policeman calling on traffic. ‘Keep your eyes on mine.’
Fenville realised that he was being hypnotised; but it was too late to demur.
A moment later he was awake again, and the Doctor was writing on the card.
‘Arcadia Gardens. Which end?’
‘The far end,’ said Fenville.
The Doctor looked at him.
‘There’s a house with sphinxes outside. That end.’
The Doctor stared into his eyes and wrote it down.
‘How do you know I’ve got the right street?’ asked Fenville.
‘You noticed the name of it without being conscious of doing so. By modern science the suppressed memory has been recovered.’
‘Suppressed? I didn’t do that.’
The Doctor looked at him gravely. ‘Didn’t you?’ he said. ‘A man in fancy dress? Who looked at you strangely? Whom you did not mention to me?’ He raised his hand. Now it was as if he were stopping the traffic. ‘I see you remember him.’ Only the back of his ring was visible to Fenville. He became the physician giving orders. ‘Do not leave the house until you hear from me again. I shall speak to MrsStark. I shall also speak to that other young woman; the one who so unluckily accompanied you to the restaurant. I must have her address too.’ Fenville supplied it and the Doctor wrote it down. ‘After that I shall institute some enquiries. We have resources nowadays for dealing with such matters. You may consider yourself to be dangerously ill; far more so than if you had a more conventional disease. Unless you meetthis woman again and get to know her and masticate her and bite upon her and fully digest and eliminate her, you will be unlikely to recover. It isa rare disease you have; and fatal unless it ispermitted to run its full course.’ He smiled into his withered beard. ‘Good-bye, my friend,’ he said, drawing on his shabby brown leather gloves. ‘Modern science will do its best to cure you.’
At half past twelve Mrs Stark brought luncheon: spaghetti au gratin, followed by ground rice and prunes, and a large white cup of piebald Camp coffee. At half past three, she reappeared with a letter. The writing was faint and shaky. The letter proved to be from the Doctor; written on his prescription paper.
‘Her name is Dorabelle. Your magnetic undermind has already led you to her house. I have prescribed for Miss Terrington. May eloquence attend you.’ The Doctor enclosed his account for two and a half guineas.
By four o’clock Fenville could remain in bed no longer. Physical energy was wrestling with spiritual malaise. As the church clock struck, he rose and crept to the bathroom, there to shave in water which at that hour was scarcely tepid. He dressed and stole downstairs. In the hall he heard Mrs Stark snoring in her little back den. For many years the bottom of the front door had dragged on the lumpy linoleum, sometimes shaking the whole house; and now, as soon as Fenville had opened it, a gust of wind snatched it out of his hand and slammed itshut. He stood silent for a moment, but Mrs Stark’s afternoon dreams were unbroken. At the second attempt, he was outside the house.
He walked through to Holborn and took a number 17 omnibus to Notting Hill. Then with some difficulty and several retracings of his path he made his way to the house with thesphinxes in Arcadia Gardens. As he walked between that noncommittal double file of portly residences, now, as he saw, divided and sub-divided within themselves, the wind lifted torn sheets of cheap newspaper, tossed in from other less desirable quarters, glanced at them, and blew them away. One of them tangled itself round Fenville’s trousers. The street was empty and passé.
At the now-familiar front door, he rang the bell. More than once he lugged at the big iron knob without a sound reaching him. He began to shiver in the rising wind. But doubtless the bell had long since ceased to work. Then he heard slowly approaching steps. Their rhythm seemed to be erratic.
The door opened. A very tall, elderly man,
Fenville realised that he was being hypnotised; but it was too late to demur.
A moment later he was awake again, and the Doctor was writing on the card.
‘Arcadia Gardens. Which end?’
‘The far end,’ said Fenville.
The Doctor looked at him.
‘There’s a house with sphinxes outside. That end.’
The Doctor stared into his eyes and wrote it down.
‘How do you know I’ve got the right street?’ asked Fenville.
‘You noticed the name of it without being conscious of doing so. By modern science the suppressed memory has been recovered.’
‘Suppressed? I didn’t do that.’
The Doctor looked at him gravely. ‘Didn’t you?’ he said. ‘A man in fancy dress? Who looked at you strangely? Whom you did not mention to me?’ He raised his hand. Now it was as if he were stopping the traffic. ‘I see you remember him.’ Only the back of his ring was visible to Fenville. He became the physician giving orders. ‘Do not leave the house until you hear from me again. I shall speak to MrsStark. I shall also speak to that other young woman; the one who so unluckily accompanied you to the restaurant. I must have her address too.’ Fenville supplied it and the Doctor wrote it down. ‘After that I shall institute some enquiries. We have resources nowadays for dealing with such matters. You may consider yourself to be dangerously ill; far more so than if you had a more conventional disease. Unless you meetthis woman again and get to know her and masticate her and bite upon her and fully digest and eliminate her, you will be unlikely to recover. It isa rare disease you have; and fatal unless it ispermitted to run its full course.’ He smiled into his withered beard. ‘Good-bye, my friend,’ he said, drawing on his shabby brown leather gloves. ‘Modern science will do its best to cure you.’
At half past twelve Mrs Stark brought luncheon: spaghetti au gratin, followed by ground rice and prunes, and a large white cup of piebald Camp coffee. At half past three, she reappeared with a letter. The writing was faint and shaky. The letter proved to be from the Doctor; written on his prescription paper.
‘Her name is Dorabelle. Your magnetic undermind has already led you to her house. I have prescribed for Miss Terrington. May eloquence attend you.’ The Doctor enclosed his account for two and a half guineas.
By four o’clock Fenville could remain in bed no longer. Physical energy was wrestling with spiritual malaise. As the church clock struck, he rose and crept to the bathroom, there to shave in water which at that hour was scarcely tepid. He dressed and stole downstairs. In the hall he heard Mrs Stark snoring in her little back den. For many years the bottom of the front door had dragged on the lumpy linoleum, sometimes shaking the whole house; and now, as soon as Fenville had opened it, a gust of wind snatched it out of his hand and slammed itshut. He stood silent for a moment, but Mrs Stark’s afternoon dreams were unbroken. At the second attempt, he was outside the house.
He walked through to Holborn and took a number 17 omnibus to Notting Hill. Then with some difficulty and several retracings of his path he made his way to the house with thesphinxes in Arcadia Gardens. As he walked between that noncommittal double file of portly residences, now, as he saw, divided and sub-divided within themselves, the wind lifted torn sheets of cheap newspaper, tossed in from other less desirable quarters, glanced at them, and blew them away. One of them tangled itself round Fenville’s trousers. The street was empty and passé.
At the now-familiar front door, he rang the bell. More than once he lugged at the big iron knob without a sound reaching him. He began to shiver in the rising wind. But doubtless the bell had long since ceased to work. Then he heard slowly approaching steps. Their rhythm seemed to be erratic.
The door opened. A very tall, elderly man,
Similar Books
