THE DARK-STREET MYSTERY.

South Canterbury Times, Issue 5018, 28 May 1889, Page 4

THE DARK-STREET MYSTERY.

LITERATURE

A DOCTOR’S STORY. CHAPTER I. I, Arthur Lissamee, Fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons, have been advised to write this story. It is thought by one or two sanguine friends of mine that it may be worth the telling. Sanguine friends have that complimentary habit of recommending ‘ soma other fellow ’ to take up his pen and write, and that lellow as a rule suffers—in the long run—very much in purse and thoughtful folks’ esteem, for bis vain confidence, and, long before the run is over, has writ himself an ass, lam not alluding in any way to the run of his book—that, under the trying circumstances of writing at a friend’s request, runs not at all, becomes not even a 1 remainder,’ but dies the death of the dullest. A sad fate, but deserved. This may be my deserved fate as well; but I have been compelled to write—not in any way compelled by friends, but by my own inclinations. When they were advising me to put this story into print, it was already hidden in the recesses of my desk, wherein is stored more solid matter appertaining to my own profession, and to those theories of mine which some folk call mad. Let them. What does it matter ? I was not a Fellow of the College of Surgeons when this story opens. I was a simple M.R.C.S., with not too much practice in town, or too much money to keep up that appearance which might bring me a good practice in good time. I was a suburban surgeou, a South London man, living down an off-street Uewington way, paying thirty-five pounds a year rent, and giving advice gratis between nine and ten a.m., which was the only time I could be considered busy. I was a single man, twenty-eight years of age, with a moiherly old soul for housekeeper, and who had been my mother’s housekeeper before I was born. My mother and father, and brother and sister, were all dead ; we were a short-lived family. It had not entered into my head that I should be much ol an exception to the rule. I was, in a way, prepared. I was not strong, or London air did not agree with me, or I studied too hard, or strived too hard after the patients (the paying patients), who seldom came, or 1 took life too seriously, and allowed myself no share in those life’s frivolities, which, after all, may mean the brightening of lile; but, at all events, I came —very nearly —to a full stop.

. I, broke down. At an awkward time, of course—people always break down at the wrong moment—when my practice was looking up, when South London confidence in me was strengthening, when a letter or two that I had written on a remarkable case in my experience had got into the “ Lancet,” and become the subject of a grave discussion. I not only broke down, I went to pieces. My old chum, Tracey a man much older than I, and far more clever—took me in hand, and told me if I valued my life I must cease work at once and go away. It was sound, valuable advice to offer to an overworked mortal, always so easy to give, and to a man in my position so terribly hard to follow. I was inclined to resist, to argue out the matter, to plead incompatibility of income with the idea of an outing anywhere ; hue 1 was forced from my groove, and driven seaward by a host of friends. One took my practice off my hands whilst I was away—it was not a gigantic burden j another found a little place for me in Breymouth, that was exactly suited to all my requirements ; a third actually became my surety for the loan of filty pounds to stave off expenses till the bills of my patients were made out and paid. I did not recover my health rapidly at Breymouth, but I gathered strength to myself by slow degrees. It was a longer and tougher job than I bad bargained for ; it took me from Christmastime to Easter before I was quite a man again, / Breymouth was supposed to be a warm place in its way, but the winter was keener than ordinary throughout the kingdom, and Breymouth’s salubrious climate was not strikingly apparent. I had.not been to Breymouth before, and I was no more struck with it than with its climate when I had fairly settled down.. It was a dull, dead place to me, despite the number of its population—in the papers —and the life and bustle for which it was famous—in the guide-books. There were so few visitors in the town in my time that I became notorious as the temporary resident. It was eight weeks or so after Christmas, when. I had improved so vastly in my health as to be able to walk my four or five miles a day over the breezy hills to the west of the town, that this story began-—that my new life began with it.

It was eleven in the morning when my landlady brought me in a card on which was engraved the' name of Mr Noah Nash. The name was unfamiliar to me, I expressed the fact to Mrs Higginson, and thought that there must be a mistake. ‘ I don’t think so, sir,’ was my landlady’s reply. ‘He said as plain as he could speak that be wished to see Mr Lissamer.’ *Do you know the name of Nash ? ’ I asked, looking again at the card. Mrs Higginson shook her head and answered ; ‘ I don’t know no Nash’s about here.’ A vision of a commission agent was before me, a dreadful being with something to sell, and who would not go away without an order, or it might be a slim young man in dark habiliments and with a soft voice and hat, getting up something for the inhabitants’ moral benefit, and requiring one or two of my scanty collections of shillings towards it.

‘ Does ho look like a gentleman, Mrs Higginson ? ’ I asked. ‘A little bit like one, sir, if it was not for his boots.’ ‘O, well—show him in. There’s one blessed consolation,’ was my half soliloquy, ‘he can get very little out of me.’ Mrs Higginson retired, and shortly afterwards reappeared, ushering in the gentleman who had inquired so anxiously lor me downstairs. He entered the room with a forced air of briskness, like a man who was doubtful of the reception he might meet with, but there was no servility in his demeanour. He was at his ease, if distrustful. Confidence in himself was as palpable as his want ol confidence in me. In outward appearance he was somewhat a remarkable man. A man slightly below the middle height, and slightly in advance of middle-age —a thin, sharp-featured, sallow, and cleanshaven individual, with two of the most piercing little black eyes that I had ever encountered. He was seedy enough, poor fellow, but he was carefully brushed and buttoned up, and his boots, which had already attracted Mrs Higginson’s attention, were certainly distinguished by their utter badness. But his how and his smile were perfection—there was art in both.

‘ It is Mr Lissamer, I believe, whom I have the honour of addressing,’ he said, by way of preliminary greeting. ‘ Yes,’ was my curt reply to his polite remark. Instinctively I indicated a vacant chair, and hat in hand he bowed again and then sat down. I noticed that his left hand—which held his felt hat—shook a little, as with suppressed nervousness, but his voice was firm, and well-modulated and suave.

(To be Continued .)