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  CHAPTER II

  "MRS. PETER THOMPKINS"

  "Murder!"

  Crichton looked at the girl. Her eyes were closed and she lay backbreathing heavily. He did not know if she had even heard the accusation.Luckily the train was already moving. In a few minutes, however, theywould be in London and then what should he do with her? Now that he haddeclared her to be his wife, it would arouse the suspicion of the policeif he parted from her at the station. Besides, he could not desert thepoor child in her terrible predicament. For she was innocent, he wassure of that. But here he was wasting precious time worrying about thefuture, when he ought to be doing something to revive her. It was simplyimperative that she should be able to leave the train without excitingremark, as, once outside the station, the immediate danger would beover. His ministrations, however, were quite ineffectual, and, to hisdismay, the train came to a standstill before she showed a sign ofreturning consciousness.

  A porter opened the door.

  "Bring a glass of water; the lady has fainted," he ordered. The porterreturned in a few minutes followed by the police inspector. Crichton'sheart sank. He fancied the latter eyed them with reawakened suspicion.As he knelt by the girl's side, her head on his shoulder, his armsaround her, he suddenly became aware that a number of people hadcollected near the door and were watching the scene with unconcealedinterest And among them stood Peter, his valet, staring at him withopen-mouthed amazement.

  Damn! He had completely forgotten him. If he didn't look out, the fellowwould be sure to give the situation away.

  "Peter," he called.

  Peter elbowed his way through the crowd.

  "Your mistress has fainted. Get my flask." Crichton spoke slowly anddistinctly and looked Peter commandingly in the eye. Would heunderstand? Would he hold his tongue? Crichton watched him breathlessly.For a moment Peter blinked at him uncomprehendingly. Then the surpriseslowly faded from his face, leaving it as stolid as usual.

  "Very well, sir," was all he said as he went off automatically to do hismaster's bidding. An order has a wonderfully steadying effect on awell-trained servant.

  The brandy having been brought, Crichton tried to force a few drops ofit between the girl's clenched teeth. After a few minutes, however, hehad to abandon the attempt.

  The situation was desperate.

  The inspector stepped forward.

  "Don't you think, sir, you ought to send for a doctor? The lady looksbad and she can't stay here, you know. The train has to be backed out ina few minutes. We'll carry her to the waiting-room if you wish, or cometo think of it, hadn't you better call an ambulance? Then you could takethe lady home and the doctor who comes with them things would know whatto do for her."

  Crichton almost gasped with relief.

  "An ambulance! The very thing. Get one immediately!"

  The last passenger was just leaving the station when the ambulanceclattered up.

  The doctor, although hardly more than a boy, seemed to know hisbusiness, and after examining the girl and asking a few questions, heproceeded to administer various remedies, which he took out of a bag hecarried.

  "I am afraid this case is too serious for me," he said at last.

  "What is the trouble?"

  "Of course, I can't speak with any certainty, but from what you tell me,I think the lady is in for an attack of brain fever."

  Crichton felt _his_ brain reel.

  "What shall I do?"

  "We will take her home and in the meantime telephone to whatever doctoryou wish to have called, so that he can see the patient as soon aspossible."

  "I have no house in town. I was going into lodgings but I can't take aninvalid there."

  "Of course not! What do you say to taking her at once to a nursinghome?"

  "Yes, that would be best. Which one would you recommend? I am ignorantof such matters."

  "Well--Dr. Stuart-Smith has one not far from here. You know him byreputation, don't you?"

  "Certainly. All right, take her there."

  "I had better telephone and prepare them for our arrival. What is thelady's name, please?"

  The inspector's eyes were upon him; Peter was at his elbow. Well--therewas no help for it.

  "Mrs. Cyril Crichton," he said.

  The doctor returned in a few minutes.

  "It is all right. They have got a room and Doctor Smith will be therealmost as soon as we are."

  Having lifted her into the ambulance, the doctor turned to Cyril andsaid: "I suppose you prefer to accompany Mrs. Crichton. You can get in,in front."

  Crichton meekly obeyed.

  "Take my things to the lodgings and wait for me there, and by the way,be sure to telephone at once to Mr. Campbell and tell him I must see himimmediately," he called to Peter as they drove off.

  They had apparently got rid of the police--that was something at allevents. His own position, however, caused him the gravest concern. Itwas not only compromising but supremely ridiculous. He must extricatehimself from it at once. His only chance, he decided, lay in confidingthe truth to Dr. Smith. Great physicians have necessarily an enormousknowledge of life and therefore he would be better able than any otherman to understand the situation and advise him as to what should bedone. At all events the etiquette of his calling would prevent a doctorfrom divulging a professional secret, even in the case of his failing tosympathise with his, Cyril's, knight-errantry. Crichton heaved a sigh ofsatisfaction. His troubles, he foresaw, would soon be over.

  The ambulance stopped. The girl was carried into the house and takenpossession of by an efficient-looking nurse, and Cyril was requested towait in the reception-room while she was being put to bed. Dr. Smith, hewas told, would communicate with him as soon as he had examined thepatient.

  Crichton paced the room in feverish impatience. His doubts revived. Whatif the doctor should refuse to keep her? Again and again he rehearsedwhat he intended to say to him, but the oftener he did so, the moreincredible did his story appear. It also occurred to him that aphysician might not feel himself bound to secrecy when it was a questionof concealing facts other than those relating to a patient's physicalcondition. What if the doctor should consider it his duty to inform thepolice of her whereabouts?

  At last the door opened. Dr. Smith proved to be a short, grey-haired manwith piercing, black eyes under beetling, black brows, large nose, and along upper lip. Cyril's heart sank. The doctor did not look as if hewould be likely to sympathise with his adventure.

  "Mr. Crichton, I believe." The little man spoke quite fiercely andregarded our friend with evident disfavour.

  Crichton was for a moment nonplussed. What had he done to be addressedin such a fashion?

  "I hope you can give me good news of the patient?" he said, disregardingthe other's manner.

  "No," snapped out the doctor. "Mrs. Crichton is very seriously, not tosay dangerously, ill."

  What an extraordinary way of announcing a wife's illness to a supposedhusband! Was every one mad to-day?

  "I am awfully sorry--" began Crichton.

  "Oh, you are, are you?" interrupted the doctor, and this time therecould be no doubt he was intentionally insulting. "Will you then be kindenough to explain how your wife happens to be in the condition she is?"

  "What condition?" faltered Cyril.

  "Tut, man, don't pretend to be ignorant. Remember I am a doctor and cantestify to the facts; yes, facts," he almost shouted.

  Poor Crichton sat down abruptly. He really felt he could bear no more.

  "For God's sake, doctor, tell me what is the matter with her. I swear Ihaven't the faintest idea."

  His distress was so evidently genuine that the doctor relaxed a littleand looked at him searchingly for a moment.

  "Your wife has been recently flogged!"

  "Flogged! How awful! But I can't believe it."

  "Indeed!"

  "Certainly not. You must be mistaken. The bruises may be the result of afall."

  "They are not," snapped the doctor.

  "Flo
gged! here in England, in the twentieth century! But who could havedone such a thing?"

  "That is for you to explain, and I must warn you that unless yourexplanation is unexpectedly satisfactory, I shall at once notify thepolice."

  Police! Crichton wiped beads of perspiration from his forehead.

  "But, doctor, I know no more about it than you do."

  "So you think that it will be sufficient for you to deny all knowledgeas to how, where, and by whom a woman who is your wife--yes, sir--yourwife, has been maltreated? Man, do you take me for a fool?"

  What should he do? Was this the moment to tell him the truth? No, itwould be useless. The doctor, believing him to be a brute, was not in aframe of mind to attach credence to his story. The truth was tooimprobable, a convincing lie could alone save the situation.

  "My wife and I have not been living together lately," he stammered.

  "Indeed!" The piercing eyes seemed to grow more piercing, the long upperlip to become longer.

  "Yes," Crichton hesitated--it is so difficult to invent a plausiblestory on the spur of the moment. "In fact, I met her quite unexpectedlyin Newhaven."

  "In Newhaven?"

  "Yes. I have just arrived from France," continued Crichton morefluently. An idea was shaping itself in his mind. "I was most astonishedto meet my wife in England as I had been looking for her in Paris forthe last week."

  "I don't understand."

  "My wife is unfortunately mentally unbalanced. For the last few monthsshe has been confined in an asylum." Crichton spoke with increasingassurance.

  "Where was this asylum?"

  "In France."

  "Yes, but where? France is a big place."

  "It is called Charleroi and is about thirty miles from Paris in thedirection of Fontainebleau."

  "Who is the director of this institution?"

  "Dr. Leon Monet."

  "And you suggest that it was there that she was ill-treated. Let me tellyou----"

  Cyril interrupted him.

  "I suggest no such thing. My wife escaped from Charleroi over a weekago. We know she went to Paris, but there we lost all trace of her.Imagine my astonishment at finding her on the train this morning. Howshe got there, I can't think. She seemed very much agitated, but Iattributed that to my presence. I have lately had a most unfortunateeffect upon her. I did ask her how she got the bruise on her cheek, butshe wouldn't tell me. I had no idea she was suffering. If I had beenguilty of the condition she is in, is it likely that I should havebrought her to a man of your reputation and character? I think thatalone proves my innocence."

  The doctor stared at him fixedly for a few moments as if weighing thecredibility of his explanation.

  "You say that the physician under whose care your wife has been iscalled Monet?"

  "Yes, Leon Monet."

  The doctor left the room abruptly. When he returned, his bearing hadcompletely changed.

  "I have just verified your statement in a French medical directory and Imust apologise to you for having jumped at conclusions in the way I did.Pray, forgive me----"

  Crichton bowed rather distantly. He didn't feel over-kindly to the manwho had forced him into such a quagmire of lies.

  "Now as to--" Cyril hesitated a moment; he detested calling the girl byhis name. "Now--as to--to--the patient. Have you any idea when she islikely to recover consciousness?"

  "Not the faintest. Of course, what you tell me of her mental conditionincreases the seriousness of the case. With hysterical cases anythingand everything is possible."

  "But you do not fear the--worst."

  "Certainly not. She is young. She will receive the best of care. I seeno reason why she should not recover. Now if you would like to remainnear her----"

  There seemed a conspiracy to keep him forever at the girl's side, butthis time he meant to break away even if he had to fight for it.

  "I shall, of course, remain near her," Cyril interrupted hastily. "Ihave taken lodgings in Half Moon Street and shall stay there till shehas completely recovered. As she has lately shown the most violentdislike of me, I think I had better not attempt to see her for thepresent. Don't you agree with me?"

  "Certainly. I should not permit it under the circumstances."

  "I shall call daily to find out how she is, and if there is any changein her condition, you will, of course, notify me at once." Crichton tookout a card and scribbled his address on it. "This will always find me.And now I have a rather delicate request to make. Would you mind notletting any one know the identity of your patient? You see I have everyhope that she will eventually recover her reason and therefore I wishher malady to be kept a secret. I have told my friends that my wife isin the south of France undergoing a species of rest cure."

  "I think you are very wise. I shall not mention her name to any one."

  "But the nurses?"

  "It is a rule of all nursing homes that a patient's name is never to bementioned to an outsider. But if you wish to take extra precautions, youmight give her another name while she is here and they need never knowthat it is not her own."

  "Thank you. That is just what I should wish."

  "What do you think Mrs. Crichton had better be called?"

  Cyril thought a moment.

  "Mrs. Peter Thompkins, and I will become Mr. Thompkins. Please addressall communications to me under that name; otherwise the truth is sure toleak out."

  "But how will you arrange to get your mail?"

  "Peter Thompkins is my valet, so that is quite simple."

  "Very well. Good-bye, Mr. Thompkins. I trust I shall soon have a betterreport to give you of Mrs. Thompkins."

  A moment later Cyril was in a taxi speeding towards Mayfair, a freeman--for the moment.