He understood,
of course, the cause of Mr. Royce's breakdown, and turned to me when
the consultation was ended, and his colleague had taken his departure.
"Mr. Lester," he said, "I advise you to go home and get some rest. Put
this case out of your mind, or you'll be right where Mr. Royce is. He
had some more bad news, I suppose?"
I told him of Miss Holladay's disappearance; he pondered over it a
moment with grave face.
"This strengthens my belief that she is suffering with dementia," he
said. "Sudden aversion to relatives and friends is one of its most
common symptoms. Of course, she must be found."
"I'm going to find her," I assured him, with perhaps a little more
confidence than I really felt.
"Well, remember to call on me if I can help you. But first of all, go
home and sleep for ten hours--twelve, if you can. Mind, no work before
that--no building of theories. You'll be so much the fresher
to-morrow."
I recognized the wisdom of this advice, but I had one thing to do
first. I took a cab and drove to the nearest telegraph office. There I
sent an imperative message to Brooks, the Holladay coachman, telling
him to return to New York by the first train, and report to me at the
office. That done, I gave the driver my address and settled back in
the seat.
No building of theories, Jenkinson had said; yet it was difficult to
keep the brain idle.
Pages:
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112