The Vanished Messenger. E. Phillips Oppenheim

the sake of others, we must discover the cause for this hurried journey on the part of Mr. John P. Dunster.”

      With his long, delicate forefinger Mr. Fentolin slit the envelope and withdrew the single sheet of paper which it contained. There were a dozen lines of written matter, and what appeared to be a dozen signatures appended. Mr. Fentolin read it, at first with ordinary interest. Then a change came. The look of a man drawn out of himself, drawn out of all knowledge of his surroundings or his present state, stole into his face. Literally he became transfixed. The delicate fingers of his left hand gripped the sides of his little carriage. His eyes shone as though those few written lines upon which they were riveted were indeed some message from an unknown, an unimagined world. Yet no word ever passed his lips. There came a time when the tension seemed a little relaxed. With fingers which still trembled, he folded up the sheet and replaced it in the envelope. He guarded it with both his hands and sat quite still. Neither Gerald nor his servant moved. Somehow, the sense of Mr. Fentolin’s suppressed excitement seemed to have become communicated to them. It was a little tableau, broken at last by Mr. Fentolin himself.

      “I should like,” he said, turning to Gerald, “to be alone. It may interest you to know that this document which Mr. Dunster has brought across the seas, and which I hold in my hands, is the most amazing message of modern times.”

      Gerald rose to his feet.

      “What are you going to do about it?” he asked abruptly. “Do you want any one in from the telegraph room?”

      Mr. Fentolin shook his head slowly.

      “At present,” he announced, “I am going to reflect. Meekins, my chair to the north window—so. I am going to sit here,” he went on, “and I am going to look across the sea and reflect. A very fortunate storm, after all, I think, which kept Mr. John P. Dunster from the Harwich boat last night. Leave me, Gerald, for a time. Stand behind my chair, Meekins, and see that no one enters.”

      Mr. Fentolin sat in his chair, his hands still gripping the wonderful document, his eyes travelling over the ocean now flecked with sunlight. His eyes were fixed upon the horizon. He looked steadily eastward.

CHAPTER VI

       Table of Contents

      Mr. John P. Dunster opened his eyes upon strange surroundings. He found himself lying upon a bed deliciously soft, with lace-edged sheets and lavender-perfumed bed hangings. Through the discreetly opened upper window came a pleasant and ozone-laden breeze. The furniture in the room was mostly of an old-fashioned type, some of it of oak, curiously carved, and most of it surmounted with a coat of arms. The apartment was lofty and of almost palatial proportions. The whole atmosphere of the place breathed comfort and refinement. The only thing of which he did not wholly approve was the face of the nurse who rose silently to her feet at his murmured question:

      “Where am I?”

      She felt his forehead, altered a bandage for a moment, and took his wrist between her fingers.

      “You have been ill,” she said. “There was a railway accident. You are to lie quite still and not say a word. I am going to fetch the doctor now. He wished to see you directly you spoke.”

      Mr. Dunster dozed again for several moments. When he reopened his eyes, a man was standing by his bedside, a short man with a black beard and gold-rimmed glasses. Mr. Dunster, in this first stage of his convalescence, was perhaps difficult to please, for he did not like the look of the doctor, either.

      “Please tell me where I am?” he begged.

      “You have been in a railway accident,” the doctor told him, “and you were brought here afterwards.”

      “In a railway accident,” Mr. Dunster repeated. “Ah, yes, I remember! I took a special to Harwich—I remember now. Where is my dressing-bag?”

      “It is here by the side of your bed.”

      “And my pocket-book?”

      “It is on your dressing-table.”

      “Have any of my things been looked at?”

      “Only so far as was necessary to discover your identity,” the doctor assured him. “Don’t talk too much. The nurse is bringing you some beef tea.”

      “When,” Mr. Dunster enquired, “shall I be able to continue my journey?”

      “That depends upon many things,” the doctor replied.

      Mr. Dunster drank his beef tea and felt considerably stronger. His head still ached, but his memory was returning.

      “There was a young man in the carriage with me,” he asked presently. “Mr. Gerald something or other I think he said his name was?”

      “Fentolin,” the doctor said. “He is unhurt. This is his relative’s house to which you have been brought.”

      Mr. Dunster lay for a time with knitted brows. Once more the name of Fentolin seemed somehow familiar to him, seemed somehow to bring with it to his memory a note of warning. He looked around the room fretfully. He looked into the nurse’s face, which he disliked exceedingly, and he looked at the doctor, whom he was beginning to detest.

      “Whose house exactly is this?” he demanded.

      “This is St. David’s Hall—the home of Mr. Miles Fentolin,” the doctor told him. “The young gentleman with whom you were travelling is his nephew.”

      “Can I send a telegram?” Mr. Dunster asked, a little abruptly.

      “Without a doubt,” the doctor replied. “Mr. Fentolin desired me to ask you if there was any one whom you would like to apprise of your safety.”

      Again the man upon the bed lay quite still, with knitted brows. There was surely something familiar about that name. Was it his fevered fancy or was there also something a little sinister?

      The nurse, who had glided from the room, came back presently with some telegraph forms. Mr. Dunster held out his hand for them and then hesitated.

      “Can you tell me any date, Doctor, upon which I can rely upon leaving here?”

      “You will probably be well enough to travel on the third day from now,” the doctor assured him.

      “The third day,” Mr. Dunster muttered. “Very well.”

      He wrote out three telegrams and passed them over.

      “One,” he said, “is to New York, one to The Hague, and one to London. There was plenty of money in my pocket. Perhaps you will find it and pay for these.”

      “Is there anything more,” the doctor asked, “that can be done for your comfort?”

      “Nothing at present,” Mr. Dunster replied. “My head aches now, but I think that I shall want to leave before three days are up. Are you the doctor in the neighbourhood?”

      Sarson shook his head.

      “I am physician to Mr. Fentolin’s household,” he answered quietly. “I live here. Mr. Fentolin is himself somewhat of an invalid and requires constant medical attention.”

      Mr. Dunster contemplated the speaker steadfastly.

      “You will forgive me,” he said. “I am an American and I am used to plain speech. I am quite unused to being attended by strange doctors. I understand that you are not in general practice now. Might I ask if you are fully qualified?”

      “I am an M.D. of London,” the doctor replied. “You can make yourself quite easy as to my qualifications. It would not suit Mr. Fentolin’s purpose to entrust himself to the care of any one without a reputation.”

      He left the room, and