They shook hands.
“I’ve enjoyed our talk,” he added.
“So have I. Do come again. It makes such a difference having a chat with someone—well, you know—like you—sometimes. If it’s only for a few minutes. You’ve no idea what a difference it makes. You get miserable sometimes—feel you’d do anything—then someone comes in, not like the usual lot, and you feel all right again.”
“I’ll come in before long.”
“Will you? I’d be glad if you would. Good night.”
“Good night, Rummy.”
He bought a paper as he left the bar, then went to dine at an obscure restaurant where he was unlikely to find anyone he knew.
During dinner he went over his conversation with Rummy, seeking to identify himself imaginatively with her existence. Was that what had interested Trent? And was he a writer because he possessed this faculty for identifying himself with the thoughts and emotions of others to an exceptional degree? Anyhow, one thing was definite: there was no mystery in Rummy’s relations with Trent.
Rendell dined quickly, then glanced at the paper while he smoked a cigarette over his black coffee. But, although the news from every quarter was sensational, it failed to hold his interest. He felt he was waiting for the end of an interval in an exciting play. But the fact that he could be so absorbed in the destinies of a number of people, unknown three days ago, clearly revealed the extent of his own loneliness.
“I knew I was pretty down to it,” he said to himself, “when I asked Marsden to dine with me last Sunday, but I didn’t know how bad it was.”
He rose, paid the bill, then drove back to Chelsea.
When he opened the front door, a man was descending the stairs. Rendell glanced at him, then said instinctively:
“You won’t mind my asking, but are you the doctor?”
“I am. I’ve just left Trent.”
“I wonder if you’d mind giving me a minute. I shan’t keep you long.”
“That’s all right.”
“Good! Thanks. Come in here—and what about a drink? Whisky and soda?”
“That’s an idea. Thanks.”
The doctor glanced round the room mechanically. He was about thirty-five and was obviously tired. He sank into a chair, then watched Rendell’s movements as if glad to give his attention to the trivial.
“That about right?” Rendell asked, handing him a drink.
“Drop more soda. Thanks. Not sorry to have a drink. Pretty stiff day—and I was called out in the night.”
“Well, it’s a damned shame to keep you, but it won’t be for long. I don’t know Trent, but I’ve a letter and a message for him—both pretty important, I gather. So I want to know what you think of him.”
“Nothing organically wrong. I should say he’s been in a highly nervous condition for some months—and has had some kind of a shock.”
“You wouldn’t let him see anyone?”
“He wouldn’t, if I said he could. Any more than he’ll open that pile of letters he’s got up there. Anyhow, he’s too excited to see people.”
“He’s chosen a lively house to be ill in.”
The doctor smiled.
“I ought to have had him out of it on Sunday night. Afterwards, he refused to go, and I thought it best to humour him. Ever seen his rooms? Oh well, they are all right. He’s really got a little flat up there—and an attractive one. There’s a door at the bottom of the staircase. It’s quite cut off from the rest of the house. In fact, with its double doors and windows, it’s remarkably quiet.”
There was a silence, then Rendell asked:
“Has he a night nurse?”
“No, only a day one. She’ll go soon. Mrs. Frazer’s going to take Trent on. She’ll get extra help to allow her to do so. Incidentally, that is Trent’s idea, not mine.”
Then, after a long pause, the doctor added:
“Of course it’s a queer case. No doubt about that. I see plenty of neurotic cases—God knows!—nowadays. But he’s a bit new to me. Don’t repeat this, but—when you’re with him—you feel that he’s longing for you to go.”
“To go,” Rendell echoed with considerable emphasis.
“Yes. He wants to be alone. The nurse irritates him—I irritate him. He doesn’t mind Mrs. Frazer. He’s used to her, I suppose. If I called another doctor in to-night, I’d bet a lot that he would say Trent was well.”
“Do you mean that?”
“I do indeed. Of course, he’d see he was nervous, excited, irritable—but he’d think a few days’ rest would put that right.”
“Yes, but after all,” Rendell protested, “the man collapsed in the hall on Sunday night—and you don’t do that for nothing.”
“I agree—but a highly-strung man like Trent can do it without it meaning a vast amount. I attend a number of artists, and I know what tricks their nerves can play them. Anyhow, if you’ve a letter and a message for him, send them up. He’ll ignore them, but you’ll have no further responsibility.”
He finished his drink, rose, then added:
“Still, I’m glad I was called in. Not sorry to have met Trent. I read one of his books—I forget the title—but it interested me. A patient of mine told me to read it—a barrister. Every read any?”
“I read one—read it three times.”
“Really? Odd you should be in this house.”
“Yes, isn’t it? But I mustn’t keep you. I’ll send up the letter and the message.”
“Best thing you can do. Well, I’ll get on. Good night.”
“Good night—and many thanks.”
Rendell went to the front door to see him off, then returned to his room.
He lit a cigarette and began to pace slowly up and down.
Part III
LABYRINTH
I
Vera Thornton wandered restlessly round the sitting-room of her flat in Bloomsbury, glancing at the clock every other minute. Then, with an impatient gesture, she sat in a low chair by the fire and closed her eyes. Several minutes passed, but she did not move.
The room was square, well furnished, in a manner that made no concession to modern ideas—with the exception that the walls were almost bare—but its chief characteristic was an absence of personality. Its atmosphere proclaimed that it was occupied, but not lived in, and this fact was significant, as the flat had been hers for two years. Furniture, colour scheme, intimate possessions, lacked individuality. They were mute observers, not collaborators, and so they remained anonymous.
She continued to sit motionless, leaning towards the fire, but the immobility of her attitude indicated conflict rather than repose. The body was taut, the features tense, and the closed eyes suggested concentration, not peace. An observer of any penetration would have imagined that she had disciplined herself to remain physically inert while inwardly raging with impatience.
She started violently when the telephone bell rang.
She let it ring for some moments, however, while she went to a mirror, arranged her hair, and assumed a social expression as if a visitor were about to be announced.
At last she picked up the receiver.
“Yes.”
“It’s Peter—Peter Marsden.”
“Well?”
“Well—as you were so insistent—I went to Number 77——”
“You’re not ringing up from there?” she interrupted quickly.
“No—this is a public box. I’ve just left. There’s no great news about Trent. He’s not delirious now and——”
She made a muffled exclamation.
“What?”
“Nothing,” she replied. “Go on.”
“I had a long talk with Captain Frazer. He took me down to his study. You’ve no idea what an odd room——”