The Shrieking Pit | Page 7

found in any fit except an epileptic seizure." The specialist pointed to a
faint fleck of foam which showed beneath the young man's brown
moustache.
Colwyn bent over him and wiped his lips with his handkerchief. As he
did so the young man's eyes unclosed. He regarded Colwyn languidly
for a moment or two, and then sat upright on the bed.
"Who are you?" he exclaimed.
"It's quite all right, Mr. Ronald," said the specialist, in his most
soothing bedside manner. "Just take things easily. You have been ill,
but you are almost yourself again. Let me feel your pulse--ha, very
good indeed! We will have you on your legs in no time."
The young man verified the truth of the latter prediction by springing
off his bed and regarding his visitors keenly. There was now, at all
events, no lack of sanity and intelligence in his gaze.
"What has happened? How did I get here?"
"You fainted, and we brought you up to your room," interposed
Colwyn tactfully, before Sir Henry could speak.
"Awfully kind of you. I remember now. I felt a bit seedy as I went
downstairs, but I thought it would pass off. I don't remember much
more about it. I hope I didn't make too much of an ass of myself before
the others, going off like a girl in that way. You must have had no end

of a bother in dragging me upstairs--very good of you to take the
trouble." He smiled faintly, and produced a cigarette case.
"How do you feel now?" asked Sir Henry Durwood solemnly,
disregarding the proffered case.
"A bit as though I'd been kicked on the top of the head by a horse, but
it'll soon pass off. Fact is, I got a touch of sun when I was out
there"--he waved his hand vaguely towards the East--"and it gives me a
bit of trouble at times. But I'll be all right directly. I'm sorry to have
given you so much trouble."
He proffered this explanation with an easy courtesy, accompanied by a
slight deprecating smile which admirably conveyed the regret of a
well-bred man for having given trouble to strangers. It was difficult to
reconcile his self-control with his previous extravagance downstairs.
But to Colwyn it was apparent that his composure was simulated, the
effort of a sensitive man who had betrayed a weakness to strangers, for
the fingers which held a cigarette trembled slightly, and there were
troubled shadows in the depths of the dark blue eyes. Colwyn admired
the young man's pluck--he would wish to behave the same way himself
in similar circumstances, he felt--and he realised that the best service he
and Sir Henry Durwood could render their fellow guest was to leave
him alone.
But Sir Henry was far from regarding the matter in the same light. As a
doctor he was more at home in other people's bedrooms than his own,
for rumour whispered that Lady Durwood was so jealous of her
husband's professional privileges as a fashionable ladies' physician that
she was in the habit of administering strong doses of matrimonial truths
to him every night at home. Sir Henry settled himself in his chair,
adjusted his eye-glasses more firmly on his nose and regarded the
young man standing by the mantelpiece with a bland professional smile,
slightly dashed by the recollection that he was not receiving a fee for
his visit.
"You have made a good recovery, but you'll need care," he said.
"Speaking as a professional man--I am Sir Henry Durwood--I think it

would be better for you if you had somebody with you who understood
your case. With your--er--complaint, it is very desirable that you should
not be left to the mercy of strangers. I would advise, strongly advise
you, to communicate with your friends. I shall be only too happy to do
so on your behalf if you will give me their address. In the
meantime--until they arrive--my advice to you is to rest."
A look of annoyance flashed through the young man's eyes. He
evidently resented the specialist's advice; indeed, his glance plainly
revealed that he regarded it as a piece of gratuitous impertinence. He
answered coldly:
"Many thanks, Sir Henry, but I think I shall be able to look after
myself."
"That is not an uncommon feature of your complaint," said the
specialist. An oracular shake of the head conveyed more than the
words.
"What do you imagine my complaint, as you term it, to be?" asked the
young man curtly.
Colwyn wondered whether even a fashionable physician, used to the
freedom with which fashionable ladies discussed their ailments, would
have the courage to tell a stranger that he regarded him as an epileptic.
The matter was not put to the test--perhaps fortunately--for at that
moment there