A Silent Witness | Page 8

SYLVIA?"
THE winter session had commenced at the hospital, but at Hampstead
the month of October had set in with something like a return to summer.
It is true that the trees had lost something of their leafy opulence, and
that here and there, amidst the sober green, patches of russet and gold
had made their appearance, as if Nature's colour-orchestra were tuning
up for the final symphony. But, meanwhile, the sun shone brightly and
with a genial heat, and if, day by day, he fell farther from the zenith,
there was nothing to show it but the lengthening noonday shadows, the
warmer blue of the sky and the more rosy tint of the clouds that sailed
across it.
Other and more capable pens than mine have set forth the charm of
autumn and the beauties of Hampstead--queen of suburbs of the world's
metropolis; therefore will I refrain, and only note, as relevant to the
subject, the fact that on many a day, when the work of the hospital was
in full swing, I might have been seen playing truant very agreeably on
the inexhaustible Heath or in the lanes and fields adjacent thereto. In
truth, I was taking the final stage of my curriculum rather lazily, having
worked hard enough in the earlier years, and being still too young by
several months to be admitted to the fellowship of the College of
Surgeons; promising myself that when the weather broke I would settle
down in earnest to the winter's work.
I have mentioned that Millfield Lane was one of my favourite haunts;

indeed, from my lodgings, it was the most direct route to the Heath, and
I passed along it almost daily; and never, now, without my thoughts
turning back to that rainy night when I had found the dead--or
unconscious--man lying across the narrow footway. One morning, as I
passed the spot, it occurred to me to make a drawing of the place in my
sketch-book, that I might have some memorial of that strange
adventure. The pictorial possibilities of the lane just here were not great,
but by taking my stand at the turn, on the very spot where I had seen
the body lying, I was able to arrange a simple composition which was
satisfactory enough.
I am no artist. A neat and intelligible drawing is the utmost that I can
produce. But even this modest degree of achievement may be very
useful, as I had discovered many a time in the wards or
laboratories-indeed, I have often been surprised that the instructors of
our youth attach such small value to the power of graphic expression;
and it came in usefully now, though in a way that was unforeseen and
not fully appreciated at the moment. I had dealt adequately with the
fence, the posts, the tree-trunks and other well-defined forms and was
beginning a less successful attack on the foliage, when I heard a light,
quick step approaching from Hampstead Lane. Intuition-if there is such
a thing-fitted the foot-step with a personality, and, for once in a way,
was right; as the newcomer reached the sharp bend of the path, I saw a
girl of about my own age, simply and serviceably dressed and carrying
a pochade box and a small camp-stool. She was not an entire stranger
to me. I had met her often in the lane and on the Heath--so often in fact
that we had developed that profound unconsciousness of one another's
existence that almost amounts to recognition--and had wondered
vaguely who she was and what sort of work she did on the panels in
that mysterious box.
As I drew back to make way for her, she brushed past, with a single,
quick, inquisitive glance at my sketchbook, and went on her way,
looking very much alive and full of business. I watched her as she
tripped down the lane and passed between the posts out into the
suniight beyond, to vanish behind the trunks of the elms; then I
returned to my sketch and my struggles to express foliage with a touch

somewhat less suggestive of a birch-broom.
When I had finished my drawing, I sauntered on rather aimlessly,
speculating for the hundredth time on the meaning of those discoveries
of mine in this very lane. Was it possible that the man whom I had seen
was not dead, but merely insensible? I could not believe it. The whole
set of circumstances--the aspect of the body, the blood-stain on the
fence, the tracks through the high grass and the mysterious gold
trinket--were opposed to any such belief. Yet, on the other hand, one
would think that a man could not disappear unnoticed. This was no
tramp or nameless vagrant. He was a clergyman or a priest, a man who
would be known