Though Steindal was gone, we remained the center of observation. Perhaps others wondered, like Scapin, what the deuce he was doing in our boat. Karl, who was distinctly fatigued, did that which I had never seen him do before--he drank some wine. He seemed to be willing enough to talk freely, but held in leash by the presence of so many strangers. Hooper, I knew, was consumed with impatience, but he preserved the outward demeanor of a North American Indian. So there was a common agreement when I suggested that my sitting-room was the right place in which to smoke. Once there, Hooper threw aside the mask.
“I have the accumulated questions of five years to fire at you. Are you ready?” he said to Karl.
“Quite ready. I would only ask you to remember that a Hindu ascetic once devoted thirty years to the consideration of one great question: ‘Whence?’ and when he emerged from retirement he astonished his disciples by merely propounding another: ‘Whither?’”
“I go one better by putting both. Whence comes this amazing sense of yours, and whither does it tend?”
“If it amuses you to hear my guesses on those points, I am not disinclined to bring them into the light. Have either of you heard of Paul Flechsig’s ‘organs of thought’ theory? Yes? Well, he holds, as you know, that in the gray bed of the brain there are four inner spheres of sensation--the sphere of touch in the vertical lobe, the sphere of sight in the occipital lobe, the sphere of smell in the frontal lobe, and the sphere of hearing in the temporal lobe. These are the sense-centers. Between, and in active communication with them, lie the four great thought-centers, containing an elaborate and peculiar nerve-structure. Take away the enveloping tissues and bones, and you have a wonderfully complex instrument, balanced, so to speak, on the spinal cord. This, in the descent of man, is not the outcome of, but an essential preliminary to, the brain. I imagine that a comparative anatomist would assign far more importance to the spinal cord than, let us say, a philosopher would give it. Be that as it may, I am quite certain, in my case, that the spine possesses magnetic polarity to an extraordinary degree. Without going into an extensive lecture on the subject, I believe that I have answered your first question. The second bristles with difficulties. I can only tell you that I affect others, who have the same latent attributes, by the exercise of the principle roughly known to science as magnetic induction. Notwithstanding the curious things you have seen, my powers are strictly limited. At a given moment I can induce varying sensations in different subjects, and these sensations, carried to the thought-centers, set in motion the sense-centers. If such faculties were common to all, life would be more simple, and, perhaps, less mechanical.”
“That is an extraordinary conclusion,” I broke in.
“It sounds contradictory, but I think analysis of my meaning will bear me out. Come now, Hooper, I look to you for support. I recall your famous thesis that man contains within himself all the possibilities of invention. Man required the power to communicate speedily with his fellows. After long ages, he has evolved the electric telegraph and the telephone. I reach the same end without the cumbrous means. Certain people would dub my sixth sense supernatural, or transcendental, meaning thereby something which can exist and operate without a material basis. That is ridiculous. If such well-known beverages as tea and coffee can stimulate thought, if alcohol can intensify feeling, if musk can reanimate the fainting consciousness and ether deaden it, is it not clear that the ordinary senses have an anatomical basis yielding to chemical action? My sixth sense is a true natural phenomenon, and, when I come to be dissected in the interests of science, you must ask the anatomist to explain--”
There was a sound at the door as of one fumbling at the handle.
I rose, surprised that any one should seek to enter without knocking. Then the door opened, and Steindal appeared. I learned afterwards that he had recovered very rapidly from his seeming madness, and had persuaded the hotel attendants to leave him alone, on the plea that he would sleep. A doctor, too, summoned hastily, bore out his statement that he was in a normal condition of health. By tipping a housemaid, who knew nothing of the scene in the restaurant, he reached my room.
So far as I could judge, he was unarmed. Nevertheless, I barred the way, but he paid no heed to me. He dodged, in order to see Karl.
“I want to speak to you,” he said thickly, addressing Karl.
“Come in, then,” was the answer.
Thinking that three of us could surely overpower him at once if he attempted violence, I stood aside.
Seen in the half-light of the corridor, Steindal looked his own tubby, commonplace self, but the bright interior of the room revealed the rough usage to which he had been subjected. His chin was scratched, his collar and shirt loosened by the breaking of a stud, the breast-pocket of his coat was torn, and his long, black, smooth hair ruffled.
The expression of his face offered a study in physiology. The corners of his thick, salacious lips turned upward with the scowl of an enraged animal. His eyes, usually black and beady, were now dark red, and darting shifting glances at all parts of Karl’s body. Their constant movement was fascinating. If you have ever seen a bull-fight, and watched the last stand of the Andalusian monarch of the herd as he faces the matador, well aware that the bright straight blade in the man’s right hand is ready to seek his heart’s blood, yet compelled to watch the flutterings of a bit of red silk on the muleta in his predestined slayer’s left hand, you will form some notion of the suppressed fury which gleamed from Steindal’s quickly-moving eyes.
Yet his voice, though it had lost its smoothness, was well under control.
“Whatever else you may be, I don’t suppose you are a coward,” said he.
I believe, to this day, that Steindal could actually smell blood in that instant. His nostrils twitched slightly, and his tongue darted forth to salivate his lips. Hooper and I might have been non-existent for all the heed he paid to us.
“No, I am not,” said Karl.
“Then you will travel with me to France to-morrow?”
“That would be useless, Steindal. I can paralyze your arm, root you immovable to the ground.”
“Ah, but that would make you, indeed, a coward. Yet, I take the chance. I will fight you with my hands tied, if need be. My teeth will serve.”
“I cannot fight you,” said Karl, slowly. “I refuse to murder you, and certainly I shall not let you murder me. No, Steindal, you must live. I am sorry to be so hard on you, but you really must continue to exist.”
“Is that your final answer?”
“Absolutely.”
“Do you assign a cause?”
“For you, punishment, and, it may be, retribution, to be followed perhaps by the emergence of a soul from your bloated body. For me, suffering too, in a form you cannot understand.”
“I decline your terms,” murmured Steindal, moistening his lips again and advancing a pace.
“Go!” said Karl, sternly, and, to my utter surprise, the other man turned and quitted the room. We heard him walk steadily down the corridor, and caught the click of his boots as he stepped on to a marble staircase. It was Hooper who broke the queer silence which fell on us.
“You seem to have taken the measure of Steindal’s backbone, at any rate?” he commented.
“Where I am concerned, he is no longer a free agent,” said Karl, wearily.
“Tell me,” I interposed, “why you deal so harshly with a man you have never actually met before to-night?”
“Because I loathe such a creature. He represents the pig in man. He has brought horror and abasement to hundreds. Now he must wallow in the only degradation that makes him contemptible in his own esteem. But forgive me if I leave you. You and Hooper can find much to discuss, and I must be alone.”
He stood upright, and drew a hand across his eyes. I seemed to perceive a slackening of the muscles of his finely molded frame which was almost a symptom of complete enervation. It was a new and unaccountable alarm which impelled me to say:
“Will you go home, Karl, and promise me to try and sleep?”
“I am going home,” he replied. “Good-night!”
Clearly, he did not desire any courteous leave-taking in the vestibule. I did not offer to accompany him. When I knew that he had descended the stairs--thus avoiding the elevator and its possible publicity--I rejoined Hooper.
He was smoking, and his gaze was fixed on the ceiling. I was in no mood for talk just then. More by force of habit than otherwise, I rang for a waiter and ordered whisky and soda. The mere presence of the man, with his servile affability and his laden tray, was a tonic in itself. He brought me back from illimitable depths to the workaday world.
“Do you partake?” I asked Hooper.
“Yep.”
The cigar wedged between his teeth rendered the final labial the easier manner of speech. I found his presence soothing, too. I poured out a small quantity of spirit, and, while the waiter was uncorking a bottle of soda water, I looked out of the window. It was a glorious summer evening when last I saw the streets. Now the flaring lights were reflected in wavering zigzags on road and pavements, while the shining capes of ’bus-drivers and cabmen caught the eye as moving pyramids.
“Good heavens!” I cried, “it is raining!”
There was a loud report. The attendant had drenched himself.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” he stammered, “but you did make me jump, an’ no mistake.”
“Better have the remainder of the soda poured over your head,” snapped Hooper at me.
“But I tell you it is raining,” I shouted excitedly.
“Give it to me, waiter, if you are afraid,” said Hooper, firmly.
“Oh, I had forgotten you did not know that Karl has to exert many times the force in unsettled weather that he requires when the sky is clear. Hooper, he may not live days, let alone weeks.”
I quailed before the American’s warning glance, and ceased speaking. The waiter was glad to close the door on us, I am sure. Hooper led me to a chair.
“Sit down, partner,” he said. “I have been trying to theorize. A certain Greek gentleman named Empedocles, dated 500 B.C., believed that he had solved the puzzle of life when he defined the love and hatred of the elements. I think we have reached his track. But you know the kind of elements we have to deal with, and I do not. Discourse to me of Karl, and Maggie, and--is there another woman?”
“There is,” I said.
“Bully for me!” he cried delightedly. “The eternal feminine would have the shortest life on record if there weren’t two of ’em. Now, let’s have the whole yarn. I am a good listener.”
So I told him everything, fact and fancy, until my voice gave out, and we were amazed to find I had been talking for nearly three hours. It was long past midnight when I noticed the clock.
“Let us to bed,” I wheezed. “We must consult in the morning.”
He, in his turn, looked out at the weather.
“It has ceased raining and the stars are visible,” he said.
“Thank goodness for that! Karl will experience some relief.”
“I think not. If he and the rest of us are not qualifying for an asylum by believing the truth of what you have told me, don’t you see that the strain is cumulative? He cannot, I may almost say he dare not, sleep. He is deliberately sacrificing himself to save those women. He thinks, and we agree with him, that his death will snap the tension. They will grieve over his loss, no doubt, but their tears will be a measure of salvation. I tell you, my friend, we are up against a hard proposition. Were it not utterly selfish, I could almost wish you had left me in Paris.”
“I was tempted to share the responsibility with some one whom I could trust.”
“Yes, I see that. And don’t think I would shirk my duty to a comrade like Karl. Yet, I fear for him. Something must be done, and done quickly, if we would rescue him. Oh, if only I knew more of science and less of law! What is the meaning of this resistance we hear so much of? Is it the same thing in Steindal and Nora Cazenove? It seems to stir up ignoble passion in both, though the manner of it is so different to our perception. And that is strange, unless the question of sex enters largely into it.”
“Affinity and repulsion are the two fundamental principles of all creation. I have heard you say, years ago, that Karl threw us back to first causes.”
“We are dealing now with men and women of to-day,” he cried, pacing up and down the room.
I had never before seen him so genuinely disturbed. His artificial coolness had melted, as ice might fall off a volcano in eruption after long quiescence. I had great respect for the clearness of his mental vision; there was also a certain consolation in witnessing this sudden upheaval. That a skilled lawyer, a man of great acumen in affairs, and, for one of his years, an astonishingly cool-headed judge of human nature, should be so perturbed by the issues submitted to him, offered some proof that I had not magnified their gravity.
“Do you think we can regard Steindal as a negligible quantity?” he asked, halting in front of me and piercing me with his large earnest eyes.
“It would seem to be reasonable from his latest attitude,” I admitted.
“Then we are driven back on the women. What of this girl, Nora? She is the chief difficulty. It is perfectly evident that the sympathetic bond, or whatever it is, which exists between Karl and Maggie, was broken, or remained in abeyance, from the day of Constantine’s death until there sprang up some lover-like relationship between Karl and Nora. Then Maggie intervened, whether by her own volition or not is unknown, and, to an extent, inconsequent. Karl recognized the impossibility of marriage with Nora, but it was beyond him to give a reason that would be accepted by his father, nor was he so callous as to offer up Maggie as a holocaust. Therefore, he has definitely adopted a course of action which demands his own death. There is no other alternative. Either Maggie or he must die. The way out--if there is one--lies with Nora--or Maggie.”
“But what can we do? We cannot kill one of them, even for the sake of our friend.”
“No, but we can bring them together before it is too late.”
“What good purpose will that accomplish?”
“It may achieve a hundred different purposes which are impracticable when one woman is in Italy and the other woman in England. Let us get them face to face and things will happen. Sit right down and write me a letter of introduction to Nora. Just say I am a friend of all parties, and leave the remainder of the explanation to me. I will take care of her, and of Karl, too, not to mention Steindal, until you bring Maggie from the Castello Rondo.”
“Until I--bring--”
“Repetition is the vainest form of argument. Don’t speak, there’s a good fellow. Indeed, you can’t. When all this trouble is through, I would advise you to consult a specialist. Weakness of the vocal chords is an early symptom of decay. Now write, while I look up the train service.”
I compared Hooper to a volcano; I might go further and say that the lava-stream of his impetuosity quite swept me off my feet. It is a splendid thing, in a crisis, to have a masterful ally. His confidence lent me new life. He rushed off to make inquiries beneath, and I sat down to write a note to Nora. In black and white the task was not so easy as Hooper would have it.
Ultimately, I wrote as follows:
“It would not be just to you or to Karl were I to conceal my firm conviction that you both are faced with a most serious problem. Certain events which took place in this hotel to-night, combined with my own observations of Karl’s health, force me to tell you that the ensuing week may see the gravest developments, so far as he is concerned. In my opinion, I can best help him by taking a journey to Italy, without losing an unnecessary hour. I want you also to help, and I am sending you this letter by the hands of one who is a friend of Karl’s, anxious to be of service to you, and thoroughly acquainted with the present critical condition of affairs. Trust him, as I hope you will trust me, to act for the common good.”
I read through what I had written, not once, but half a dozen times. Letters to excitable young ladies are dangerous as the boomerang in the hands of a novice. If the worst came to the worst, and Karl died, who could tell what hubbub might be raised by Nora Cazenove? At any rate, it was quite inadvisable to allude more specifically to the uncanny workings of a sixth sense.
“Telegnomy and a coroner’s jury do not run in tandem,” said Hooper, taking my view of the need there was to use guarded phrases.
He also approved of the reference to Italy.
“She has jumped Maggie’s claim and she knows it. It may be my regrettable duty to make that clear right away,” he remarked.
“Do not blame the girl,” I said. “Remember that the match was made by Mr. Grier and Lord Sandilands.”
“I guess that didn’t worry Nora. But your best train leaves at nine in the morning, and you have a voice like a crow. If you don’t give it a rest you will not be able to ask for your ticket. Leave Nora to me, there’s a good chap. I’ll fix her.”
I had seen Nora ablaze with the fire of the gods, so I doubted the effect of Hooper’s coercion or persuasiveness. Yet he had brought action where there was uncertainty, substituted ordered effort for chaos, and I was grateful to him.
Hence, I slept and breakfasted, and caught the first morning express for the Continent.
