Yes, this was the first practical proof that had come to me of the

sheer empiricism of the present state of medicine.

We had lived together--Alresca and I--peaceably, quietly, sadly. He

appeared to have ample means, and the standard of luxury which existed

in his flat was a high one. He was a connoisseur in every department

of art and life, and took care that he was well served. Perhaps it

would be more correct to say that he had once taken care to be well

served, and that the custom primarily established went on by its own

momentum. For he did not exercise even such control as a sick man

might have been expected to exercise. He seemed to be concerned with

nothing, save that occasionally he would exhibit a flickering

curiosity as to the opera season which was drawing to a close.

Unfortunately, there was little operatic gossip to be curious about.

Rosa had fulfilled her engagement and gone to another capital, and

since her departure the season had, perhaps inevitably, fallen flat.

Of course, the accident to and indisposition of Alresca had also

contributed to this end. And there had been another factor in the

case--a factor which, by the way, constituted the sole item of news

capable of rousing Alresca from his torpor. I refer to the

disappearance of Sir Cyril Smart.

Soon after my cousin Sullivan's reception, the papers had reported Sir

Cyril to be ill, and then it was stated that he had retired to a

remote Austrian watering-place (name unmentioned) in order to rest and

recuperate. Certain weekly papers of the irresponsible sort gave

publicity to queer rumors--that Sir Cyril had fought a duel and been

wounded, that he had been attacked one night in the streets, even that

he was dead. But these rumors were generally discredited, and

meanwhile the opera season ran its course under the guidance of Sir

Cyril's head man, Mr. Nolan, so famous for his diamond shirt-stud.

Perhaps I could have thrown some light upon the obscurity which

enveloped the doings of Sir Cyril Smart. But I preferred to remain

inactive. Locked away in my writing-case I kept the jewelled dagger so

mysteriously found by me outside the Devonshire Mansion.

I had mentioned the incidents of that night to no one, and probably

not a soul on the planet guessed that the young doctor in attendance

upon Alresca had possession of a little toy-weapon which formed a

startling link between two existences supposed to be unconnected save

in the way of business--those of Sir Cyril and Rosetta Rosa. I

hesitated whether to send the dagger to Rosa, and finally decided that

I would wait until I saw her again, if ever that should happen, and

then do as circumstances should dictate. I often wondered whether the

silent man with the fixed gaze, whom I had met in Oxford Street that

night, had handled the dagger, or whether his presence was a mere

coincidence. To my speculations I discovered no answer.




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