The Tracer of Lost Persons Part 42

"How-de-do?" squeaked the aged specialist amiably.

"Oh, I am well enough, thank you, doctor--except in spirits. Dr. Atwood, you were right! He _has_ got it, and I am perfectly wretched!"

"_Who_ has got _what_?" retorted the voice of Atwood.

"The unfortunate young gentleman we saw to-day in the Park."

"What park?"

"Why, Central Park, doctor."

"Central Park! _I_ haven't been in Central Park for ten years, my child."

"Why, Dr. Atwood!--A--_is_ this Dr. Austin Atwood with whom I am talking?"

"Not the least doubt! And you are that pretty Dr. Hollis--Rosalind Hollis, who consulted me in those charity cases, are you not?"

"I certainly am. And I wanted to say to you that I have the unfortunate patient now under closest observation here in my own apartment. I have given him the room next to the office. And, doctor, you were perfectly right. He shows every symptom of the disease--he is even inclined to sentimentalism; he begins to blush and fidget and look at me--a--in that unmistakable manner--not that he isn't well-bred and charming--indeed he is most attractive, and it grieves me dreadfully to see that he already is beginning to believe himself in love with the first person of the opposite s.e.x he encounters--I mean that he--that I cannot mistake his att.i.tude toward me--which is perfectly correct, only one cannot avoid seeing the curious infatuation--"

"_What_ the d.i.c.kens is all this?" roared the great specialist, and Dr.

Hollis jumped.

"I was only confirming your diagnosis, doctor," she explained meekly.

"What diagnosis?"

"Yours, doctor. I have confirmed it, I fear. And the certainty has made me perfectly miserable, because his is such a valuable life to the world, and he himself is such a splendid, wholesome, n.o.ble specimen of youth and courage, that I cannot bear to believe him incurably afflicted."

"Good Heavens!" shouted the doctor, "_what_ has he got and _who_ is he?"

"He is Victor Carden, the celebrated artist, and he has Lamour's Disease!" she gasped.

There was a dead silence; then: "Keep him there until I come! Chloroform him if he attempts to escape!"

And the great specialist rang off excitedly.

So Rosalind Hollis went back to the lamp-lit office where, in a luxurious armchair, Carden was sitting, contentedly poring over the ninth volume of Lamour's great treatise and smoking his second cigar.

"Dr. Atwood is coming here," she said in a discouraged voice, as he rose with alacrity to place her chair.

"Oh! What for?"

"T-to see you, Mr. Carden."

"Who? Me? Great Scott! I don't want to be slapped and pinched and polled by a man! I didn't expect that, you know. I'm willing enough to have you observe me in the interest of humanity--"

"But, Mr. Carden, he is only called in for consultation. I--I have a dreadful sort of desperate hope that perhaps I may have made a mistake; that possibly I am in error."

"No doubt you are," he said cheerfully. "Let me read a few more pages, Dr. Hollis, and then I think I shall be all ready to dispute my symptoms, one by one, and convince you what really is the trouble with me. And, by the way, did Dr. Atwood seem a trifle astonished when you told him about me?"

"A trifle--yes," she said uncertainly. "He is a very, very old man; he forgets. But he is coming."

"Oh! And didn't he appear to recollect seeing me in the Park?"

"N-not clearly. He is very old, you know. But he is coming here."

"_Ex_actly--as a friend of mine puts it," smiled Carden. "May I be permitted to use your telephone a moment?"

"By all means, Mr. Carden. You will find it there in my bedroom."

So he entered her pretty bedroom and, closing the door tightly, called up the Tracer of Lost Persons.

"Is that you, Mr. Keen? This is Mr. Carden. I'm head over heels in love.

I simply must win her, and I'm going to try. If I don't--if she will not listen to me--I'll certainly go to smash. And what I want you to do is to prevent Atwood from b.u.t.ting in. Do you understand? . . . Yes, Dr.

Austin Atwood. Keep him away somehow. . . . Yes, I'm here, at Dr.

Hollis's apartments, under anxious observation. . . . She is the _only_ woman in the world! I'm mad about her--and getting madder every moment!

She is the most perfectly splendid specimen of womanhood--_what_? Oh, yes; I rang you up to ask you whether it was _you_ in the Park to-day?--that old gentleman--_What!_ Yes, in Central Park. Yes, this afternoon! No, he didn't resemble you; and Dr. Hollis took him for Dr.

Atwood. . . . What are you laughing about? . . . I can _hear_ you laughing. . . . _Was_ it you? . . . What do I think? Why, I don't know exactly what to think, but I suppose it must have been you. Was it?

. . . Oh, I see. You don't wish me to know. Certainly, you are quite right. Your clients have no business behind the scenes. I only asked out of curiosity. . . . All right. Good-by."

He came back to the lamp-lit office, which was more of a big, handsome, comfortable living room than a physician's quarters, and for a moment or two he stood on the threshold, looking around.

In the pleasant, subdued light of the lamp Rosalind Hollis looked up and around, smiling involuntarily to see him standing there; then, serious, silent, she dropped her eyes to the pages of the volume he had discarded--volume nine of Lamour's great works.

Even with the evidence before her, corroborated in these inexorably scientific pages which she sat so sadly turning, she found it almost impossible to believe that this big, broad-shouldered, attractive young man could be fatally stricken.

Twice her violet eyes stole toward him; twice the thick lashes veiled them, and the printed pages on her knee sprang into view, and the cold precision of the type confirmed her fears remorselessly:

"The trained scrutiny of the observer will detect in the victim of this disease a peculiar and indefinable charm--a strange symmetry which, on closer examination, reveals traces of physical beauty almost superhuman--"

Again her eyes were lifted to Carden; again she dropped her white lids.

Her worst fears were confirmed.

Meanwhile he stood on the threshold looking at her, his pulses racing, his very soul staring through his eyes; and, within him, every sense clamoring out revolt at the deception, demanding confession and its penalty.

"I can't stand this!" he blurted out; and she looked up quickly, her face blanched with foreboding.

"Are you in pain?" she asked.

"No--not that sort of pain! I--_won't_ you please believe that I am not ill? I'm imposing on you. I'm an impostor! There's nothing whatever the trouble with me except--something that I want to tell you--if you'll let me--"

"Why should you hesitate to confide in a physician, Mr. Carden?"

He came forward slowly. She laid her small hand on the empty chair which faced hers and he sank into it, clasping his restless hands under his chin.

"You are feeling depressed," she said gently. Depression was a significant symptom. Three chapters were devoted to it.

"I'm depressed, of course. I'm horribly depressed and ashamed of myself, because there is nothing on earth the matter with me, and I've let you think there is."