Powers of Darkness. Fred M. White
does not often leave his patient,” Alice explained. “He is a devoted attendant.”
“He has no intention of killing the goose that lays the golden eggs,” Clench chuckled. “Such a shrewd doctor has no difficulty in patching the goose up after the foolish bird has gone beyond bounds. If anything happened to Draycott, Moler’s position would not be so pleasant. He’ll stick to his patient so long as he has a sovereign left.”
“You think there is nothing the matter with Mr. Draycott?”
“Well, not what you call physical infirmity,” Clench replied. “Neither do I think there is anything wrong with his constitution. The trouble is drink.”
“You are absolutely certain of that?”
“My dear young lady, I have no doubt of it. I am a man of the world, and in my time I have had all sorts and conditions of clients. Out of my experiences I could make the fortune of a dozen novelists. I have seen some very sad cases. It is astonishing how people with nothing to do and plenty to do it with drift into that vice. Draycott has every symptom of it, but by way of keeping him more or less under control, Moler plies him with morphia.”
“But there is no necessity for that,” Alice protested.
“You are wrong. There is one class of drunkard that never gets any worse. His drinking habits are as regular as the clock. He goes on in his own dogged, stupid way, and very often lives to a good old age. Then there is the savage drinker, who drinks fitfully and has that awful thing called delirium tremens. That’s the kind of man Draycott is. Don’t you see that some day in a fit or madness he might tell the truth about the mystery of Rawmouth Park? He might come down now and blurt out the whole story for our delectation. If that were done, the pretty bubble would collapse and Moler would be thrown on the hard world again. This is the one thing he dreads. He has one effectual means of keeping Draycott quiet, and that is to dose him with morphia when an attack is imminent. That glassy eye, those shivering fits, even on a hot night like this, the sudden changes of his mind, all point to morphia. Now, if you don’t object, I’ll take a stroll in the garden. There is a moth peculiar to this district I am interested in which I wish to add to my collection.”
“I didn’t know that you collected moths.”
“My dear, Miss Kearns, I have been interested in moths all my life—moths and butterflies. The butterflies are comparatively harmless, but the moths are different. There are two in this house, which I should like to get under my net and pinned down to the board. But this is only an excuse for Moler in case he returns. If he comes down, please let me know. He will be pretty certain to come, I think, for he will be anxious to find out whether or not I have discovered anything. Even a poor, harmless old scientist like myself must not be overlooked. Now, do I talk in the least like a man to be suspected?”
Alice surveyed her benign-looking companion with a smile. He looked the last person in the world to distrust or dislike anybody.
“You look quite a dear old thing,” she laughed, “like the elderly, benevolent comedian one sees on the stage. You are Benjamin Goldfinch in ‘A Pair of Spectacles.’ You would deceive a judge.”
Clench chuckled as he passed out into the garden. He peered about among the trees, as if eager to come up with his prey. He was indeed the very ideal of the type of amateur who has less knowledge than he imagines himself to possess.
Out of the darkness of the garden, Clench could see the lights in the upper windows, and caught a glimpse of Moler and Draycott in one of the bedrooms. The window was up and the blinds were undrawn. Moler was leaning against the sash smoking a cigarette, while Draycott paced up and down the room restlessly. On the still night air it was possible to hear nearly every word that was said. Clench crept along till he was half hidden by a mass of flowering shrubs in one of the beds. He might or might not hear something to his advantage and he was not going to lose the opportunity for the sake of a few scruples.
He had a fair view of the figures. He heard a laugh come from Moler’s lips, followed by a growl from Draycott. There was the hint of a scuffle, but only for a moment. The watcher thought that Moler held something shining in his hand.
“Well, if you think you can manage it better than I can, go on. Perhaps you prefer the tablets you used when I first came.”
“Curse the tablets,” Draycott muttered. “They give me indigestion till I can’t breathe. What’s the use of getting your nerves steady, if you’ll have a pain under your heart like a knife. Let me have the needle; nothing like the blessed needle.”
“And nothing so accursed,” Moler retorted. “Why don’t you pull up, man? How long do you suppose this kind of thing can go on? You’ve had two doses to-day already.”
Draycott laughed horribly.
“Not strong enough. Why didn’t you give me one more before dinner? You saw how near I was to making a fool of myself. My nerve cracked at the wrong moment. At times you are so stingy with the drug. Lucky that old fool saw nothing.”
Clench smiled to himself; this was exceedingly interesting, especially to the old fool, who was listening eagerly. At any rate, his suspicions were being confirmed. Draycott was a dipsomaniac, and Moler was keeping his brain clear by morphia. He saw the needle flash, saw it plunged in the arm that Draycott extended. He heard the sigh of relief that followed later. Draycott shook himself like a dog fresh from sleep.
“That’s better,” he said, with a long drawn breath. “I feel a man again. Wonderful what a difference that little needle makes, Moler. I’m not afraid of anything now.”
“Nor need you be, if only you took more care of yourself,” Moler retorted. “You’re pretty safe, you must be safe so long as Grenfell is out of the way. Do you suppose a single soul in the world has the slightest notion of the truth? I’m the one man, and, so long as I am paid for my silence, you have nothing to fear, absolutely nothing.”
“Yes, I have,” smiled Draycott. “I’ve got you to fear. Half my money has gone to you already.”
“Your money,” Moler cried. “What would the insurance company say if——”
He dropped his voice to a hissing whisper, and Clench heard no more. He stepped back into the house to find that Alice was still in the dining-room.
“Did you catch the moth?” she asked.
“Two of them, I hope. I have not wasted my time.”
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