Chapter 9

The Philosophy Of Mr. Dentham

So Adrian, after his one glimpse of the woman he loved, left Paradise and returned with a heavy heart to his solitary existence at Hampstead. He had, it was true, promised to restore the lost sheep to the arms of the gentle shepherdess, but how this was to be done he did not know. There were two ways in which he could regain his identity, either that he should be killed in his present body by accident or that he should commit suicide. The former of these methods seemed unlikely to occur, as the number of people who meet with accidents is really very small, and as to the latter, although he was no coward yet he shrank with a vague dread from putting an end to his present existence.

It was true that Roversmire had informed him, that his soul would return to its own tenement, but suppose he was wrong and the soul, powerless to enter its former habitation, should remain suspended like the coffin of Mahomet between heaven and earth? The last case would be worse than the first, and Adrian, in spite of what was at stake, could hardly be blamed for preferring his present condition, unsatisfactory as it was, to a possible chance of leaving the world altogether.

One thing, however, he had learned by his visit to Marlow which gave him a feeling of satisfaction, and that was the certainty of Trevanna's recovery. He was at least guiltless of blood, and moreover the explanation of Trevanna exonerated him from any malicious intent, so that when his soul returned to its former body he would at least be in a position to hold up his head as he had been accustomed to do.

The devotion displayed by Olive in defending his character had touched him deeply, and he was now anxious to recover his lost position and reward that devotion as it deserved. But, in spite of all his desires and the dreariness of his present position, he felt quite powerless to make a move in any direction. He wandered about the house, read a great deal, smoked occasionally, and sometimes went down to the secret chamber, where he found his body was still preserving a life-like appearance with no signs of decay or change.

"Dentham," he said one day, anxious to find out what suspicions were harboured by his crafty servant, "are you quite sure you did not see that walking-stick I spoke about?"

"Quite sure, sir," replied the valet promptly, "perhaps the gentleman took it away."

"What gentleman?" asked Adrian sharply.

"The gentleman that owned it, sir."

"It belonged to me," said Adrian, looking keenly at him, "I told you that before."

"Would you mind describing the stick to me again, sir," asked Dentham innocently.

"An oaken staff with a golden band and initials."

"Your own initials, sir, M.R.?"

"No—A.L.—the stick was given to me by a friend and I did not get them altered."

"Indeed, sir, I'm afraid I didn't see it."

"Very well, you can go," said Adrian shortly, and as the door closed behind the man he muttered quickly:

"That man suspects I came to the house on the night, and he thinks as Dr. Roversmire I've hidden Adrian Lancaster. Good heavens!" he cried, suddenly springing to his feet, "if he thinks this and finds out the body, I, as Dr. Roversmire, may be accused of making away with myself as Adrian Lancaster, and then there will be trouble—but it's impossible—even if Dentham does suspect, he'll never find the connection between that stick and the disappearance of Adrian Lancaster. I am a fool to torture myself like this—a fool—a fool."

He walked rapidly up and down the room, wildly excited by the possibilities he was conjuring up, and then going to the desk, took out Roversmire's diary to find out if possible some mode of escape from his unpleasant position.

Meanwhile Dentham, in the security of his own chamber, was busily engaged in reading a letter he had just received, and which appeared to give him great satisfaction, judging from the smile on his unpleasant-looking face. The letter read as follows:

"If the person who wrote to Miss Olive Maunders offering to give information as to the whereabouts of Mr. Adrian Lancaster will be at No. 40, Beryle Square at three o'clock on Thursday, he will see Miss Maunders, and obtain a reward if his information leads to the finding of Mr. Lancaster."

"He! he!" chuckled Mr. Dentham, folding up this note and putting it safely in his pocket, "it was a good move, writing to that young lady—she's sweet on Mr. Lancaster, I'll bet—and though I don't know where he is exactly, I daresay this stick will put her on his track—Lord! I wonder what old Roversmire's done with him—he was always up to some tricks. I don't believe in these jugglers myself—perhaps he's killed him to read a fortune in his inside, like them coves in history."

Dentham was so excited with this idea that he walked up and down his chamber chuckling.

"I thought he was a forger or a robber—but he ain't. No!—he's a murderer, and that's worse nor either of the other two. I'll go to this young lady to-morrow, and I'll show her the walking-stick—that'll show Mr. Adrian Lancaster's been here, at all events, and if they search the house perhaps they'll find him, though I don't say," said Mr. Dentham sagaciously, "that he'll be alive. If I get any money out of this I'll chuck the old cove—this house gives me the horrors; I know he's got a Blue Beard's chamber somewhere—well, I'll go to-morrow—my information's worth a fiver at all events. I'll dare to ask the old 'un's leave to get away—he wouldn't give it to me if he know'd what I was up to."

The bell rang at this moment, and he was summoned to Adrian's presence.

"Bring me some wine," said Adrian, looking up from his book.

"Yes, sir," replied Dentham, and retreated. "Drinking, eh," he thought as he went to the pantry; "I wouldn't if I were you—you might let out something about that gentleman whose stick you collared—oh, he give it to you—yes, I daresay—my gracious, what a wicked old chap he is, to be sure."

When he had placed the wine on the table and poured out a glass for his master, he waited a moment, and then spoke.

"I beg pardon, sir, but might I ask leave to-morrow for a couple of hours?"

"What for?" asked his master abruptly.

"I've got to go into Town, sir—to see a doctor; I ain't well—perhaps you could do something, sir?"

"No; I don't practise medicine. Go into Town, if you like, but mind you're back again in two hours."

"You can depend upon me, sir," said Dentham quietly, and then sneaked out of the room, chuckling to himself.

"He don't practise medicine, don't he—why, I don't believe he's a doctor at all—well, I've got what I wanted, and if I put the police on to the old cove he won't like it."

Here Mr. Dentham made a pause, struck with a brilliant idea.

"I'll get the money for putting the police on to him," he said in a satisfied tone, "then I'll come home and tell him of his danger if he pays me well—so I'll make money on both sides, and they can fight it out between them—that's what I call philosophy."

At all events, it was a very paying philosophy, and Mr. Dentham passed a happy night, dreaming of the golden harvest he would reap by betraying his master to Olive Maunders, and then by telling the doctor the lady's plans.