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.