The Vanishing Man

"No, it was not," was the wrathful rejoinder; "it was my mistaken generosity. But there--what is the use of talking? I've done my best for you and I'll do no more. Don't trouble to let me out; I can find my way. Good morning." With a stiff bow and a quick glance at me, the speaker strode out of the room, banging the door after him.

"I must apologise for this extraordinary reception," said Miss Bellingham; "but I believe medical men are not easily astonished. I will introduce you to your patient now." She opened the door and, as I followed her into the adjoining room, she said: "Here is another visitor for you, dear. Doctor--"

"Berkeley," said I. "I am acting for my friend Doctor Barnard."

The invalid, a fine-looking man of about fifty-five, who sat propped up in bed with a pile of pillows, held out an excessively shaky hand, which I grasped cordially, making a mental note of the tremor.

"How do you do, sir?" said Mr. Bellingham. "I hope Doctor Barnard is not ill."

"Oh, no," I answered; "he has gone for a trip down the Mediterranean on a currant ship. The chance occurred rather suddenly, and I bustled him off before he had time to change his mind. Hence my rather unceremonious appearance, which I hope you will forgive."

"Not at all," was the hearty response. "I'm delighted to hear that you sent him off; he wanted a holiday, poor man. And I am delighted to make your acquaintance, too."

"It is very good of you," I said; whereupon he bowed as gracefully as a man may who is propped up in bed with a heap of pillows; and having thus exchanged broadsides of civility, so to speak, we--or, at least, I--proceeded to business.

"How long have you been laid up?" I asked cautiously, not wishing to make too evident the fact that my principal had given me no information respecting his case.

"A week to-day," he replied. "The fons et origo mali was a hansom-cab which upset me opposite the Law Courts--sent me sprawling in the middle of the road. My own fault, of course--at least, the cabby said so, and I suppose he knew. But that was no consolation to me."

"Were you much hurt?"

"No, not really; but the fall bruised my knee rather badly and gave me a deuce of a shake up. I'm too old for that sort of thing, you know."

"Most people are," said I.

"True; but you can take a cropper more gracefully at twenty than at fifty-five. However, the knee is getting on quite well--you shall see it presently--and you observe that I am giving it complete rest. But that isn't the whole of the trouble or the worst of it. It's my confounded nerves. I'm as irritable as the devil and as nervous as a cat, and I can't get a decent night's rest."