for a moment upon the Doctor's knee—"when you find a fine old gentleman with a bald crown or a 'spectable old lady with a bag and umbrella, tipped over neat in a corner, you may put it down to robbery; for you won't find anything in their pockets, I'll wager. But you find a good-looking fellow with a ha'porth of rat poison inside of him that he didn't put there himself, or a young woman stabbed that's as handsome as that one"—jerking his head toward the door—"and you won't go far wrong if you put it down to jealousy." The Doctor sat silently pondering. The sergeant slowly filled his glass again. "You've examined her dress, of course, sir? Anything in the pockets?" "Nothing—absolutely nothing!" "Nothing torn? No appearance of having been robbed?" "No. Merely the cut where the blow was given." "Just so, sir. About the weapon—an ordinary knife, should you say?" "No; from the appearance and general character of the wound it was caused by a two-edged blade." "H'm! Sort of dagger—stiletto kind of thing?" queried the sergeant. "I should say so." The sergeant gave a prolonged whistle, with an air of intense satisfaction. "Supports my idea, you see, sir. A man going about with a dagger in his pocket usually means to use it. A case of jealousy—that's what it is! It's surprising, I'm sure, the way a man will put his neck into a rope if there's a woman t'other side of it. You wait till this young woman comes round, and you'll find that that's about the size of it. The work of some hot-headed young fool she's thrown over, I expect; or, maybe, she's bolted from her husband, and it's a case of elopement. Shouldn't wonder, for the handsomer they are the more mischief they get up to. That's my experience." "I hope you are mistaken," said the Doctor, rising and looking thoughtfully at the fire. "I hope you are, but we shall see. Fill your glass, sergeant!" "Thank you, sir, I am sure." The sergeant obediently filled his glass for the fourth time, and held it critically between his eye and the light. "Well, we shall see, as you say. When do you fancy you'll be able to speak to her, may I ask?" "Impossible to say. She may be sensible to-morrow, or the shock may cause a fever, in which case her condition may become highly dangerous. I can't possibly say." "Pity there isn't something about her by which she might be identified," mused the sergeant, thoughtfully. "But it'll all be in the papers to-morrow, and it will be odd if it doesn't catch the eye of some one who knows her. But she's French, if I don't mistake, or at any rate, not English." Doctor Brudenell, recalling his impression of the ghastly face as he had seen it, first in the light of the sergeant's lantern, and afterward lying upon a pillow hardly whiter than itself, silently endorsed this opinion. No, decidedly she was not English; but he did not think she was French. The sergeant thoughtfully emptied his glass, and set it down upon the table. "We'll do all we can, of course, but it strikes me that the chances of nabbing the man don't amount to much unless the young man comes to herself in time to help us. And, if she does, it's about twenty to one that she puts us on a wrong scent. Well, I'm on duty again directly, and I'll be going. Will you step down to the station with me, sir?" "Certainly, if you think it necessary." The sergeant thought that "it might be as well," and the Doctor put on his hat and coat, and walked with his companion to the police-station, where the inspector on duty, who had received one report already, listened to his statement, wrote it all down imperturbably, and approved with some warmth of the sergeant's theory as to "jealousy." Fists or a knuckle-duster did well enough for robbery, the inspector observed oracularly; it was only when a man went "a bit off his head" that he took to daggers; and there was more of that sort of thing about—presumably meaning jealousy—than any one would credit. Though, when it came to going it to that extent, the inspector's private opinion was that no woman was worth it. "Is there much chance of capturing this man, do you think?" Doctor Brudenell asked. Why, that depended. If the young woman came to herself—say to-morrow—and told the truth, you would know where you were; but if, on the other hand, the young woman chose to put them on an altogether false scent—which was rather more likely than not—why, where would they be? Feeling that he could not successfully answer this official poser, the Doctor bade the sergeant and the inspector good-night, and, repeating his former assurances of perfect willingness to do whatever he could in the affair, walked out of the police-station. At home, by the dining-room fire, he found the invaluable Mrs. Jessop waiting for him. "Well, Mrs. Jessop, and how is our patient now?" he inquired, cheerfully. He did not feel cheerful, but Mrs. Jessop had shown some slight reluctance and resentment at being suddenly called upon to assume the function of nurse to a totally unknown and much too handsome young woman, and he thought it only prudent to conciliate her. "Pretty much the same, sir—hasn't stirred so much as a finger or opened her eyes; though whether or not it's a natural sleep I couldn't take upon myself to say." "I'll step up-stairs again with you in a moment. What I fear is fever, consequent on the shock. If we can keep off that, she will most likely awaken sensible enough. I hope so, I am sure, for the sake of catching that cowardly villain, whoever he was." "He must have meant to murder her, you think, sir?" inquired Mrs. Jessop, smoothing her cap-ribbons, thoughtfully. "I am afraid so. Poor girl! She is quite young?" "Yes, sir." "And most remarkably handsome?" "No doubt, sir." "She is a foreigner, I fancy. It is most unfortunate that there is nothing on her by which we can identify her. By the way—I did not notice—did you see if she wore rings?" "No, sir." "Not a wedding-ring?"—"No, sir." "And not a trinket of any kind about her?" "Not one, sir." "Nothing whatever?" persisted the Doctor musingly, as he held out his hands to the fire. They were cold, for the February night air was keen. "There was this, sir," said Mrs. Jessop, abruptly. She held out to him upon the palm of her plump hand a tiny roll of paper, tied with a wisp of faded red silk. "Where did you find this?" "In a little pocket inside the bosom of her gown, sir—it looked as if it had been made for it." "Have you read it?"—"No, sir. It's gibberish." The Doctor untied and unrolled the little packet, then looked at it by the gaslight. It was covered with characters of a deep red color, curious and fantastic, and to him absolutely meaningless. It looked strange, uncanny, witch-like. Was it a charm? The Doctor studied it wonderingly for a few moments, and then laughed at the thought of such an absurd fancy assailing him! He rolled up and re-tied the little packet. "Well, that won't help us much," he said. "As I thought, we must wait for light from her, poor girl. Take care of it, Mrs. Jessop; she may attach some fanciful value to it." Doctor Brudenell, standing by the bed in the comfortable room, to which the unknown woman had been carried, looked down at her curiously and scrutinizingly. Upon the white pillows he saw a pale face lying—a face that was exquisitely chiseled, the head crowned by a wonderful mass of thick black hair. "Beautiful!" he muttered, under his breath, and turning away. "I should fancy it was jealousy!" The next day's papers contained a sufficiently thrilling account of the attempted murder of a lady in Rockmore Street; but, although an elaborate description of the victim's person and attire was given and enlarged upon with due journalistic skill, it brought no anxious troop of friends and relatives to inquire at Doctor Brudenell's door; and the best efforts of the inspector and his subordinates to track the would-be murderer came to ignominious grief, for the only person who could perchance have put them upon his track lay tossing in the delirium of fever. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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