The Man Who Lost Himself Part 33

"Quite," said Hoover, with a benign smile.

He was used to things like this, profoundly confidential communications concerning claims to crowns and princ.i.p.alities, or grumbles about food.

He did not expect what followed.

"I am not going to grumble at your having me here," said Jones; "it's my fault for playing practical jokes. I didn't think they'd go the length of doping me and locking me up under the name I gave them."

"And what name was that?" asked Hoover kindly.

"Jones."

"Oh, and now tell me, if you are not Mr. Jones, who are you?"

"Who am I? Well, I can excuse the question. I'm the Earl of Rochester."

This was a nasty one for Hoover, but that gentleman's face shewed nothing.

"Indeed," said he, "then why did you call yourself Jones?"

"For a joke. I slung them a yarn and they took it in. Then they gave me a draught to compose my nerves, they thought really that I was dotty, and I drank it--you must have seen the condition I was in when I got here."

"Hum, hum," said Hoover. He was used to the extremely cunning ways of gentlemen off their balance, and he had a profound belief in Simms and Cavendish, whose names endorsed the certificate of lunacy he had received with the newcomer. He was also a man just as cunning as Jones.

"Well," he said, with an air of absolute frankness, "this takes me by surprise; a practical joke, but why did you play such a practical joke?"

"I know," said Jones, "it was stupid, just a piece of tom-foolery--but you see how I am landed."

Dr. Hoover ignored this evasion whilst noting it.

Then he began to ask all sorts of little questions seemingly irrelevant enough. Did Jones think that he was morally justified in carrying out such a practical joke? Why did he not say at once it was a practical joke after the affair had reached a certain point? Was his memory as good as of old? Was he sure in his own mind that he was the Earl of Rochester? Was he sure that as the Earl of Rochester he could hold that t.i.tle against a claim that he was not the Earl? Give details and so forth?

"Now suppose," said Dr. Hoover, "I were to contest the t.i.tle with you and say 'you are Mr. Jones and I am the Earl of Rochester,' how would you establish your claim. I am simply asking, to find out whether what you consider to be a practical joke was in fact a slight lapse of memory on your part, a slight mind disturbance such as is easily caused by fatigue or even work, and which often leaves effects lasting some weeks or months.

"Now I must point out to you that, as--practical joke or not--you came here calling yourself Mr. Jones, I would be justified in asking you for proof that you are _not_ Mr. Jones. See my point?"

"Quite."

"Well, then, prove your case," said the physician jovially.

"How can I?"

"Well, if you are the Earl of Rochester, let me test your memory. Who is your banker?"

"Coutts."

Hoover did not know who the Earl of Rochester's banker might be, but the promptness of the reply satisfied him of its truth, the promptness was also an index of sanity. He pa.s.sed at a venture to a subject on which he was acquainted.

"And how many brothers and sisters have you?"

That was fatal.

Jones' eye fell under the pressure of Hoover's.

"There is no use in going on with these absurd questions," said he, "a thing everyone knows."

"But I just want to prove to you," said Hoover, gently, "that your mind, which in a week from now, will have quite recovered, is still a little bit shaky--now how long is it since you succeeded to the t.i.tle? It's just a test memory question."

Jones did not know. He saw that he was lost. He had also gained an appreciation of Hoover. Beside the fat Simms and the cadaverous Cavendish, Hoover seemed a man of keen common sense.

Jones recognized that the new position into which he had strayed was a blind alley. If he were detained until his memory could answer questions of which his mind knew nothing, he would be detained forever. He came to the grand determination to try back.

"Look here," said he, "let's be straight with one another. I can't answer your questions. Now if you are a man of sense, as I take you to be, and not a man like those others, who think everyone but themselves is mad, you will recognize _why_ I can't answer your questions. I'm not Rochester. I thought I'd get out of here by pretending that I'd played a practical joke on those guys; it was a false move, I acknowledge it, but when I fixed on the idea, I didn't know the man I had to deal with. If you will listen to my story, I will tell you in a few words how all this business came about."

"Go on," said Hoover.

Jones told, and Hoover listened and when the tale was over, at the end of a quarter of an hour or so, Jones scarcely believed it himself. It sounded crazy. Much more crazy than when he had told it to the Duke of Melford and the reason of this difference was Hoover. There was something in Hoover's eye, something in his make up and personality, something veiled and critical, that destroyed confidence.

"I have asked them to make enquiries," finished Jones, "if they will only do that everything will be cleared up."

"And you may rest content we will," said Hoover.

"Now for another thing," said Jones. "Till I leave this place, which will be soon, I hope, may I ask you to tell that confounded attendant not to be always watching me. I don't know whether you think me mad or sane, think me mad if you like, but take it from me, I'm not going to do anything foolish, but if anything would drive me crazy, it would be feeling that I am always watched like a child."

Hoover paused a moment. He had a large experience of mental cases. Then he said:

"You will be perfectly free here. You can come downstairs and do as you like. We have some very nice men staying here and you are free to amuse yourself. I'll just ask you this, not to go outside the grounds till your health is perfectly established. This is not a prison, it's a sanatorium. Colonel Hawker is here for gout and Major Barstowe for neuritis, got it in India. You will like them. There are several others who make up my household--you can come on down with me now--are you a billiard player?"

"Yes, I can play--but, see here, before we go down, where is this place?--I don't even know what part of the country it's in."

"Sandbourne-on-sea," replied Hoover, leading the way from the room.

Now in London on the night before, something had happened. Dr. Simms, at a dinner-party, given by Doctor Took of Bethlem Hospital had, relative to the imagination of lunatics, given an instance:

"Only to-day," said Simms, "I had a case in point. A man gave me as his supposed address, one thousand one hundred and ninety one, Walnut Street, Philadelphia."

"But there is a Walnut Street, Philadelphia," said Took, "and it's ten miles long, and the numbers run up well towards that."

Half an hour later, Simms got into his carriage.

"Savoy Hotel, Strand," said he to the coachman.

CHAPTER XXII

AN INTERLUDE