As we burst in, Holmes raised his eyes, to scowl at the rush of men.
"Where is the prisoner?" I exclaimed.
"Escaped," he answered shortly. Before he could say more, one of the burly civilian attendants had him by each arm, and the revolver had been wrenched roughly from his hand. Seward, springing past me, took only an instant to force up the sleeve of Holmes' dressing-gown, and to plunge the needle of a hypodermic into his arm. My friend, who had begun to struggle, in another moment sank back limp and helpless.
My anger blazed up. "You have no justification for such treatment!" I protested, and moved forward to clutch Seward by the arm. To my utter amazement, I immediately felt my own arms pinioned from behind. Looking over my shoulder, I saw it was the uniformed man who had grabbed me. I opened my mouth for another protest, and tried to pull free; but the two men who had been holding Holmes now released his inert form and came to lay their hands on me as well. Their leader still brandished his hypodermic, and as one of his confederates pushed up the sleeve of my right arm, he pressed it home. The last thing I saw before lapsing into unconsciousness was a smile of evil triumph disfiguring Jack Seward's handsome face.
My return to awareness was a slow and painful process, marred again and again by irresistible relapses into drugged sleep, a sleep shot through with strange dreams or visions. At one point it seemed to me that I was manacled helplessly to a peculiar cart or bed. Again, the comely face of a young woman in a high-collared gown, a complete stranger to me, was hovering near; and I thought she exchanged words with some unseen personage just outside my range of vision. As she gazed at me the young woman seemed concerned about my plight, though she was evidently unwilling or unable to take any helpful action.
When at last I fully recovered my senses, there was no woman to be seen. To my dismay, however, the metal cart and the shackles holding me to it proved to be only too horribly real. I was held down on my back, unable to do much more than turn my head, in a small room that was more like a cell than a bedchamber. It was sparsely furnished, and the paint on the walls was old and worn. Through shutters and bars, a sectioned shaft of wan, orange-yellow sunlight entered the sole window almost horizontally, suggesting that the day was nearly spent. The effects of the drug had evidently lasted many hours.
On turning my head I was shocked to discover a still figure similarly bound to another cart, not five feet from my own. I leave it to the reader to imagine my sensations on recognizing in the dim light the face of Sherlock Holmes, pale and motionless as death.
I whispered his name repeatedly, each time louder than the last, but he made not the least response; and I had about decided to see what I could accomplish in the way of obtaining help by using my lungs at their loudest, when a key rattled sharply in the lock of the stout door that formed the only entrance to the room. It opened, and Seward came in, a small lighted lamp in hand.
"What does this mean?" I demanded of him, in quiet rage.
He seemed not to hear, but closed the door behind him, then put on his spectacles and came forward, holding up his lamp. He bent over the inert form on the cart beside mine, and looked for a long moment before he straightened up.
"Incredible!" Seward muttered then, as if speaking only to himself. "An amazing likeness to the Count—yes, now I see."
"You know Count Dracula?" I asked—rather stupidly, I am afraid. It may have been that the last traces of the injected drug were still affecting my brain.
He turned to me with a short, unpleasant laugh. "Oh yes, Watson—Dracula and I are old acquaintances, though I had thought him six years dead. What can you tell me of how he came to be involved in this?"
I could not have given the villain a helpful answer had I wanted to; but rather than even give the appearance of cooperation, I simply pressed my lips together.
He shook his head, as if at an obstinate patient. "You are mistaken, if you imagine you will be able to withold information from me. There are some things I mean to learn, from Holmes or from you; and the sooner I learn them, the less painful your remaining hours will be." He looked at me, shrugged, and drew from a pocket of his coat a small case of surgical instruments, such as any doctor might carry about with him. When the case snapped open in his hand, the gleaming knives and scissors, all familiar tools of my own trade, appeared to me in a light in which I had never before seen them.
Seward's hand was hovering over the open case, as if doubtful which bright implement to choose, when there came a sudden bold rattle at the door. From just outside, a woman's voice, young and carefree, called out: "Jack? I say, are you in there?"
Muttering something under his breath, Seward snapped shut the case again and replaced it in his pocket. Going to the door, he unbolted it and opened it very slightly. "Mina," he remonstrated calmly, "I am afraid that there are patients here."
Through the partially open door I could catch just a glimpse of a young woman's face in the brighter hallway outside. It was the very face that I had seen, and taken for part of a dream, while I was still half-conscious.
Now she replied lightly: "Oh, I am so dreadfully sorry, Jack. You look somewhat harried; is there anything that Jonathan or I can do?"
"No, nothing, thanks. I have my attendants on call."
"I met one just now." She lowered her voice. "A rather brutal-looking fellow, who scowled at me when I came down this way from upstairs."
"I shall speak to him. However, I am afraid I am not as free of professional matters as I had hoped to be."
"But two patients in one room? Isn't that odd?" Now she was trying boldly to peer in past his shoulder.
"Help!" I croaked, loud as I could through my parched throat, thinking that I should never get a better chance. "Send for the police!"
Seward, not in the least perturbed, went on without even looking back in my direction. "Unusual, yes. But don't worry your pretty head, my dear. What the French call folie a deux, meaning two patients with a shared delusion. Just for the present I don't want to separate them."
"Police!" I repeated hoarsely. "Tell them Sherlock Holmes is held a prisoner here!"
The young lady giggled, as I continued my cries and groans for help.
Continued Seward: "As you perceive, things may get just a bit noisy here before we are finished. Don't let it bother you; and you might just say a word to Jonathan when you go up, so he won't be perturbed if there are a few yells. As soon as I am able I'll join you—for dinner, I hope."
"I'll mention it to him." To my despair I heard her voice begin to fade as she turned away. "But you know Jonathan—nothing perturbs him, or at least nothing has for the past six years." She started to leave, then turned back. "By the way, I suppose you have no objection to my using your telephone? I wanted to call Arthur and tell him Jonathan and I and the children will be with you tomorrow for the procession. I hope His Lordship has enough seats available."
"I'm sure he has—but by all means, call him if you like. And—Mina? Before you go. The—the other night I spoke too quickly. But it was the strength of my feelings that led me—"
The young woman's voice grew steely. "I told you, Jack, that if you spoke that way to me again, you should regret it. There is one man whom I love, above all others. And you are not him." In the next moment she was gone.
Seward, with the bitter smile of his parting from the lady still on his face, turned back to me, leaving the door ajar. It was a moment before he spoke. "Would you like to try calling for the police again, Watson? As you see, it will avail you absolutely nothing."
In a moment, a hulking attendant had appeared silently at the door; I recognized him as the "constable" who had assisted at our abduction, though he had since changed out of his uniform. At Seward's order our two carts, Holmes' first and mine following, were wheeled out of the room and across the adjoining corridor. The brief look afforded by this passage convinced me that the building was, or had been, an asylum or hospital of some sort; and the deadly silence of the place indicated we were somewhere outside of London.