The Vanishing Man | Page 8

And that reminds me that I'm taking up your time by gossiping about
my purely personal affairs."
"My morning round is finished," said I, "and, moreover, your personal
affairs are highly interesting. I suppose I mustn't ask what is the nature
of the legal entanglement?"
"Not unless you are prepared to stay here for the rest of the day and go
home a raving lunatic. But I'll tell you this much: the trouble is about
my poor brother's will. In the first place, it can't be administered
because there is no sufficient evidence that my brother is dead; and in
the second place, if it could, all the property would go to people who
were never intended to benefit. The will itself is the most diabolically
exasperating document that was ever produced by the perverted
ingenuity of a wrong-headed man. That's all. Will you have a look at
my knee?"
As Mr. Bellingham's explanation (delivered in a rapid crescendo and
ending almost in a shout) had left him purple-faced and trembling, I
thought it best to bring our talk to an end. Accordingly I proceeded to
inspect the injured knee, which was now nearly well, and to overhaul
my patient generally; and having given him detailed instructions as to

his general conduct, I rose to take my leave.
"And remember," I said as I shook his hand, "no tobacco, no coffee, no
excitement of any kind. Lead a quiet, bovine life."
"That's all very well," he grumbled, "but supposing people come here
and excite me?"
"Disregard them," said I, "and read _Whitaker's Almanack_." And with
this parting advice I passed out into the other room.
Miss Bellingham was seated at the table with a pile of blue-covered
note-books before her, two of which were open, displaying pages
closely written in a small, neat handwriting. She rose as I entered and
looked at me inquiringly.
"I heard you advising my father to read _Whitaker's Almanack_," she
said. "Was that as a curative measure?"
"Entirely," I replied. "I recommended it for its medicinal virtues, as an
antidote to mental excitement."
She smiled faintly. "It certainly is not a highly emotional book," she
said, and then asked: "Have you any other instructions to give?"
"Well, I might give the conventional advice--to maintain a cheerful
outlook and avoid worry; but I don't suppose you would find it very
helpful."
"No," she answered bitterly; "it is a counsel of perfection. People in our
position are not a very cheerful class, I am afraid; but still they don't
seek out worries from sheer perverseness. The worries come unsought.
But, of course, you can't enter into that."
"I can't give any practical help, I fear, though I do sincerely hope that
your father's affairs will straighten themselves out soon."
She thanked me for my good wishes and accompanied me down to the
street door, where, with a bow and a rather stiff handshake, she gave

me my conge.
Very ungratefully the noise of Fetter Lane smote on my ears as I came
out through the archway, and very squalid and unrestful the little street
looked when contrasted with the dignity and monastic quiet of the old
garden. As to the surgery, with its oilcloth floor and walls made
hideous with gaudy insurance show-cards in sham gilt frames, its
aspect was so revolting that I flew to the day-book for distraction, and
was still busily entering the morning's visits when the bottle-boy,
Adolphus, entered stealthily to announce lunch.
CHAPTER III
JOHN THORNDYKE
That the character of an individual tends to be reflected in his dress is a
fact familiar to the least observant. That the observation is equally
applicable to aggregates of men is less familiar, but equally true. Do
not the members of the fighting professions, even to this day, deck
themselves in feathers, in gaudy colours and gilded ornaments, after the
manner of the African war-chief or the "Redskin brave," and thereby
indicate the place of war in modern civilisation? Does not the Church
of Rome send her priests to the altar in habiliments that were
fashionable before the fall of the Roman Empire, in token of her
immovable conservatism? And, lastly, does not the Law, lumbering on
in the wake of progress, symbolise its subjection to precedent by
head-gear reminiscent of the days of good Queen Anne?
I should apologise for obtruding upon the reader these somewhat trite
reflections; which were set going by the quaint stock-in-trade of the
wig-maker's shop in the cloisters of the Inner Temple, whither I had
strayed on a sultry afternoon in quest of shade and quiet. I had halted
opposite the little shop window, and, with my eyes bent dreamily on
the row of wigs, was pursuing the above train of thought when I was
startled by a deep voice saying