office. Nobody except Mr. Keen had believed that the case could ever be solved.
“Safe-deposit box 108923!” said Miss Smith softly, pressing a speaking tube to her red lips. In a few moments there came a hissing thud from the pneumatic tube; Miss Smith unlocked it and extracted a smooth, steel cylinder.
“The combination for that cylinder is A-4-44-11-X,” observed the Tracer, consulting a cipher code, “which, translated,” he added, “gives us the setting combination, One, D, R-R,-J-’24.”
Miss Smith turned the movable disks at the end of the cylinder until the required combination appeared. Then she unscrewed the cylinder head and dumped out the documents in the famous Carden case.
“As Mr. Carden will be here in half an hour or so I think we had better run over the case briefly,” nodded the Tracer, leaning back in his chair and composing himself to listen. “Begin with my preliminary memorandum, Miss Smith.”
“Case 108923,” began the girl. Then she read the date, Carden’s full name, Victor Carden, a terse biography of the same gentleman, and added: “Case accepted. Contingent fee, $5,000.”
“Quite so,” said Mr. Keen; “now, run through the minutes of the first interview.”
And Miss Smith unrolled a typewritten scroll and read:
“Victor Carden, Esquire, the well-known artist, called this evening at 6.30. Tall, well-bred, good appearance, very handsome; very much embarrassed. Questioned by Mr. Keen he turned pink, and looked timidly at the stenographer (Miss Colt). Asked if he might not see Mr. Keen alone, Miss Colt retired. Mr. Keen set the recording phonograph in motion by dropping his elbow on his desk.”
A brief _resume_ of the cylinder records followed:
“Mr. Carden asked Mr. Keen if he (Mr. Keen) knew who he (Mr. Carden) was. Mr. Keen replied that everybody knew Mr. Carden, the celebrated painter and illustrator who had created the popular type of beauty known as the ‘Carden Girl.’ Mr. Carden blushed and fidgeted. (_Notes from. Mr. Keen’s Observation Book, pp. 291-297._) Admitted that he was the creator of the ‘Carden Girl.’ Admitted he had drawn and painted that particular type of feminine beauty many times. Fidgeted some more. (_Keen’s O.B., pp. 298-299._) Volunteered the statement that this type of beauty, known as the ‘Carden Girl,’ was the cause of great unhappiness to himself. Questioned, turned pinker and fidgeted. (_K.O.B., page 300._) Denied that his present trouble was caused by the model who had posed for the ‘Carden Girl.’ Explained that a number of assorted models had posed for that type of beauty. Further explained that none of them resembled the type; that the type was his own creation; that he used models merely for the anatomy, and that he always idealized form and features.
“Questioned again, admitted that the features of the ‘Carden Girl’ were his ideal of the highest and loveliest type of feminine beauty. Did not deny that he had fallen in love with his own creation. Turned red and tried to smoke. (_K.O.B., page 303._) Admitted he had been fascinated himself with his own rendering of a type of beauty which he had never seen anywhere except as rendered by his own pencil on paper or on canvas. Fidgeted. (_K.O.B., page 304._) Admitted that he could easily fall in love with a woman who resembled the ‘Carden Girl.’ Didn’t believe she ever really existed. Confessed he had hoped for years to encounter her, but had begun to despair. Admitted that he had ventured to think that Mr. Keen might trace such a girl for him. Doubted Mr. Keen’s success. Fidgeted (_K.O.B., page 306_), and asked Mr. Keen to take the case. Promised to send to Mr. Keen a painting in oil which embodied his loftiest ideal of the type known as the ‘Carden Girl.’ (_Portrait received; lithographs made and distributed to our agents according to routine, from Canada to Mexico and from the Atlantic to the Pacific._)
“Mr. Keen terminated the interview with characteristic tact, accepting the case on the contingent fee of $5,000.”
“Very well,” said the Tracer, as Miss Smith rolled up the scroll and looked at him for further instructions. “Now, perhaps you had better run over the short summary of proceedings to date. I mean the digest which you will find attached to the completed records.”
Miss Smith found the paper, unrolled it, and read:
“During the twelve months’ investigation and search (_in re Carden_) seven hundred and nine young women were discovered who resembled very closely the type sought for. By process of elimination, owing to defects in figure, features, speech, breeding, etc., etc., this list was cut down to three. One of these occasionally chewed gum, but otherwise resembled the type. The second married before the investigation of her habits could be completed. The third is apparently a flawless replica of Mr. Carden’s original in face, figure, breeding, education, moral and mental habits. (_See Document 23, A._)”
“Read Document 23, A,” nodded Mr. Keen.
And Miss Smith read:
ROSALIND HOLLIS, M.D.
Age . . . . . . . . . . . . 24
Height . . . . . . 5 feet 9 inches
Weight . . . . . . . . 160 pounds
Thick, bright, ruddy
Hair . . . . . . golden, and inclined to curl.
Teeth . . . . . . . . . Perfect
Eyes . . . . . . . Dark violet-blue
Mouth . . . . . . . . . Perfect
Color . . . . Fair. An ivory-tinted blonde.
Figure . . . . . . . . . Perfect
Health . . . . . . . . . Perfect
Temper . . . . . . . . . Feminine
Austere, with a
Habits . . . . resolutely suppressed capacity for romance.
Business . . . . . . . . . None
Profession . . . . . . . Physician
Mania . . . . . . . . A Mission
“NOTE.–Dr. Rosalind Hollis was presented to society in her eighteenth year. At the end of her second season she withdrew from society with the determination to devote her entire life to charity. Settlement work and the study of medicine have occupied her constantly. Recently admitted to practice, she spends her mornings in visiting the poor, whom she treats free of all charge; her afternoons and evenings are devoted to what she expects is to be her specialty: the study of the rare malady known as Lamour’s Disease. (_See note on second page._)
“It is understood that Dr. Hollis has abjured the society of all men other than her patients and such of her professional _confreres_ as she is obliged to consult or work with. Her theory is that of the beehive: drones for mates, workers for work. She adds, very decidedly, that she belongs to the latter division, and means to remain there permanently.
“NOTE (_Mr. Keen’s O.B., pp. 916-18_).–Her eccentricity is probably the result of a fine, wholesome, highly strung young girl taking life and herself too seriously. The remedy will be the _Right Man_.”
“_Ex_actly,” nodded Mr. Keen, joining the tips of his thin fingers and partly closing his eyes. “Now, Miss Smith, the disease which Dr. Hollis intends to make her specialty–have you any notes on that?”
“Here they are,” said Miss Smith; and she read: “Lamour’s Disease; the rarest of all known diseases; first discovered and described by Ero S. Lamour, M.D., M.S., F.B.A., M.F.H., in 1861. Only a single case has ever been observed. This case is fully described in Dr. Lamour’s superb and monumental work in sixteen volumes. Briefly, the disease appears without any known cause, and is ultimately supposed to result fatally. The first symptom is the appearance of a faintly bluish circle under the eyes, as though the patient was accustomed to using the eyes too steadily at times. Sometimes a slight degree of fever accompanies this manifestation; pulse and temperature vary. The patient is apparently in excellent health, but liable to loss of appetite, restlessness, and a sudden flushing of the face. These symptoms are followed by others unmistakable: the patient becomes silent at times; at times evinces a weakness for sentimental expressions; flushes easily; is easily depressed; will sit for hours looking at one person; and, if not checked, will exhibit impulsive symptoms of affection for the opposite sex. The strangest symptom of all, however, is the physical change in the patient, whose features and figure, under the trained eye of the observer, gradually from day to day assume the symmetry and charm of a beauty almost unearthly, sometimes accompanied by a spiritual pallor which is unmistakable in confirming the diagnosis, and which, Dr. Lamour believes, presages the inexorable approach of immortality.
“There is no known remedy for Lamour’s Disease. The only case on record is the case of the young lady described by Dr. Lamour, who watched her for years with unexampled patience and enthusiasm; finally, in the interest of science, marrying his patient in order to devote his life to a study of her symptoms. Unfortunately, some of these disappeared early–within a week–but the curious manifestation of physical beauty remained, and continued to increase daily to a dazzling radiance, with no apparent injury to the patient. Dr. Lamour, unfortunately, died before his investigations, covering over forty years, could be completed; his widow survived him for a day or two only, leaving sixteen children.
“Here is a wide and unknown field for medical men to investigate. It is safe to say that the physician who first discovers the bacillus of Lamour’s Disease and the proper remedy to combat it will reap as his reward a glory and renown imperishable. Lamour’s Disease is a disease not yet understood–a disease whose termination is believed to be fatal–a strange disease which seems to render radiant and beautiful the features of the patient, brightening them with the forewarning of impending death and the splendid resurrection of immortality.”
The Tracer of Lost Persons caressed his chin reflectively. “_Ex_actly, Miss Smith. So this is the disease which Dr. Hollis has chosen for her specialty. And only one case on record. _Ex_actly. Thank you.”
Miss Smith replaced the papers in the steel cylinder, slipped it into the pneumatic tube, sent it whizzing below to the safe-deposit vaults, and, saluting Mr. Keen with a pleasant inclination of her head, went out of the room.
The Tracer turned in his chair, picked up the daily detective report, and scanned it until he came to the name Hollis. It appeared that the daily routine of Rosalind Hollis had not varied during the past three weeks. In the mornings she was good to the poor with bottles and pills; in the afternoons she tucked one of Lamour’s famous sixteen volumes under her arm and walked to Central Park, where, with democratic simplicity, she sat on a secluded bench and pored over the symptoms of Lamour’s Disease. About five she retired to her severely simple apartments in the big brownstone office building devoted to physicians, corner of Fifty-eighth Street and Madison Avenue. Here she took tea, read a little, dined all alone, and retired about nine. This was the guileless but determined existence of Rosalind Hollis, M.D., according to McConnell, the detective assigned to observe her.
The Tracer refolded the report of his chief of detectives and pigeonholed it just as the door opened and a tall, well-built, attractive young man entered.
Shyness was written all over him; he offered his hand to Mr. Keen with an embarrassed air and seated himself at that gentleman’s invitation.
“I’m almost sorry I ever began this sort of thing,” he blurted out, like a big schoolboy appalled at his own misdemeanors. “The truth is, Mr. Keen, that the prospect of actually seeing a ‘Carden Girl’ alive has scared me through and through. I’ve a notion that my business with that sort of a girl ends when I’ve drawn her picture.”
“But surely,” said the Tracer mildly, “you have some natural curiosity to see the living copy of your charming but inanimate originals, haven’t you, Mr. Carden?”
“Yes–oh, certainly. I’d like to see one of them alive–say out of a window, or from a cab. I should not care to be too close to her.”
“But merely seeing her does not commit you,” interposed Mr. Keen, smiling. “She is far too busy, too much absorbed in her own affairs to take any notice of you. I understand that she has something of an aversion for men.”
“Aversion!”
“Well, she excludes them as unnecessary to her existence.”
“Why?” asked Carden.
“Because she has a mission in life,” said Mr. Keen gravely.
Carden looked out of the window. It was pleasant weather–June in all its early loveliness–the fifth day of June. The sixth was his birthday.
“I’ve simply got to marry somebody before the day after to-morrow,” he said aloud–“that is, if I want my legacy.”
“What!” demanded the Tracer sharply.
Carden turned, pink and guilty. “I didn’t tell you all the circumstances of my case,” he said. “I suppose I ought to have done so.”
“_Ex_actly,” said the Tracer severely. “Why is it necessary that you marry somebody before the day after to-morrow?”
“Well, it’s my twenty-fifth birthday–“
“Somebody has left you money on condition that you marry before your twenty-fifth birthday? Is that it, Mr. Carden? An uncle? An imbecile grandfather? A sentimental aunt?”
“My Aunt Tabby Van Beekman.”
“Where is she?”
“In Trinity churchyard. It’s too late to expostulate with her, you see. Besides, it wouldn’t have done any good when she was alive.”
The Tracer knitted his brows, musing, the points of his slim fingers joined.
“She was very proud, very autocratic,” said Carden. “I am the last of my race and my aunt was determined that the race should not die out with me. I don’t want to marry and increase, but she’s trying to make me. At all events, I am not going to marry any woman inferior to the type I have created with my pencil–what the public calls the ‘Carden Girl.’ And now you see that your discovery of this living type comes rather late. In two days I must be legally married if I want my Aunt Tabby’s legacy; and to-day for the first time I hear of a girl who, you assure me, compares favorably to my copyrighted type, but who has a mission and an aversion to men. So you see, Mr. Keen, that the matter is perfectly hopeless.”
“I don’t see anything of the kind,” said Mr. Keen firmly.
“What?–do you believe there is any chance–“
“Of your falling in love within the next hour or so? Yes, I do. I think there is every chance of it. I am sure of it. But that is not the difficulty. The problem is far more complicated.”
“You mean–“
“_Ex_actly; how to marry that girl before day after to-morrow. That’s the problem, Mr. Carden!–not whether you are capable of falling in love with her. I have seen her; I _know_ you can’t avoid falling in love with her. Nobody could. I myself am on the verge of it; and I am fifty: you can’t avoid loving her.”
“If that were so,” said Carden gravely; “if I were really going to fall in love with her–I would not care a rap about my Aunt Tabby and her money–“
“You ought to care about it for this young girl’s sake. That legacy is virtually hers, not yours. She has a right to it. No man can ever give enough to the woman he loves; no man has ever done so. What _she_ gives and what _he_ gives are never a fair exchange. If you can balance the account in any measure, it is your duty to do it. Mr. Carden, if she comes to love you she may think it very fine that you bring to her your love, yourself, your fame, your talents, your success, your position, your gratifying income. But I tell you it’s not enough to balance the account. It is never enough–no, not all your devotion to her included! You can never balance the account on earth–all you can do is to try to balance it materially and spiritually. Therefore I say, endow her with _all_ your earthly goods. Give all you can in every way to lighten as much as possible man’s hopeless debt to all women who have ever loved.”
“You talk about it as though I were already committed,” said Carden, astonished.
“You are, morally. For a month I have, without her knowledge, it is true, invaded the privacy of a very lovely young girl–studied her minutely, possessed myself of her history, informed myself of her habits. What excuse had I for this unless I desired her happiness and yours? Nobody could offer me any inducement to engage in such a practice unless I believed that the means might justify a moral conclusion. And the moral conclusion of this investigation is your marriage to her.”
“Certainly,” said Carden uneasily, “but how are we going to accomplish it by to-morrow? How is it going to be accomplished at all?”
The Tracer of Lost Persons rose and began to pace the long rug, clasping his hands behind his back. Minute after minute sped; Carden stared alternately at Mr. Keen and at the blue sky through the open window.
“It is seldom,” said Mr. Keen with evident annoyance, “that I personally take any spectacular part in the actual and concrete demonstrations necessary to a successful conclusion of a client’s case. But I’ve got to do it this time.”
He went to a cupboard, picked out a gray wig and gray side whiskers and deliberately waved them at Carden.
“You see what these look like?” he demanded.
“Y-yes.”
“Very well. It is now noon. Do you know the Park? Do you happen to recollect a shady turn in the path after you cross the bridge over the swan lake? Here; I’ll draw it for you. Now, here is the lake; here’s the esplanade and fountain, you see. Here’s the path. You follow it–so!–around the lake, across the bridge, then following the lake to the right–so!–then up the wooded slope to the left–so! Now, here is a bench. I mark it Number One. _She_ sits there with her book–there she is!”
“If she looks like _that_–” began Carden. And they both laughed with the slightest trace of excitement.
“Here is Bench Number Two!” resumed the Tracer. “Here you sit–and there you are!”
[Illustration: MR. KEEN’S SKETCH OF THE RENDEZVOUS]
“Thanks,” said Carden, laughing again.
“Now,” continued the Tracer, “you must be there at one o’clock. She will be there at one-thirty, or earlier perhaps. A little later I will become benignly visible. Your part is merely a thinking part; you are to do nothing, say nothing, unless spoken to. And when you are spoken to you are to acquiesce in whatever anybody says to you, and you are to do whatever anybody requests you to do. And, above all, don’t be surprised at _anything_ that may happen. You’ll be nervous enough; I expect that. You’ll probably color up and flush and fidget; I expect that; I count on that. But don’t lose your nerve entirely; and don’t think of attempting to escape.”
“Escape! From what? From whom?”
“From her.”
“_Her?_”
“Are you going to follow my instructions?” demanded the Tracer of Lost Persons.
“I–y-yes, of course.”
“Very well, then, I am going to rub some of this under your eyes.” And Mr. Keen produced a make-up box and, walking over to Carden, calmly darkened the skin under his eyes.
“I look as though I had been on a bat!” exclaimed Carden, surveying himself in a mirror. “Do you think any girl could find any attraction in such a countenance?”
“_She_ will,” observed the Tracer meaningly. “Now, Mr. Carden, one last word: The moment you find yourself in love with her, and the first moment you have the chance to do so decently, make love to her. She won’t dismiss you; she will repulse you, of course, but she won’t let you go. I know what I am saying; all I ask of you is to promise on your honor to carry out these instructions. Do you promise?”
“I do.”
“Then here is the map of the rendezvous which I have drawn. Be there promptly. Good morning.”
CHAPTER XXII
At one o’clock that afternoon a young man earnestly consulting a map might have been seen pursuing his solitary way through Central Park. Fresh green foliage arched above him, flecking the path with fretted shadow and sunlight; the sweet odor of flowering shrubs saturated the air; the waters of the lake sparkled where swans swept to and fro, snowy wings spread like sails to the fitful June wind.
“This,” he murmured, pausing at a shaded bend in the path, “must be Bench Number One. I am not to sit on that. This must be Bench Number Two. I _am_ to sit on that. So here I am,” he added nervously, seating himself and looking about him with the caution of a cat in a strange back yard.
There was nobody in sight. Reassured, he ventured to drop one knee over the other and lean upon his walking stick. For a few minutes he remained in this noncommittal attitude, alert at every sound, anxious, uncomfortable, dreading he knew not what. A big, fat, gray squirrel racing noisily across the fallen leaves gave him a shock. A number of birds came to look at him–or so it appeared to him, for in the inquisitive scrutiny of a robin he fancied he divined sardonic meaning, and in the blank yellow stare of a purple grackle, a sinister significance out of all proportion to the size of the bird.
“What an absurd position to be in!” he thought. And suddenly he was seized with a desire to flee.
He didn’t because he had promised not to, but the desire persisted to the point of mania. Oh, how he could run if he only hadn’t promised not to! His entire being tingled with the latent possibilities of a burst of terrific speed. He wanted to scuttle away like a scared rabbit. The pace of the kangaroo would be slow in comparison. What a record he could make if he hadn’t promised not to.
He crossed his knees the other way and brooded. The gray squirrel climbed the bench and nosed his pockets for possible peanuts, then hopped off hopefully toward a distant nursemaid and two children.
Growing more alarmed every time he consulted his watch Carden attempted to stem his rising panic with logic and philosophy, repeating: “Steady! my son! Don’t act like this! You’re not obliged to marry her if you don’t fall in love with her; and if you do, you won’t mind marrying her. That is philosophy. That is logic. Oh, I wonder what will have happened to me by this time to-morrow! I wish it _were_ this time to-morrow! I wish it were this time next month! Then it would be all over. Then it would be–“
His muttering speech froze on his lips. Rooted to his bench he sat staring at a distant figure approaching–the figure of a young girl in a summer gown.
Nearer, nearer she came, walking with a free-limbed, graceful step, head high, one arm clasping a book.
That was the way the girls he drew would have walked had they ever lived. Even in the midst of his fright his artist’s eyes noted that: noted the perfect figure, too, and the witchery of its grace and contour, and the fascinating poise of her head, and the splendid color of her hair; noted mechanically the flowing lines of her gown, and the dainty modeling of arm and wrist and throat and ear.
Then, as she reached her bench and seated herself, she raised her eyes and looked at him. And for the first time in his life he realized that ideal beauty was but the pale phantom of the real and founded on something more than imagination and thought; on something of vaster import than fancy and taste and technical skill; that it was founded on Life itself–on breathing, living, palpitating, tremulous Life!–from which all true inspiration must come.
Over and over to himself he was repeating: “Of course, it is perfectly impossible that I can be in love already. Love doesn’t happen between two ticks of a watch. I am merely amazed at that girl’s beauty; that is all. I am merely astounded in the presence of perfection; that is all. There is nothing more serious the matter with me. It isn’t necessary for me to continue to look at her; it isn’t vital to my happiness if I never saw her again. . . . That is–of course, I should like to see her, because I never did see living beauty such as hers in any woman. Not even in my pictures. What superb eyes! What a fascinately delicate nose! _What_ a nose! By Heaven, that nose _is_ a nose! I’ll draw noses _that_ way in future. My pictures are all out of drawing; I must fit arms into their sockets the way hers fit! I must remember the modeling of her eyelids, too–and that chin! and those enchanting hands–“
She looked up leisurely from her book, surveyed him calmly, absent-eyed, then bent her head again to the reading.
“There _is_ something the matter with me,” he thought with a suppressed gulp. “I–if she looks at me again–with those iris-hued eyes of a young goddess–I–I think I’m done for. I believe I’m done for anyway. It seems rather mad to think it. But there _is_ something the matter–“
She deliberately looked at him again.
“It’s all wrong for them to let loose a girl like that on people,” he thought to himself, “all wrong. Everybody is bound to go mad over her. I’m going now. I’m mad already. I know I am, which proves I’m no lunatic. It isn’t her beauty; it’s the way she wears it–every motion, every breath of her. I know exactly what her voice is like. Anybody who looks into her eyes can see what her soul is like. She isn’t out of drawing anywhere–physically or spiritually. And when a man sees a girl like that, why–why there’s only one thing that can happen to him as far as I can see. And it doesn’t take a year either. Heavens! How awfully remote from me she seems to be.”
She looked up again, calmly, but not at him. A kindly, gray-whiskered old gentleman came tottering and rocking into view, his rosy, wrinkled face beaming benediction on the world as he passed through it–on the sunshine dappling the undergrowth, on the furry squirrels sitting up on their hind legs to watch him pass, on the stray dickybird that hopped fearlessly in his path, at the young man sitting very rigid there on his bench, at the fair, sweet-faced girl who met his aged eyes with the gentlest of involuntary smiles. And Carden did not recognize him!
Who could help smiling confidently into that benign face, with its gray hair and gray whiskers? Goodness radiated from every wrinkle.
“Dr. Atwood!” exclaimed the girl softly as she rose to meet this marvelous imitation of Dr. Austin Atwood, the great specialist on children’s diseases.
The old man beamed weakly at her, halted, still beaming, fumbled for his eyeglasses, adjusted them, and peered closely into her face.
“Bless my soul,” he smiled, “our pretty Dr. Hollis!”
“I–I did not suppose you would remember me,” she said, rosy with pleasure.
“Remember you? Surely, surely.” He made her a quaint, old-fashioned bow, turned, and peeped across the walk at Carden. And Carden, looking straight into his face, did not know the old man, who turned to Dr. Hollis again with many mysterious nods of his doddering head.
“You’re watching him, too, are you?” he chuckled, leaning toward her.
“Watching whom, Dr. Atwood?” she asked surprised.
“Hush, child! I thought you had noticed that unfortunate and afflicted young man opposite.”
Dr. Hollis looked curiously at Carden, then at the old gentleman with gray whiskers.
“Please sit down, Dr. Atwood, and tell me,” she murmured. “I have noticed nothing in particular about the young man on the bench there.” And she moved to give him room; and the young man opposite stared at them both as though bereft of reason.
“A heavy book for small hands, my child,” said the old gentleman in his quaintly garrulous fashion, peering with dimmed eyes at the volume in her lap.
She smiled, looking around at him.
“My, my!” he said, tremblingly raising his eyeglasses to scan the title on the page; “Dr. Lamour’s famous works! Are _you_ studying Lamour, child?”
“Yes,” she said with that charming inflection youth reserves for age.
“Astonishing!” he murmured. “The coincidence is more than remarkable. A physician! And studying Lamour’s Disease! Incredible!”
“Is there anything strange in that, Dr. Atwood?” she smiled.
“Strange!” He lowered his voice, peering across at Carden. “Strange, did you say? Look across the path at that poor young man sitting there!”
“Yes,” she said, perplexed, “I see him.”
“_What_ do you see?” whispered the old gentleman in a shakily portentous voice. “Here you sit reading about what others have seen; now what do _you_ see?”
“Why, only a man–rather young–“
“No _symptoms_?”
“Symptoms? Of what?”
The old gentleman folded his withered hands over his cane. “My child,” he said, “for a year I have had that unfortunate young man under secret observation. He was not aware of it; it never entered his mind that I could be observing _him_ with minutest attention. He may have supposed there was nothing the matter with him. He was in error. I have studied him carefully. Look closer! _Are_ there dark circles under his eyes–or are there not?” he ended in senile triumph.
“There are,” she began, puzzled, “but I–but of what interest to me–“
“Compare his symptoms with the symptoms in that book you are studying,” said the old gentleman hoarsely.
“Do you mean–do you suppose–” she stammered, turning her eyes on Carden, who promptly blushed to his ears and began to fidget.
“_Every symptom_,” muttered the old gentleman. “Poor, poor young man!”
She had seen Carden turn a vivid pink; she now saw him fidget with his walking stick; she discovered the blue circles under his eyes. Three symptoms at once!
“Do you believe it _possible_?” she whispered excitedly under her breath to the old gentleman beside her. “It seems incredible! Such a rare disease! Only one single case ever described and studied! It seems impossible that I could be so fortunate as actually to see a case! Tell me, Dr. Atwood, do you believe that young man is really afflicted with Lamour’s Disease?”
“There is but one way to be absolutely certain,” said the old gentleman in a solemn voice, “and that is to study him; corroborate your suspicions by observing his pulse and temperature, as did Dr. Lamour.”
“But–how can I?” she faltered. “I–he would probably object to becoming a patient of mine–“
“Ask him, child! Ask him.”
“I have not courage–“
“Courage should be the badge of your profession,” said the old gentleman gravely. “When did a good physician ever show the white feather in the cause of humanity?”
“I–I know, but this requires a different sort of courage.”
“How,” persisted the old gentleman, “can you confirm your very natural suspicions concerning this unfortunate young man unless you corroborate your observations by studying him at close range? Besides, already it seems to me that certain unmistakable signs are visible; I mean that strange physical phase which Dr. Lamour dwells on: the symmetry of feature and limb, the curiously spiritual beauty. Do you not notice these? Or is my sight so dim that I only imagine it?”
“He is certainly symmetrical–and–in a certain way–almost handsome in regard to features,” she admitted, looking at Carden.
“Poor, poor boy!” muttered the old gentleman, wagging his gray whiskers. “I am too old to help him–too old to dream of finding a remedy for the awful malady which I am now convinced has seized him. I shall study him no more. It is useless. All I can do now is to mention his case to some young, vigorous, ambitious physician–some specialist–“
“Don’t!” she whispered almost fiercely, “don’t do that, Dr. Atwood! I want him, please! I–you helped me to discover him, you see. And his malady is to be my specialty. Please, do you mind if I keep him all to myself and study him?”
“But you refused, child.”
“I didn’t mean to. I–I didn’t exactly see how I was to study him. But I must study him! Oh, I _must_! There will surely be some way. Please let me. You discovered him, I admit, but I will promise you faithfully to devote my entire life to studying him, as the great Lamour devoted his life for forty years to his single patient.”
“But Dr. Lamour married his patient,” said the Tracer mildly.
“He–I–that need not be necessary–“
“But if it should prove necessary?”
“I–you–“
“Answer me, child.”
She stared across at Carden, biting her red lips. He turned pink promptly and fidgeted.
“He _has_ got it!” she whispered excitedly. “Oh, _do_ you mind if I take him for mine? I am perfectly wild to begin on him!”
“You have not yet answered my question,” said the old gentleman gravely. “Do you lack the courage to marry him if it becomes necessary to do so in order to devote your entire life to studying him?”
“Oh–it _cannot_ be necessary–“
“You lack the courage.”
She was silent.
“Braver things have been done by those of your profession who have gone among lepers,” said the old gentleman sadly.
She flushed up instantly; her eyes sparkled; her head proudly high, delicate nostrils dilated.
“I am not afraid!” she said. “If it ever becomes necessary, I _can_ show courage and devotion, as well as those of my profession who minister to the lepers of Molokai! Yes; I do promise you to marry him if I cannot otherwise study him. And I promise you solemnly to devote my entire life to observing his symptoms and searching for proper means to combat them. My one ambition in life is personally to observe and study a case of Lamour’s Disease, and to give my entire life to investigating its origin, its course, and its cure.”
The old gentleman rose, bowing with that quaintly obsolete courtesy which was in vogue in his youth.
“I am contented to leave him exclusively to you, Dr. Hollis. And I wish you happiness in your life’s work–and success in your cure of this unhappy young man.”
Hat in hand, he bowed again as he tottered past her, muttering and smiling to himself and shaking his trembling head as he went rocking on unsteady legs out into the sunshine, where the nursemaids and children flocked along the lake shore throwing peanuts to the waterfowl and satiated goldfish.
Dr. Hollis looked after him, her small hand buried among the pages of her open book. Carden viewed his disappearing figure with guileless emotions. He was vaguely aware that something important was about to happen to him. And it did before he was prepared.
CHAPTER XXIII
When Rosalind Hollis found herself on her feet again a slight sensation of fright checked her for a moment. Then, resolutely suppressing such unworthy weakness, the lofty inspiration of her mission in life dominated her, and she stepped forward undaunted. And Carden, seeing her advance toward him, arose in astonishment to meet her.
For a second they stood facing each other, he astounded, she a trifle pale but firm. Then in a low voice she asked his pardon for disturbing him.
“I am Rosalind Hollis, a physician,” she said quietly, “and physicians are sometimes obliged to do difficult things in the interest of their profession. It is dreadfully difficult for me to speak to you in this way. But”–she looked fearlessly at him–“I am confident you will not misinterpret what I have done.”
He managed to assure her that he did not misinterpret it.
She regarded him steadily; she examined the dark circles under his eyes; she coolly observed his rising color under her calm inspection; she saw him fidgeting with his walking stick. She _must_ try his pulse!
“Would you mind if I asked you a few questions in the interest of science?” she said earnestly.
“As a m-m-matter of fact,” he stammered, “I don’t know much about science. Awfully glad to do anything I can, you know.”
“Oh, I don’t mean it that way,” she reassured him. A hint of a smile tinted her eyes with brilliant amethyst. “Would you mind if I sat here for a few moments? _Could_ you overlook this horrid unconventionality long enough for me to explain why I have spoken to you?”
“I could indeed!” he said, so anxiously cordial that her lovely face grew serious and she hesitated. But he was standing aside, hat off, placing the bench at her disposal, and she seated herself, placing her book on the bench beside her.
“Would you mind sitting here for a few moments?” she asked him gravely.
Dazed, scarcely crediting the evidence of his senses, he took possession of the end of the bench with the silent obedience of a schoolboy. His attitude was irreproachable. She was grateful for this, and her satisfaction with herself for not having misjudged him renewed her confidence in him, in herself, and in the difficult situation.
She began, quietly, by again telling him her name and profession; where she lived, and that she was studying to be a specialist, though she did not intimate what that specialty was to be.
Outwardly composed and attentively deferential, his astonishment at times dominated a stronger sentiment that seemed to grow and expand with her every word, seizing him in a fierce possession absolutely and hopelessly complete.
The bewildering fascination of her mastered him. No cool analysis of what his senses were confirming could be necessary to convince him of his condition. Every word of hers, every gesture, every inflection of her sweet, clear voice, every lifting of her head, her eyes, her perfectly gloved hands, only repeated to him what he knew was a certainty. Never had he looked upon such physical loveliness; never had he dreamed of such a voice.
She had asked him a question, and, absorbed in the pure delight of looking at her, he had not comprehended or answered. She flushed sensitively, accepting his silence as refusal, and he came out of his trance hastily.
“I beg your pardon; I did not quite understand your question, Miss Hollis–I mean, Dr. Hollis.”
“I asked you if you minded my noting your pulse,” she said.
He stretched out his right hand; she stripped off her glove, laid the tip of her middle finger on his wrist, and glanced down at the gold watch which she held.
“I am wondering,” he said, laughing uncertainly, “whether you believe me to be ill. Of course it is easy to see that you have found something unusual about me–something of particular interest to a physician. Is there anything very dreadful going to happen to me, Dr. Hollis? I feel perfectly well.”
“Are you sure you feel well?” she asked, so earnestly that the smile on his lips faded out.
“Absolutely. Is my pulse queer?”
“It is not normal.”
He could easily account for that, but he said nothing.
She questioned him for a few minutes, noted his pulse again, looked closely at the bluish circles under his eyes. Naturally he flushed up and grew restless under the calm, grave, beautiful eyes.
“I–I have an absolutely new and carefully sterilized thermometer–” She drew it from a tiny gold-initialed pocket case, and looked wistfully at him.
“You want to put that into my mouth?” he asked, astonished.
“If you don’t mind.”
She held it up, shook it once or twice, and deliberately inserted it between his lips. And there he sat, round-eyed, silent, the end of the thermometer protruding at a rakish angle from the corner of his mouth. And he grew redder and redder.
“I _don’t_ wish to alarm you,” she was saying, “but all this is so deeply significant, so full of vital interest to me–to the world, to science–“
“_What_ have I got, in Heaven’s name?” he said thickly, the thermometer wiggling in his mouth.
“Ah!” she exclaimed with soft enthusiasm, clasping her pretty ungloved hands, “I cannot be sure yet–I dare not be too sanguine–“
“Do you mean that you _want_ me to have something queer?” he blurted out, while the thermometer wiggled with every word he uttered.
“N-no, of course, I don’t _want_ you to be ill,” she said hastily. “Only, if you _are_ ill it will be a wonderful thing for me. I mean–a–that I am intensely interested in certain symptoms which–“
She gently withdrew the glass tube from his lips and examined it carefully.
“_Is_ there anything the matter?” he insisted, looking at the instrument over her shoulder.
She did not reply; pure excitement rendered her speechless.
“I seem to _feel_ all right,” he added uneasily. “If you really believe that there’s anything wrong with me, I’ll stop in to see my doctor.”
“Your doctor!” she repeated, appalled.
“Yes, certainly. Why not?”
“Don’t do that! Please don’t do that! I–why _I_ discovered this case. I beg you most earnestly to let me observe it. You don’t understand the importance of it! You don’t begin to dream of the rarity of this case! How much it means to me!”
He flushed up. “Do you intend to intimate that I am afflicted with some sort of rare and s-s-trange d-d-disease?” he stammered.
“I dare not pronounce upon it too confidently,” she said with enthusiasm; “I have not yet absolutely determined the nature of the disease. But, oh, I am beginning to hope–“
“Then I _am_ diseased!” he faltered. “I’ve got _something_ anyhow; is that it? Only you are not yet perfectly sure what it is called! Is that the truth, Miss Hollis?”
“How can I answer positively until I have had time to observe these symptoms? It requires time to be certain. I do not wish to alarm you, but it is my duty to say to you that you should immediately place yourself under medical observation.”
“You think that?”
“I do; I am convinced of it. Please understand me; I do not pronounce upon these visible symptoms; I do not express an unqualified opinion; but I could be in a position to do so if you consent to place yourself under my observations and care. For these suspicious symptoms are not only very plainly apparent to me, but were even noted by that old gentleman whom you may perhaps have observed conversing with me.”
“Yes, I saw him. Who is he?”
“Dr. Austin Atwood,” said the girl solemnly.
“Oh! And you say he also observed something queer about me? What did he see? Are there spots on me? Am I turning any remarkable color? Am I–” And in the very midst of his genuine alarm he suddenly remembered the make-up box and what the Tracer of Lost Persons had done to his eyes. Was _that_ it? Where was the Tracer, anyway? He had promised to appear. And then Carden recollected the gray wig and whiskers that the Tracer had waved at him from the cupboard, bidding him note them well. _Could_ that beaming, benignant, tottering old gentleman have been the Tracer of Lost Persons himself? And the same instant Carden was sure of it, spite of the miraculous change in the man.
Then logic came to his aid; and, deducing with care and patience, an earnest conviction grew within him that the dark circles under his eyes and the tottering old gentleman resembling Dr. Austin Atwood had a great deal to do with this dreadful disease which Dr. Hollis desired to study.
He looked at the charming girl beside him, and she looked back at him very sweetly, very earnestly, awaiting his decision.
For a moment he realized that she had really scared him, and in the reaction of relief an overwhelming desire to laugh seized him. He managed to suppress it, to compose himself. Then he remembered the Tracer’s admonition to acquiesce in everything, do what he was told to do, not to run away, and to pay his court at the first decent opportunity.
He had no longer any desire to escape; he was quite willing to do anything she desired.
“Do you really want to study me, Dr. Hollis?” he asked, feeling like a hypocrite.
“Indeed I do,” she replied fervently.
“You believe me worth studying?”
“Oh, truly, truly, you are! You don’t suspect–you cannot conceive how important you have suddenly become to me.”
“Then I think you had better take my case, Dr. Hollis,” he said seriously. “I begin now to realize that you believe me to be a sort of freak–an afflicted curiosity, and that, in the interest of medicine, I ought to go to an asylum or submit myself to the ceaseless observation of a competent private physician.”
“I–I think it best for you to place yourself in my care,” she said. “Will you?”
“Yes,” he said, “I will. I’ll do anything in the world you ask.”
“That is very–very generous, very noble of you!” she exclaimed, flushing with excitement and delight. “It means a great deal to me–it means, perhaps, a fame that I scarcely dared dream of even in my most enthusiastic years. I am too grateful to express my gratitude coherently; I am trying to say to you that I thank you; that I recognize in you those broad, liberal, generous qualities which, from your appearance and bearing, I–I thought perhaps you must possess.”
She colored again very prettily; he bowed, and ventured to remind her that she had not yet given him the privilege of naming himself.
“That is true!” she said, surprised. “I had quite forgotten it.” But when he named himself she raised her head, startled.
“Victor Carden!” she repeated. “You are the _artist_, Victor Carden!”
“Yes,” he said, watching her dilated eyes like two violet-tinted jewels.
For a minute she sat looking at him; and imperceptibly a change came into her face, and its bewildering beauty softened as the vivid tints died out, leaving her cheeks almost pale.
“It is–a pity,” she said under her breath. All the excitement, all the latent triumph, all the scarcely veiled eager enthusiasm had gone from her now.
“A pity?” he repeated, smiling.
“Yes. I wish it had been only an ordinary man. I–why should this happen to you? You have done so much for us all–made us forget ourselves in the beauty of what you offer us. Why should this happen to _you_!”
“But you have not told me yet what has happened to me, Miss Hollis.”
She looked up, almost frightened.
“_Are_ you our Victor Carden? I do not wish to believe it! You have done so much for the world–you have taught us to understand and desire all that is noble and upright and clean and beautiful!–to desire it, to aspire toward it, to venture to live the good, true, wholesome lives that your penciled creations must lead–_must_ lead to wear such beautiful bodies and such divine eyes!”
“Do _you_ care for my work?” he asked, astonished and moved.
“I? Yes, of course I do. Who does not?”
“Many,” he replied simply.
“I am sorry for them,” she said.
They sat silent for a long while.
At first his overwhelming desire was to tell her of the deception practiced upon her; but he could not do that, because in exposing himself he must fail in loyalty to the Tracer of Lost Persons. Besides, she would not believe him. She would think him mad if he told her that the old gentleman she had taken for Dr. Atwood was probably Mr. Keen, the Tracer of Lost Persons. Also, he himself was not absolutely certain about it. He had merely deduced as much.
“Tell me,” he said very gently, “what is the malady from which you believe I am suffering?”
For a moment she remained silent, then, face averted, laid her finger on the book beside her.
“That,” she said unsteadily.
He read aloud: “Lamour’s Disease. A Treatise in sixteen volumes by Ero S. Lamour, M.D., M.S., F.B.A., M.F.H.”
“All that?” he asked guiltily.
“I don’t know, Mr. Carden. Are you laughing at me? Do you not believe me?” She had turned suddenly to confront him, surprising a humorous glimmer in his eyes.
“I really do not believe I am seriously ill,” he said, laughing in spite of her grave eyes.
“Then perhaps you had better read a little about what Lamour describes as the symptoms of this malady,” she said sadly.
“Is it fatal?” he inquired.
“Ultimately. That is why I desire to spend my life in studying means to combat it. That is why I desire you so earnestly to place yourself under my observation and let me try.”
“Tell me one thing,” he said; “is it contagious? Is it infectious? No? Then I don’t mind your studying me all you wish, Dr. Hollis. You may take my temperature every ten minutes if you care to. You may observe my pulse every five minutes if you desire. Only please tell me how this is to be accomplished; because, you see, I live in the Sherwood Studio Building, and you live on Madison Avenue.”
“I–I have a ward–a room–fitted up with every modern surgical device–every improvement,” she said. “It adjoins my office. _Would_ you mind living there for a while–say for a week at first–until I can be perfectly certain in my diagnosis?”
“Do you intend to put me to bed?” he asked, appalled.
“Oh, no! Only I wish to watch you carefully and note your symptoms from moment to moment. I also desire to try the effects of certain medicines on you–“
“What kind of medicines?” he asked uneasily.
“I cannot tell yet. Perhaps antitoxin; I don’t know; perhaps formalin later. Truly, Mr. Carden, this case has taken on a graver, a more intimate significance since I have learned who you are. I would have worked hard to save any life; I shall put my very heart and soul into my work to save you, who have done so much for us all.”
The trace of innocent emotion in her voice moved him.
“I am really not ill,” he said unsteadily. “I cannot let you think I am–“
“Don’t speak that way, Mr. Carden. I–I am perfectly miserable over it; I don’t feel any happiness in my discovery now–not the least bit. I had rather live my entire life without seeing one case of Lamour’s Disease than to believe you are afflicted with it.”
“But I’m not, Miss Hollis!–really, I am not–“
She looked at him compassionately for a moment, then rose.
“It is best that you should be informed as to your probable condition,” she said. “In Lamour’s works, volume nine, you had better read exactly what Lamour says. Do you mind coming to the office with me, Mr. Carden?”
“Now?”
“Yes. The book is there. Do you mind coming?”
“No–no, of course not.” And, as they turned away together under the trees: “You don’t intend to begin observing me this afternoon, do you?” he ventured.
“I think it best if you can arrange your affairs. Can you, Mr. Carden?”
“Why, yes, I suppose I can. Did you mean for me to begin to occupy that surgical bedroom at once?”
“Do you mind?”
“N-no. I’ll telephone my servants to pack a steamer trunk and send it around to your apartment this evening. And–where am I to board?”
“I have a dining room,” she said simply. “My apartment consists of the usual number of servants and rooms, including my office, and my observation ward which you will occupy.”
He walked on, troubled.
“I only w-want to ask one or two things, Dr. Hollis. Am I to be placed on a diet? I hate diets!”
“Not at once.”
“May I smoke?”
“Certainly,” she said, smiling.
“And you won’t p-put me–send me to bed too early?”
“Oh, no! The later you sit up the better, because I shall wish to take your temperature every ten minutes and I shall feel very sorry to arouse you.”
“You mean you are coming in to wake me up every ten minutes and put that tube in my mouth?” he asked, aghast.
“Only every half-hour, Mr. Carden. Can’t you stand it for a week?”
“Well,” he said, “I–I suppose I can if _you_ can. Only, upon my honor, there is really nothing the matter with me, and I’ll prove it to you out of your own book.”
“I wish you could, Mr. Carden. I should be only too happy to give you back to the world with a clear bill of health if you can convince me I am wrong. Do you not believe me? Indeed, indeed I am not selfish and wicked enough to wish you this illness, no matter how rare it is!”
“The rarer a disease is the madder it makes people who contract it,” he said. “I should be the maddest man in Manhattan if I really did have Lamour’s malady. But I haven’t. There is only one malady afflicting me, and I am waiting for a suitable opportunity to tell you all about it, but–“
“Tell me now,” she said, raising her eyes to his.
“Not now.”
“To-night?”
“I hope so. I will if I can, Miss Hollis.”
“But you must not fear to tell a physician about anything which troubles you, Mr. Carden.”
“I’ll remember that,” he said thoughtfully, as they emerged from the Park and crossed to Madison Avenue.
A moment later he hailed a car and they both entered.
CHAPTER XXIV
No, there could be no longer any doubt in her mind as she went into her bedroom, closed the door, and, unhooking the telephone receiver, called up the great specialist in rare diseases, Dr. Austin Atwood, M.S., F.B.A., M.F.H.
“Dr. Atwood,” she said with scarcely concealed emotion, “this is Dr. Rosalind Hollis.”
“How-de-do?” squeaked the aged specialist amiably.
“Oh, I am well enough, thank you, doctor–except in spirits. Dr. Atwood, you were right! He _has_ got it, and I am perfectly wretched!”
“_Who_ has got _what_?” retorted the voice of Atwood.
“The unfortunate young gentleman we saw to-day in the Park.”
“What park?”
“Why, Central Park, doctor.”
“Central Park! _I_ haven’t been in Central Park for ten years, my child.”
“Why, Dr. Atwood!–A–_is_ this Dr. Austin Atwood with whom I am talking?”
“Not the least doubt! And you are that pretty Dr. Hollis–Rosalind Hollis, who consulted me in those charity cases, are you not?”
“I certainly am. And I wanted to say to you that I have the unfortunate patient now under closest observation here in my own apartment. I have given him the room next to the office. And, doctor, you were perfectly right. He shows every symptom of the disease–he is even inclined to sentimentalism; he begins to blush and fidget and look at me–a–in that unmistakable manner–not that he isn’t well-bred and charming–indeed he is most attractive, and it grieves me dreadfully to see that he already is beginning to believe himself in love with the first person of the opposite sex he encounters–I mean that he–that I cannot mistake his attitude toward me–which is perfectly correct, only one cannot avoid seeing the curious infatuation–“
“_What_ the dickens is all this?” roared the great specialist, and Dr. Hollis jumped.
“I was only confirming your diagnosis, doctor,” she explained meekly.
“What diagnosis?”
“Yours, doctor. I have confirmed it, I fear. And the certainty has made me perfectly miserable, because his is such a valuable life to the world, and he himself is such a splendid, wholesome, noble specimen of youth and courage, that I cannot bear to believe him incurably afflicted.”
“Good Heavens!” shouted the doctor, “_what_ has he got and _who_ is he?”
“He is Victor Carden, the celebrated artist, and he has Lamour’s Disease!” she gasped.
There was a dead silence; then: “Keep him there until I come! Chloroform him if he attempts to escape!”
And the great specialist rang off excitedly.
So Rosalind Hollis went back to the lamp-lit office where, in a luxurious armchair, Carden was sitting, contentedly poring over the ninth volume of Lamour’s great treatise and smoking his second cigar.
“Dr. Atwood is coming here,” she said in a discouraged voice, as he rose with alacrity to place her chair.
“Oh! What for?”
“T-to see you, Mr. Carden.”
“Who? Me? Great Scott! I don’t want to be slapped and pinched and polled by a man! I didn’t expect that, you know. I’m willing enough to have you observe me in the interest of humanity–“
“But, Mr. Carden, he is only called in for consultation. I–I have a dreadful sort of desperate hope that perhaps I may have made a mistake; that possibly I am in error.”
“No doubt you are,” he said cheerfully. “Let me read a few more pages, Dr. Hollis, and then I think I shall be all ready to dispute my symptoms, one by one, and convince you what really is the trouble with me. And, by the way, did Dr. Atwood seem a trifle astonished when you told him about me?”
“A trifle–yes,” she said uncertainly. “He is a very, very old man; he forgets. But he is coming.”
“Oh! And didn’t he appear to recollect seeing me in the Park?”
“N-not clearly. He is very old, you know. But he is coming here.”
“_Ex_actly–as a friend of mine puts it,” smiled Carden. “May I be permitted to use your telephone a moment?”
“By all means, Mr. Carden. You will find it there in my bedroom.”
So he entered her pretty bedroom and, closing the door tightly, called up the Tracer of Lost Persons.
“Is that you, Mr. Keen? This is Mr. Carden. I’m head over heels in love. I simply must win her, and I’m going to try. If I don’t–if she will not listen to me–I’ll certainly go to smash. And what I want you to do is to prevent Atwood from butting in. Do you understand? . . . Yes, Dr. Austin Atwood. Keep him away somehow. . . . Yes, I’m here, at Dr. Hollis’s apartments, under anxious observation. . . . She is the _only_ woman in the world! I’m mad about her–and getting madder every moment! She is the most perfectly splendid specimen of womanhood–_what_? Oh, yes; I rang you up to ask you whether it was _you_ in the Park to-day?–that old gentleman–_What!_ Yes, in Central Park. Yes, this afternoon! No, he didn’t resemble you; and Dr. Hollis took him for Dr. Atwood. . . . What are you laughing about? . . . I can _hear_ you laughing. . . . _Was_ it you? . . . What do I think? Why, I don’t know exactly what to think, but I suppose it must have been you. Was it? . . . Oh, I see. You don’t wish me to know. Certainly, you are quite right. Your clients have no business behind the scenes. I only asked out of curiosity. . . . All right. Good-by.”
He came back to the lamp-lit office, which was more of a big, handsome, comfortable living room than a physician’s quarters, and for a moment or two he stood on the threshold, looking around.
In the pleasant, subdued light of the lamp Rosalind Hollis looked up and around, smiling involuntarily to see him standing there; then, serious, silent, she dropped her eyes to the pages of the volume he had discarded–volume nine of Lamour’s great works.
Even with the evidence before her, corroborated in these inexorably scientific pages which she sat so sadly turning, she found it almost impossible to believe that this big, broad-shouldered, attractive young man could be fatally stricken.
Twice her violet eyes stole toward him; twice the thick lashes veiled them, and the printed pages on her knee sprang into view, and the cold precision of the type confirmed her fears remorselessly:
“The trained scrutiny of the observer will detect in the victim of this disease a peculiar and indefinable charm–a strange symmetry which, on closer examination, reveals traces of physical beauty almost superhuman–“
Again her eyes were lifted to Carden; again she dropped her white lids. Her worst fears were confirmed.
Meanwhile he stood on the threshold looking at her, his pulses racing, his very soul staring through his eyes; and, within him, every sense clamoring out revolt at the deception, demanding confession and its penalty.
“I can’t stand this!” he blurted out; and she looked up quickly, her face blanched with foreboding.
“Are you in pain?” she asked.
“No–not that sort of pain! I–_won’t_ you please believe that I am not ill? I’m imposing on you. I’m an impostor! There’s nothing whatever the trouble with me except–something that I want to tell you–if you’ll let me–“
“Why should you hesitate to confide in a physician, Mr. Carden?”
He came forward slowly. She laid her small hand on the empty chair which faced hers and he sank into it, clasping his restless hands under his chin.
“You are feeling depressed,” she said gently. Depression was a significant symptom. Three chapters were devoted to it.
“I’m depressed, of course. I’m horribly depressed and ashamed of myself, because there is nothing on earth the matter with me, and I’ve let you think there is.”
She smiled mournfully; this was another symptom of a morbid state. She turned, unconsciously, to page 379 to verify her observation.
“See here, Miss Hollis,” he broke out, “haven’t I any chance to convince you that I am not ill? I want to be honest without involving a–a friend of mine. I can’t endure this deception. Won’t you let me prove to you that these symptoms are–are only significant of something else?”
She looked straight at him, considering him in silence.
“Let us begin with those dark circles under my eyes,” he said desperately. “I found some cold-cream in my room and–look! They are practically gone! At any rate, if there is a sort of shadow left it’s because I use my eyes in my profession.”
“Dr. Lamour says that the dark circles disappear, anyway,” said the girl, unconvinced. “Cold-cream had nothing to do with it.”
“But it _did_! Really it did. And as for the other symptoms, I–well, I can’t help my pulses when y-you t-t-touch me.”
“Please, Mr. Carden.”
“I don’t mean to be impertinent. I am trying my hardest to tell the truth. And my pulses _do_ gallop when you test them; they’re galloping now! This very moment!”
“Let me try them,” she said coolly, laying her hand on his wrist.
“Didn’t I say so!” he insisted grimly. “And I’m turning red, too. But those symptoms mean something else; they mean _you_!”
“Mr. Carden!”
“I can’t help saying so–“
“I know it,” she said soothingly; “these sentimental outbursts are part of the disease–“
“Good Heavens! _Won’t_ you try to believe me! There’s nothing in the world the matter with me except that I am–am–p-p-perfectly f-f-fascinated–“
“You must struggle against it, Mr. Carden. That is only part of the–“
“It isn’t! It isn’t! It’s you! It’s your mere presence, your personality, your charm, your beauty, your loveliness, your–“
“Mr. Carden, I beg of you! I–it is part of my duty to observe symptoms, but–but you are making it very hard for me–very difficult–“
“I am only proving to you that it isn’t Lamour’s Disease which does stunts with my pulses, my temperature, my color. I’m not morbid except when I realize my deception. I’m not depressed except when I think how far you are from me–how far above me–how far out of reach of such a man as I am–how desperately I–I–“
“D-don’t you think I had better administer a s-s-sedative, Mr. Carden?” she said, distressed.
“I don’t care. I’ll take anything you give me–as long as _you_ give it to me. I’ll swallow pint after pint of pills! I’ll fletcherize ’em! I’ll luxuriate in poison–anything–“
She was hastily running through the pages of the ninth volume to see whether the symptoms of sentimental excitement ever turned into frenzy.
“What can you learn from that book?” he insisted, leaning forward to see what she was reading. “Anyway, Dr. Lamour married his patient so early in the game that all the symptoms disappeared. And I believe the trouble with his patient was my trouble. She had every symptom of it until he married her! She was in love with him, that is absolutely all!”
Rosalind Hollis raised her beautiful, incredulous eyes.
“What do you mean, Mr. Carden?”
“I mean that, in my opinion, there’s no such disease as Lamour’s Disease. That young girl was in love with him. Then he married her at last, and–presto!–all the symptoms vanished–the pulse, the temperature, the fidgets, the blushes, the moods, the whole business!”
“W-what about the strangely curious manifestations of physical beauty–superhuman symmetry, Mr. Carden?”
“Do you notice them in _me_?” he gasped.
“A–yes–in a m-modified measure–“
“In _me_?”
“Certainly!” she said firmly; but the slow glow suffusing her cheeks was disconcerting her. Then his own face began to reflect the splendid color in hers; their eyes met, dismayed.
“There are sixteen volumes about this disease,” she said. “There _must_ be such a disease!”
“There is,” he said. “I have it badly. But I never had it before I first saw you in the Park!”
“Mr. Carden–this is the wildest absurdity–“
“I know it. Wildness is a symptom. I’m mad as a hatter. I’ve got every separate symptom, and I wish it was infectious and contagious and catching and fatal!”
She made an effort to turn the pages to the chapter entitled “Manias and Illusions,” but he laid his hand across the book and his clear eyes defied her.
“Mr. Carden–“
Her smooth hand trembled under his, then, suddenly nerveless, relaxed. With an effort she lifted her head; their eyes met, spellbound.
“_You_ have _every_ symptom,” he said unsteadily–“every one! What have you to say?”
Her fascinated eyes held his.
“What have you to say?” he repeated under his breath–“you, with every symptom, and your heavenly radiant beauty to confirm them–that splendid youthful loveliness which blinds and stuns me as I look–as I speak–as I tell you that I love you. That is my malady; that is the beginning and the end of it; love!”
She sat speechless, immovable, as one under enchantment.
“All my life,” he said, “I have spent in painting shadows. But the shadows were those dim celestial shapes cast by your presence in the world. You tell me that the world is better for my work; that I have offered my people beauty and a sort of truth, which they had never dreamed of until I revealed it? Yet what inspired me was the shadow only, for I had never seen the substance; I had never believed I should ever see the living source of the shadows which inspired me. And now I see; now I have seen with my own eyes. Now the confession of faith is no longer a blind creed, born of instinct. You live! You are you! What I believed from necessity I find proved in fact. The occult no longer can sway one who has seen. And you, who, without your knowledge or mine, have always been the one and only source of any good in me or in my work–why is it strange that I loved you at first sight?–that I worshiped you at first breath?–I, who, like him who raises his altar to ‘the unknown god,’ raised my altar to truth and beauty? And a miracle has answered me.”
She rose, the beautiful dazed eyes meeting his, both hands clasping the ninth volume of Lamour’s great monograph to her breast as though to protect it from him–from him who was threatening her, enthralling her, thrilling her with his magic voice, his enchanted youth, the masterful mystery of his eyes. What was he saying to her? What was this mounting intoxication sweeping her senses–this delicious menace threatening her very will? What did he want with her? What was he asking? What was he doing now–with both her hands in his, and her gaze deeply lost in his–and the ninth volume of Lamour on the floor between them, sprawling there, abandoned, waving its helpless, discredited leaves in air–discredited, abandoned, obsolete as her own specialty–her life’s work! He had taken that, too–taken her life’s work from her. And in return she was holding nothing!–nothing except a young man’s hands–strong, muscular hands which, after all, were holding her own imprisoned. So she had nothing in exchange for the ninth volume of Lamour; and her life’s work had been annihilated by a smile; and she was very much alone in the world–very isolated and very youthful.
After a while she emerged from the chaos of attempted reflection and listened to what he was saying. He spoke very quietly, very distinctly, not sparing himself, laying bare every deception without involving anybody except himself.
He told her the entire history of his case, excluding Mr. Keen in person; he told her about his aunt, about his birthday, about his determination to let the legacy go. Then in a very manly way he told her that he had never before loved a woman; and fell silent, her hands a dead weight in his.
She was surprised that she could experience no resentment. A curious inertia crept over her. She was tired of expectancy, tired of effort, weary of the burden of decision. Life and its problems overweighted her. Her eyes wandered to his broad young shoulders, then were raised to his face.
“What shall we do?” she asked innocently.
Unresisting, she suffered him to explain. His explanation was not elaborate; he only touched his lips to her hands and straightened up, a trifle pale.
After a moment they walked together to the door and he took his hat and gloves from the rack.
“Will you come to-morrow morning?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Come early. I am quite certain of how matters are with me. Everything has gone out of my life–everything I once cared for–all the familiar things. So come early, for I am quite alone without you.”
“And I without you, Rosalind.”
“That is only right,” she said simply. “I shall cast no more shadows for you. . . . Are you going? . . . Oh, I know it is best that you should go, but–“
He halted. She laid both hands in his.
“We both have it,” she faltered–“every symptom. And–you will come early, won’t you?”
THE END