The Vanishing Man | Page 7

little finger. I saw you look at my shaky hand just

now--oh, it's all right; I'm not offended. It's a doctor's business to keep
his eyelids lifting. But my hand is steady enough as a rule, when I'm
not upset, but the least excitement sets me shaking like a jelly. And the
fact is that I have just had a deucedly unpleasant interview--"
"I think," Miss Bellingham interrupted, "Doctor Berkeley and, in fact,
the neighbourhood at large, are aware of the fact."
Mr. Bellingham laughed rather shamefacedly. "I'm afraid I did lose my
temper," he said; "but I am an impulsive old fellow, Doctor, and when
I'm put out I'm apt to speak my mind--a little too bluntly, perhaps."
"And audibly," his daughter added. "Do you know that Doctor
Berkeley was reduced to the necessity of stopping his ears?" She
glanced at me, as she spoke, with something like a twinkle in her
solemn grey eyes.
"Did I shout?" Mr. Bellingham asked, not very contritely, I thought,
though he added: "I'm very sorry, my dear; but it won't happen again. I
think we've seen the last of that good gentleman."
"I am sure I hope so," she rejoined, adding: "And now I will leave you
to your talk; I shall be in the next room if you should want me."
I opened the door for her, and when she had passed out with a stiff little
bow I seated myself by the bedside and resumed the consultation. It
was evidently a case of nervous breakdown, to which the cab accident
had, no doubt, contributed. As to the other antecedents, they were no
concern of mine, though Mr. Bellingham seemed to think otherwise,
for he resumed: "That cab business was the last straw, you know, and it
finished me off, but I have been going down the hill for a long time.
I've had a lot of trouble during the last two years. But I suppose I
oughtn't to pester you with the details of my personal affairs."
"Anything that bears on your present state of health is of interest to me
if you don't mind telling it," I said.
"Mind!" he exclaimed. "Did you ever meet an invalid who didn't enjoy

talking about his own health? It's the listener who minds, as a rule."
"Well, the present listener doesn't," I said.
"Then," said Mr. Bellingham, "I'll treat myself to the luxury of telling
you all my troubles; I don't often get the chance of a confidential
grumble to a responsible man of my own class. And I really have some
excuse for railing at Fortune, as you will agree when I tell you that, a
couple of years ago, I went to bed one night a gentleman of
independent means and excellent prospects and woke up in the morning
to find myself practically a beggar. Not a cheerful experience that, you
know, at my time of life, eh?"
"No," I agreed, "nor at any other."
"And that was not all," he continued; "for, at the same moment, I lost
my only brother, my dearest, kindest friend. He disappeared--vanished
off the face of the earth; but perhaps you have heard of the affair. The
confounded papers were full of it at the time."
He paused abruptly, noticing, no doubt, a sudden change in my face. Of
course, I recollected the case now. Indeed, ever since I had entered the
house some chord of memory had been faintly vibrating, and now his
last words had struck out the full note.
"Yes," I said, "I remember the incident, though I don't suppose I should
but for the fact that our lecturer on medical jurisprudence drew my
attention to it."
"Indeed," said Mr. Bellingham, rather uneasily, as I fancied. "What did
he say about it?"
"He referred to it as a case that was calculated to give rise to some very
pretty legal complications."
"By Jove!" exclaimed Mr. Bellingham, "that man was a prophet! Legal
complications, indeed! But I'll be bound he never guessed at the sort of
infernal tangle that has actually gathered round the affair. By the way,

what was his name?"
"Thorndyke," I replied. "Doctor John Thorndyke."
"Thorndyke," Mr. Bellingham repeated in a musing, retrospective tone.
"I seem to remember that name. Yes, of course. I have heard a legal
friend of mine, a Mr. Marchmont, speak of him in reference to the case
of a man whom I knew slightly years ago--a certain Jeffrey Blackmore,
who also disappeared very mysteriously. I remember now that Doctor
Thorndyke unravelled that case with most remarkable ingenuity."
"I daresay he would be very much interested to hear about your case," I
suggested.
"I daresay he would," was the reply; "but one can't take up a
professional man's time for nothing, and I couldn't afford to pay him.