“Listen to you!” the other burst out. “Always ready with some nasty, sneering sarcasm. You’re not human, that’s your trouble. You’re a machine and you expect other people to act like machines, too. Well, I’m not made of clockwork, and I’m sick of being treated as if I were. So goodnight, Doctor Morelle, and goodbye!”
The door slammed loudly and Doctor Morelle sighed.
He lit an inevitable Le Sphinx while he pondered the situation. He had got used to the idiosyncrasies of feminine nature since the departure of Miss Frayle, but this was probably the worst outburst of temper that he had had to endure. With another sigh he unearthed the first batch of notes that needed his attention. Then the bell rang.
“Ah!” he murmured with an air of quiet satisfaction, “that will be Miss Grimshaw returning to offer me her abject apologies. I suppose under the circumstances I shall have to accede to the plea for reinstatement which she will doubtless be making.”
He did not look up as the study door was pushed open slowly.
“So you have changed your mind in this little matter of your departure, Miss Grimshaw,” he remarked icily.
“Hello, Doctor Morelle.”
He started up in considerable surprise. This was the last person he had expected.
“Miss Frayle!” he exclaimed.
“Did you think it was someone else?” she asked in what she imagined to be her most appealing manner.
“I—er—I—”
For the first time Miss Frayle could remember, the Doctor was at a loss for a reply. Then he recovered his familiar poise. “I was expecting Miss Grimshaw, returning to finish her work.”
“I’m so glad you’ve found someone else who doesn’t mind working late hours.”
The Doctor, however, decided to ignore this, and continued:
“I am eager to know to what I owe this unexpected pleasure, Miss Frayle. Sit down.”
Miss Frayle sat down, but offered no explanation of the object of her visit. She had retained a key to the Doctor’s front door and, after ringing the bell, had realised suddenly that she could enter. She found it slightly amusing to be giving him a surprise.
“I was under the impression,” Doctor Morelle was observing, “that you were happily occupied in your new situation at Bournemouth.”
Miss Frayle tittered lightly.
“I’ve left Mrs. Padmore, the lady I went to when I left you. She’s gone to live in Dorset with a widowed sister who has just arrived from Australia.”
Doctor Morelle at once seized, with his customary quick wittedness, on what to him represented the important part of this statement. “You mean,” he said, “you’ve come to ask if you can have your old post back?”
Miss Frayle shook her head firmly. “Oh, no, no, Doctor!” she exclaimed. “I’m sure your—Miss Grimshaw, did you say her name was?—I’m sure she’s taking care of you very well indeed. No. As a matter of fact I’ve come to consult you on behalf of a Colonel Vane.”
The Doctor eyed her sharply. “Proceed, Miss Frayle.”
“His room is next to mine in the private hotel where I’m staying. I’ve only been there a few days, and every night I’ve been awakened by the Colonel crying out suddenly in alarm and then shouting as if he were terrified. Last night his attack seemed to be worse than usual, and I got up. As I opened my bedroom door the noise got less and there, standing very still outside the Colonel’s door, was his servant, an Indian called Shan Gopay. He saw me and I asked him what was the matter.”
“This appeals to me considerably, my dear Miss Frayle,” the Doctor said. “Pray proceed.”
“Shan Gopay looked at me and said he was afraid the Colonel had been disturbing me. I asked if he were ill. He explained it was what he called a ‘mind-sickness’, which had been troubling the Colonel, bringing on recurrent nightmares and causing him to cry out in the middle of the night.”
“And did you ascertain anything of further interest?”
“As I was talking to the Indian, the Colonel shouted again. It sounded to me like: ‘The ruby! My ruby!’ And then his voice died away in a moan.”
“Did you question the Indian servant as to the precise significance of the reference to a jewel?” Doctor Morelle asked.
“I said that it sounded as if he were saying something about a ruby, but the Indian replied that ever since Colonel Vane had come back from India a strange shadow had lain over his mind.”
“And why, my dear Miss Frayle, have you formed the opinion that I can do something to help the unfortunate officer?”
“I asked his servant if he could not see a doctor, but Shan Gopay said that nothing could be done. I told him that I knew a very famous doctor—you, Doctor Morelle—who would be able to put him right. The Indian said that he did not think there was any cure for what was preying on his master’s mind.”
“Simple case of anxiety neurosis, my dear Miss Frayle,” the Doctor observed. “It may possibly be linked with the acquisition of the precious stone which he mentioned. As to that, we can ascertain the facts when we have had an opportunity of some conversation with the gentleman concerned. And when do you suggest would be a propitious moment for my seeing him?”
Miss Frayle clasped her hands together in delight. “Tonight, Doctor? Before he goes to bed. I’m sure that you can stop him from having another of those dreadful nightmares.”
Doctor Morelle was quite accustomed to some measure of admiration, but he was somewhat surprised to learn that Miss Frayle had such touching faith in his medical abilities.
“You are too flattering, Miss Frayle,” he said smoothly. “However, since it appears to be a fact that your own slumber is jeopardised by Colonel Vane’s sufferings, I am naturally all the more anxious to give due consideration to the case forthwith.”
“Oh, Doctor Morelle! I’ve been all day wondering if I dared to bother you—”
“Let us proceed at once upon our double errand of mercy,” the Doctor continued, completely ignoring her remarks. “We will endeavour to obtain a taxi.”
The taxi secured, Miss Frayle gave the necessary instructions, and it was only a few minutes before they arrived at the Clevedon Private Hotel.
“It’s only quite a small hotel, of course,” Miss Frayle said apologetically, as she fumbled in her handbag for the key. “And they lock up rather early. I left my key behind once, and I had a fearful job banging away at the door before Mrs. Holt, the proprietor’s wife, let me in.”
Doctor Morelle stood by with ill-concealed impatience while Miss Frayle laughed and chatted. She produced the key and succeeded in opening the door.
As the door opened, however, the Doctor suddenly gripped Miss Frayle’s arm.
“Miss Frayle,” he murmured. “Can you hear anything?”
An agitated female voice was exclaiming: “Who’s that? Who’s there?”
“A lady in a state of considerable psychological agitation,” the Doctor went on. “Can you give me any clue as to her identity, Miss Frayle?”
“That is Mrs. Holt, the proprietor’s wife,” Miss Frayle said in some surprise, and then shouted: “It’s me—I mean ‘I’ Mrs. Holt—Miss Frayle.”
Mrs. Holt, a middle-aged woman with greying hair, who had once been pretty but who had now lost all pretence to good looks, came into the hall where Doctor Morelle and Miss Frayle were standing. Her face was a study of acute anxiety.
“Oh, my husband!