He had assumed the part of Doctor Johan Arberg to perform another deed of evil.
CHAPTER VI
THE CONSULTATION
MARTIN HAMPRELL was playing the part of Johan Arberg to perfection when Barton Keyes conducted him into a large room, on the ground floor of Cyril Wycliff’s home. The room was evidently a library. It was furnished with chairs and tables of many shapes and sizes. Long rows of books rested upon high shelves.
There were three men seated in the room when the physicians entered. They rose with one accord as Doctor Barton Keyes introduced the man whom he believed was Doctor Arberg.
“This is Mr. Howard Wycliff,” said Keyes, indicating a tall, light-haired man of twenty-five. “He is the son of Cyril Wycliff, our patient.”
“I am glad to meet you, yess,” declared Arberg, as he clasped hands with Cyril Wycliff.
“Mr. Garrett Slader,” continued Keyes, introducing a tall, pinch-faced man whose hands shook from palsy. “Mr. Slader is Mr. Wycliff’s attorney.”
The last to be introduced was a square-shouldered, dark-haired man of thirty-five, whose keen face was set with a pair of steady, dark-brown eyes. This man studied Hamprell carefully as he shook hands with the physician.
“Mr. Paul Marchelle,” introduced Doctor Keyes. “He is an associate of Mr. Slader.”
“Lawyers, yess?” inquired Martin Hamprell, in his thick, well-feigned tone. “Iss it that our patient hass been feeling not so well?”
“No,” said Doctor Keyes soberly. “Cyril Wycliff appears to be responding well to your prescribed treatment, Doctor Arberg. He refuses, however, to consider the seriousness of his condition. I have told him that thrombosis is dangerous; that there is always the possibility of a loosened blood clot producing fatal results.”
“Every evening, Mr. Slader and Mr. Marchelle pay a visit to learn if Cyril Wycliff has any important business to transact with them. He persists that there is no cause for alarm. Therefore, he refuses to discuss matters pertaining to his estate.”
“It iss a good sign,” decided Hamprell, wagging his false beard in Johan Arberg’s fashion. “If he iss ready to be better, it will help the treatment, yess. Iss it that we can see the patient now?”
“This way,” said Keyes, turning toward the door.
Hamprell followed the physician through the hallway toward a long pair of stairs. Vorber, the tall, shrewd-faced servant, was standing with watchful eyes. Hamprell realized that this man, of all present, was the one most likely to see through a disguise.
Yet Hamprell was confident. He had done a fine job in his quick make-up. The only person who might have previously met Doctor Johan Arberg was Doctor Barton Keyes, and the physician seemed least observant of all.
THE stairs were gloomy. The second floor proved to be a large hallway with rooms at wide intervals. Vorber, passing the two leading men, moved with long stride to the door of Cyril Wycliff’s bedroom and opened it. He stood aside while the physician entered with the others behind them.
Cyril Wycliff was an elderly, fat-faced man who appeared the picture of robust health. His visage, however, had a sourness that faded slightly when Doctor Keyes introduced his companion.
“Glad to meet you, Doctor Arberg,” stated the elder Wycliff, extending his hand. “It’s time we met — considering the time I’ve been under your care. When am I going to be up and about?”
“That iss for Doctor Keyes to decide,” declared Hamprell. “We must haff time, yess, to make sure that you are all well, my friend.”
Doctor Keyes approached with a chart. He showed it to Martin Hamprell. The false Doctor Arberg nodded wisely. He studied the report of the treatment.
“It iss good, yess,” he decided. “Very good, yess. It iss time that the injections should soon be made different. A little more of the power, Doctor Keyes.”
“Ah!” responded the attending physician. “You think we have advanced sufficiently?”
“Yess. You haff the fluids there. It iss for me to see, yess.”
Hamprell went to a medicine table in the corner of the room. He looked at various bottles and picked up a measuring tube. He studied the small formula record which lay in view. Doctor Keyes watched him with keen interest. The others were beyond the bed, talking with Cyril Wycliff.
“What iss the pulse?” questioned Hamprell, turning suddenly to Doctor Keyes. “The temperature?”
“I shall take the reading immediately,” returned Keyes.
The attending physician went to Cyril Wycliff’s bedside, leaving Hamprell alone in front of the medicine table. Carefully, Hamprell measured off solutions in a graduated glass. He picked up one bottle and held it in his hand, while he turned his head to note the men by the bedside.
No one was glancing in Hamprell’s direction. Turning his attention to the glass and bottle in his hand, Hamprell poured forth a supply of oily fluid. He replaced the bottle on the table, and immediately concluded his solution formation by using a small quantity of liquid from another bottle.
Hamprell was holding the glass to the light as Keyes came over to report Wycliff’s pulse and temperature. Both were normal, the physician stated.
Hamprell nodded wisely.
“That iss good,” he declared. “I haff giffen but a little more change to the injection. You see?” He pointed to the glass; then to the last bottle which he had used.
“I understand,” said Keyes, nodding. “The new formula was to go into effect next week. In the meantime, you have arranged a special formula midway between the old and the new.”
“Yess,” asserted Hamprell. “It iss sufficient for this to be used until there iss no more.”
Doctor Keyes took the measuring glass. He nodded as he studied the quantity of the solution.
“Plenty for twelve injections,” he remarked. “Two each day for the next six days. I shall begin with the first injection tomorrow. That will be at noon.”
“It iss better to begin tonight,” returned Hamprell. “With the temperature and the pulse so good, it can begin with the next.”
“At midnight,” muttered Doctor Keyes, making a notation on the chart.
WHILE the attending physician continued to arrange his new records, Martin Hamprell walked over toward the bedside. Confident in the effectiveness of his disguise, he chatted with Cyril Wycliff until Doctor Barton Keyes came back from the corner of the room.
“It iss time that I must go,” declared Hamprell, glancing at his watch. “It iss nearly ten o’clock. That iss a late time.”
Accompanied by Keyes, Hamprell left the sick room and descended the stairs. He stood in the living room while Vorber brought his hat and coat. Hamprell eyed the taciturn servant for a moment, then turned to the others.
“The patient iss doing well,” he declared. “I must giff my commendation to my friend, Doctor Keyes.”
“We owe you a great deal of thanks, Doctor Arberg,” said Howard Wycliff.
“With this improvement, Mr. Slader” — Howard turned toward the old, gawky lawyer — “the necessity of having my father arrange his complete affairs is not so pressing.”
“It would still be advisable,” insisted Slader, “but with his recovery approaching, we must use tact.”
“There iss always danger,” reminded Hamprell, with his final display of Arberg’s dialect. “The thrombosis iss a very bad condition. With the patient quiet, like tonight; with the pulse and temperature at the normal, it iss best that he should not be disturbed.”
The fake specialist shook hands about the group. With shoulders bowed, he went to the door with Doctor Keyes. The two stood there talking until the honk of a horn sounded outside. Howard Wycliff had summoned a cab.