The Master of the Shell Part 31

These selfish regrets, however, only flashed through Railsford's mind to be again dismissed. He was a brave man, and possessed the courage which, when occasion demands, can accept a duty like a man. After all, was it not a blessing his cab had not come five minutes earlier than it had? Suppose this poor sufferer had been left with no better guardian than the brusque Mrs Phillips, with her scruples about "catching"

disorders?

The doctor's trap rattled up to the door at last. He was one of those happy sons of Aesculapius who never pull long faces, but always say the most alarming things in the most delightful way.

"Ah," said he, hardly glancing at the patient, and shaking hands airily with Railsford, "this is a case of the master being kept in, and sending to the doctor for his _exeat_, eh? Sorry I can't give it to you at present, my dear fellow; rather a bad case."

"What is it?" asked Railsford.

"Our old friend, diphtheria; knowing young dog, to put it off till breaking-up day. What an upset for us all if he'd come out with it yesterday! Not profitable from my point of view, but I daresay the boys will have it more comfortably at home than here, after all. This must have been coming on for some time. How long has he been feverish?"

"I don't know. I only found him like this half an hour ago, and want your advice what to do."

The doctor, almost for the first time, looked at the restless invalid on the bed and hummed.

"Dr Ponsford has gone to the Isle of Wight, I hear," said he.

"I really don't know where he's gone," said Railsford impatiently.

"I wish _I_ could get a holiday. That's the worst of my kind of doctor--people take ill so promiscuously. As sure as we say we'll go off for a week, some aggravating patient spits blood and says, 'No, you don't.' I think you should send for this boy's mother, do you know."

"I don't know her address. Is he so very ill, then?"

"Well, of the two, I think you should telegraph rather than write. It might be more satisfaction to you afterwards. Have you no way of finding where he lives? Looked in his pockets? There may be a letter there."

It was not an occasion for standing on ceremony, and Railsford, feeling rather like a pickpocket, took down the jacket from the peg and searched it. There was only one letter in the pocket, written in a female hand.

It was dated "Sunday," but bore no address further than "London, N." on the postmark.

"Pity," said the doctor pleasantly. "Of course you have had diphtheria yourself?"

"No."

"H'm, I can hardly advise you to leave him till somebody comes to relieve guard. But it's doubtful whether he will be well in time to nurse you. You should send for your own folk in time."

If this doctor had not been Railsford's only support at present, he would have resented this professional flippancy more than he did.

"I'm not afraid," said he. "I shall try to find out where his people live. Meanwhile would it be well to send a trained nurse here; or can I manage myself?"

"Quite straightforward work," said the doctor, "if you like it. I've known cases no worse than this finish up in three days, or turn the corner in seven. You mustn't be surprised if he gets a great deal worse at night. He's a bit delirious already."

Then the doctor went into a few details as to the medicine and method of nursing.

The most important thing was to discover, if possible, the address of the patient's parents, and summon them. He approached the bed in the vague hope that Brans...o...b.. might be able to help him. But the sufferer, though he opened his eyes, seemed not to know him, and muttered to himself what sounded more like Greek verse than English. In desperation Railsford summoned Mrs Phillips. She, cautious woman, with a son of her own, would by no means come into the room, but stood at the door with a handkerchief to her mouth.

"Have you any idea where his home is?"

"No. Hasn't he labelled his box?"

"He does not seem to have begun to pack at all. Do you know the doctor's address?"

"No, he said no letters were to be forwarded. You'll excuse me, Mr Railsford, but as you are taking charge, I should like to be spared away an hour or so. I feel so upset, like. A bit of fresh air would be the very thing for me."

She was evidently in such a panic on her own account, and so nervous of her proximity even to Railsford, that he saw it was little use to object.

"You must be back in two hours, without fail," said he; "I may want you to go for the doctor again."

She went; and Railsford, as he listened to the clatter of her boots across the quadrangle, felt more than ever utterly alone. He set himself to clear the room as far as possible of all unnecessary furniture. The poor fellow's things lay about in hopeless confusion.

Evidently he had had it in his mind to pack up yesterday; but had felt too ill to carry out his purpose, and gone to bed intending to finish in the morning.

Flannels, running-shoes, caps, books, linen, and papers lay scattered over the room, and Railsford, as he gathered them together and tried to reduce the chaos to order, felt his heart sink with an undefined apprehension.

Yesterday, perhaps, this little array of goods and chattels meant much to the young master who called them his. To-day, what cared he as he lay there tossing feverishly on his bed, muttering his Greek verses and moaning over his sore throat, whose they were, and who touched them?

And to-morrow--?

Railsford pulled himself together half angrily. A nice fellow, he, for a sick nurse?

Suddenly he came upon a desk with the key in the lock. Perhaps this might contain the longed-for address. He opened it and glanced inside.

It was empty. No. There was only a paper there--a drawing on a card.

Railsford took it up and glanced at it, half absent. As his eyes fell on it, however, he started. It was a curious work of art; a sketch in pen and ink, rather cleverly executed, after the model of the old Greek bas-reliefs shown in the cla.s.sical dictionaries. It represented what first appeared to be a battle scene, but what Railsford on closer inspection perceived was something very different.

The central figure was a man, over whose head a sack had been cast, which a tall figure behind was binding with cords round the victim's neck and shoulders. On the ground, clutching the captive's knees with his arms, and preparing to bind them, sat another figure, while in the background a third, with one finger to his lips, expressive of caution, pointed to an open door, evidently of the dungeon intended for the prisoner. It was an ordinary subject for a picture of this kind, and Railsford might have thought nothing of it, had not his attention been attracted by some words inscribed in cla.s.sic fas.h.i.+on against the figures of the actors in this little drama.

Under the central figure of the captive he read in Greek capitals the legend BIKEROS; over the head of his tall a.s.sailant was written BRANSKOMOS. The person sitting and embracing the captive's knees was labelled KLIPSTONOS, while the mysterious figure in the rear, pointing out the dungeon, bore the name of MUNGEROS. Over the door itself was written BOOTBOX. Below the whole was written the first line of the Iliad, and in the corner, in minute characters, were the words, "S.

_Brans...o...b.., inv. et del_."

Railsford stared at the strange work of art in blank amazement. What could it mean? At first he was disposed to smile at the performance as a harmless jest; but a moment's consideration convinced him that, jest or not, he held in his hand the long-sought clue to the Bickers mystery which had troubled the peace of Grandcourt for the last term.

Here, in the hand of the chief offender himself, was a pictorial record of that grievous outrage, and here, denounced, by himself in letters of Greek, were the names for which all the school had suffered. The Master of the Sh.e.l.l seemed to be in a dream. Brans...o...b.. and Clipstone, the head prefects of Bickers's own house I and Munger, the ill-conditioned toady of Railsford's!

His first feelings of excitement and astonishment were succeeded by others of alarm and doubt. The murder was out, but how? He knew the great secret at last, but by what means? His eyes turned to the restless sufferer on the bed, and a flush of crimson came to his face as he realised that he had no more right to that secret than he had to the purse which lay on the table. He had opened the desk to look for an address, and nothing more. If, instead of that address, he had accidentally found somebody else's secret, what right had he--a man of honour and a gentleman--to use it, even if by doing so he could redress one of the greatest grievances in Grandcourt?

He thrust the picture back into the desk, and wished from the bottom of his heart he had never seen it. Mechanically he finished tidying the room, and clearing away to the adjoining study as much as possible of the superfluous furniture. Then with his own hands he lit the fire and carried out the various instructions of the doctor as to the steaming of the air in the room and the preparation of the nourishment for the invalid.

Brans...o...b.. woke once during the interval and asked hoa.r.s.ely, "What bell was that?"

Then, without waiting for an answer, he said,--

"All right, all right, I'll get up in a second," and relapsed into his restless sleep.

Mrs Phillips did not return till eight o'clock; and the doctor arrived almost at the same time.

"Has he taken anything?" he inquired.

"Scarcely anything; he can hardly swallow."

"You'll have a night with him, I fancy. Keep the temperature of the room up to sixty, and see he doesn't throw off his clothes. How old is he--eighteen?--a great overgrown boy, six feet one or two, surely. It goes hard with these long fellows. Give me your short, thick-set young ruffian for pulling through a bout like this. Have you found out where he lives?"

"No, I can't discover his address anywhere."