Ferguson looked at me with a question in his eyes.
“I should be so glad if I could be of use.”
“Would your mistress see Dr. Watson?”
“I take him. I no ask leave. She needs doctor.”
“Then I’ll come with you at once.”
I followed the girl, who was quivering with strong emotion,up the staircase and down an ancient corridor. At the end was aniron-clamped and massive door. It struck me as I looked at it thatif Ferguson tried to force his way to his wife he would find it noeasy matter. The girl drew a key from her pocket, and the heavyoaken planks creaked upon their old hinges. I passed in and sheswiftly followed, fastening the door behind her.
On the bed a woman was lying who was clearly in a high fever.
She was only half conscious, but as I entered she raised a pair offrightened but beautiful eyes and glared at me in apprehension.
Seeing a stranger, she appeared to be relieved and sank back witha sigh upon the pillow. I stepped up to her with a few reassuringwords, and she lay still while I took her pulse and temperature. Bothwere high, and yet my impression was that the condition was ratherthat of mental and nervous excitement than of any actual seizure.
“She lie like that one day, two day. I ’fraid she die,” said the girl.
The woman turned her flushed and handsome face towards me.
“Where is my husband?”
“He is below and would wish to see you.”
“I will not see him. I will not see him.” Then she seemed towander off into delirium. “A fiend! A fiend! Oh, what shall I dowith this devil?”
“Can I help you in any way?”
“No. No one can help. It is finished. All is destroyed. Do what Iwill, all is destroyed.”
The woman must have some strange delusion. I could not seehonest Bob Ferguson in the character of fiend or devil.
“Madame,” I said, “your husband loves you dearly. He is deeplygrieved at this happening.”
Again she turned on me those glorious eyes.
“He loves me. Yes. But do I not love him? Do I not love himeven to sacrifice myself rather than break his dear heart? That ishow I love him. And yet he could think of me—he could speak ofme so.”
“He is full of grief, but he cannot understand.”
“No, he cannot understand. But he should trust.”
“Will you not see him?” I suggested.
“No, no, I cannot forget those terrible words nor the look uponhis face. I will not see him. Go now. You can do nothing for me.
Tell him only one thing. I want my child. I have a right to mychild. That is the only message I can send him.” She turned herface to the wall and would say no more.
I returned to the room downstairs, where Ferguson and Holmesstill sat by the fire. Ferguson listened moodily to my account ofthe interview.
“How can I send her the child?” he said. “How do I know whatstrange impulse might come upon her? How can I ever forgethow she rose from beside it with its blood upon her lips?” Heshuddered at the recollection. “The child is safe with Mrs. Mason,and there he must remain.”
A smart maid, the only modern thing which we had seen in thehouse, had brought in some tea. As she was serving it the dooropened and a youth entered the room. He was a remarkable lad,pale-faced and fair-haired, with excitable light blue eyes whichblazed into a sudden flame of emotion and joy as they rested uponhis father. He rushed forward and threw his arms round his neckwith the abandon of a loving girl.
“Oh, Daddy,” he cried, “I did not know that you were due yet. Ishould have been here to meet you. Oh, I am so glad to see you!”
Ferguson gently disengaged himself from the embrace withsome little show of embarrassment.
“Dear old chap,” said he, patting the flaxen head with a verytender hand. “I came early because my friends, Mr. Holmes andDr. Watson, have been persuaded to come down and spend anevening with us.”
“Is that Mr. Holmes, the detective?”
“Yes.”
The youth looked at us with a very penetrating and, as it seemedto me, unfriendly gaze.
“What about your other child, Mr. Ferguson?” asked Holmes.
“Might we make the acquaintance of the baby?”
“Ask Mrs. Mason to bring baby down,” said Ferguson. The boywent off with a curious, shambling gait which told my surgical eyesthat he was suffering from a weak spine. Presently he returned,and behind him came a tall, gaunt woman bearing in her arms avery beautiful child, dark-eyed, golden-haired, a wonderful mixtureof the Saxon and the Latin. Ferguson was evidently devoted to it,for he took it into his arms and fondled it most tenderly.
“Fancy anyone having the heart to hurt him,” he muttered ashe glanced down at the small, angry red pucker upon the cherubthroat.
It was at this moment that I chanced to glance at Holmes andsaw a most singular intentness in his expression. His face was asset as if it had been carved out of old ivory, and his eyes, whichhad glanced for a moment at father and child, were now fixedwith eager curiosity upon something at the other side of theroom. Following his gaze I could only guess that he was looking outthrough the window at the melancholy, dripping garden. It is truethat a shutter had half closed outside and obstructed the view, butnone the less it was certainly at the window that Holmes was fixinghis concentrated attention. Then he smiled, and his eyes came backto the baby. On its chubby neck there was this small puckered mark.
Without speaking, Holmes examined it with care. Finally he shookone of the dimpled fists which waved in front of him.
“Good-bye, little man. You have made a strange start in life.
Nurse, I should wish to have a word with you in private.”
He took her aside and spoke earnestly for a few minutes. I onlyheard the last words, which were: “Your anxiety will soon, I hope,be set at rest.” The woman, who seemed to be a sour, silent kindof creature, withdrew with the child.
“What is Mrs. Mason like?” asked Holmes.
“Not very prepossessing externally, as you can see, but a heart ofgold, and devoted to the child.”
“Do you like her, Jack?” Holmes turned suddenly upon the boy.
His expressive mobile face shadowed over, and he shook his head.