“Yes?” said Mr. Frettlby, interrogatively, sitting up quickly, and looking keenly at Brian.
“Wants to see me on business,” he finished, awkwardly.
“Connected with the sale of your station, I suppose,” said Frettlby, still keeping his eyes on the young man’s face.
“Can’t have a better man. Calton’s an excellent man of business.”
“A little too excellent,” replied Fitzgerald, ruefully, “he’s a man who can’t leave well alone.”
“A PROPOS of what?”
“Oh, nothing,” answered Fitzgerald, hastily, and just then his eyes met those of Frettlby. The two men looked at one another steadily for a moment, but in that short space of time a single name flashed through their brains—the name of Rosanna Moore. Mr. Frettlby was the first to lower his eyes, and break the spell.
“Ah, well,” he said, lightly, as he rose from his chair and held out his hand, “if you are two weeks in town, call at St. Kilda, and it’s more than likely you will find us there.”
Brian shook hands in silence, and watched him pick up his hat, and move on to the verandah, and then out into the hot sunshine.
“He knows,” he muttered involuntarily.
“Knows what, sir?” said Madge, who came silently behind him, and slipped her arm through his. “That you are hungry, and want something to eat before you leave us?”
“I don’t feel hungry,” said Brian, as they walked towards the door.
“Nonsense,” answered Madge, merrily, who, like Eve, was on hospitable thoughts intent. “I’m not going to have you appear in Melbourne a pale, fond lover, as though I were treating you badly. Come, sir—no,” she continued, putting up her hand as he tried to kiss her, “business first, pleasure afterwards,” and they went into the dining-room laughing.
Mark Frettlby wandered down to the lawn-tennis ground, thinking of the look he had seen in Brian’s eyes. He shivered for a moment in the hot sunshine, as though it had grown suddenly chill.
“Someone stepping across my grave,” he murmured to himself, with a cynical smile. “Bah! how superstitious I am, and yet—he knows, he knows!”
“Come on, sir,” cried Felix, who had just caught sight of him, “a racket awaits you.”
Frettlby awoke with a start, and found himself near the lawn-tennis ground, and Felix at his elbow, smoking a cigarette.
He roused himself with a great effort, and tapped the young man lightly on the shoulder.
“What?” he said with a forced laugh, “do you really expect me to play lawn tennis on such a day? You are mad.”
“I am hot, you mean,” retorted the imperturbable Rolleston, blowing a wreath of smoke.
“That’s a foregone conclusion,” said Dr. Chinston, who came up at that moment.
“Such a charming novel,” cried Julia, who had just caught the last remark.
“What is?” asked Peterson, rather puzzled.
“Howell’s book, ‘A Foregone Conclusion,’” said Julia, also looking puzzled. “Weren’t you talking about it?”
“I’m afraid this talk is getting slightly incoherent,” said Felix, with a sigh. “We all seem madder than usual to-day.”
“Speak for yourself,” said Chinston, indignantly, “I’m as sane as any man in the world.”
“Exactly,” retorted the other coolly, “that’s what I say, and you, being a doctor, ought to know that every man and woman in the world is more or less mad.”
“Where are your facts?” asked Chinston, smiling.
“My facts are all visible ones,” said Felix, gravely pointing to the company. “They’re all crooked on some point or another.”
There was a chorus of indignant denial at this, and then every one burst out laughing at the extraordinary way in which Mr. Rolleston was arguing.
“If you go on like that in the House,” said Frettlby, amused, “you will, at all events, have an entertaining Parliament.”
“Ah! they’ll never have an entertaining Parliament till they admit ladies,” observed Peterson, with a quizzical glance at Julia.
“It will be a Parliament of love then,” retorted the doctor, dryly, “and not mediaeval either.”
Frettlby took the doctor’s arm, and walked away with him. “I want you to come up to my study, doctor,” he said, as they strolled towards the house, “and examine me.”
“Why, don’t you feel well?” said Chinston, as they entered the house.
“Not lately,” replied Frettlby. “I’m afraid I’ve got heart disease.”
The doctor looked sharply at him, and then shook his head.
“Nonsense,” he said, cheerfully, “it’s a common delusion with people that they have heart disease, and in nine cases, out of ten it’s all imagination; unless, indeed,” he added waggishly, “the patient happens to be a young man.”
“Ah! I suppose you think I’m safe as far as that goes,” said Frettlby, as they entered the study; “and what did you think of Rolleston’s argument about people being mad?”
“It was amusing,” replied Chinston, taking a seat, Frettlby doing the same. “That’s all I can say about it, though, mind you, I think there are more mad people at large than the world is aware of.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes; do you remember that horrible story of Dickens’, in the ‘Pickwick Papers,’ about the man who was mad, and knew it, yet successfully concealed it for years? Well, I believe there are many people like that in the world, people whose lives are one long struggle against insanity, and yet who eat, drink, talk, and walk with the rest of their fellow-men, apparently as gay and light-hearted as they are.”
“How extraordinary.”
“Half the murders and suicides are done in temporary fits of insanity,” went on Chinston, “and if a person broods over anything, his incipient madness is sure to break out sooner or later; but, of course, there are cases where a perfectly sane person may commit a murder on the impulse of the moment, but I regard such persons as mad for the time being; but, again, a murder may be planned and executed in the most cold-blooded manner.”
“And in the latter case,” said Frettlby, without looking at the doctor, and playing with a paper knife, “do you regard the murderer as mad?”
“Yes, I do,” answered the doctor, bluntly. “He is as mad as a person who kills another because he supposes he has been told by God to do so—only there is method in his madness. For instance, I believe that hansom cab murder, in which you were mixed up—”
“I wasn’t mixed up in it,” interrupted Frettlby, pale with anger.
“Beg pardon,” said Chinston, coolly, “a slip of the tongue; I was thinking of Fitzgerald. Well, I believe that crime to have been premeditated, and that the man who committed it was mad. He is, no doubt, at large now, walking about and conducting himself as sanely as you or I, yet the germ of insanity is there, and sooner or later he will commit another crime.”
“How do you know it was premeditated?” asked Frettlby, abruptly.
“Any one can see that,” answered the other. “Whyte was watched on that night, and when Fitzgerald went away the other was ready to take his place, dressed the same.”
“That’s nothing,”