ET us exhaust the ordinary physical possibilities first," said Sir Provost Hope.
Douglas Carey had allowed his glance to wander around the room. The trend of Sir Provosts studies was unmistakable. Here was an autographed etching of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, here a copy of Houdon's bust of Cagliostro, whilst above the mantelpiece hung an extraordinary French oil painting depicting the Witches' Sabbath.
But the sun was streaming in from Half-Moon Street, and outside there were cars, taxis, and pedestrians passing. He was recalled to realities by the pleasant voice of the famous consultant.
"I should like to have found, Carey," Sir Provost continued, "that the explanation was such a simple one. But"—he smiled slightly—"I have tasted the contents of this small bottle"—he pointed to a phial on his writing table—"and I find it to be excellent Scotch whisky. Neither is there evidence of the presence of any drug in your tobacco. Therefore"—he fixed his keen glance on Carey—"we must look for some explanation outside the more simple physical agencies to account for your two mysterious lapses from consciousness. Now" he paused: "your servant?"
"Ecko? I don't follow," said Carey. "He has been with me for five years and I trust him implicitly. Apart from which, since neither my whisky nor my tobacco was
"Nor even the contents of the siphon which you were using," Sir Provost murmured. "I am quite satisfied that it contained ordinary aërated water."
"This being so," Carey continued, "why suspect Ecko?"
"Well"—the curiously penetrating regard of the specialist's blue eyes rested upon Carey—"has it occurred to you that this man may be a hypnotist?"
"What!" Carey cried. "Ecko?"
"Why not?" Sir Provost continued quietly. "The Japanese are a highly enlightened people, and your discovery of him upon the stair was rather significant. Are you satisfied that his explanation was true?"
"Of course, it is difficult to prove," Carey admitted; "but if there are unsuspected depths in Ecko, which I find it hard to believe, it is strange that he should have served me faithfully for five years, all over the world, and now have turned traitor."
"Yes," the other agreed, "strange, but not impossible. You see, Carey, yours is not a usual case. The causes of the trouble are not within, but without. It would appear that on two separate occasions you have written for two hours or more, with perfect clarity, judging from the reconstructed fragment, and have then entirely forgotten having performed the task. This resembles the interference of a hypnotist. Your recollection, on awaking, of a grey face contemplating you, is also significant."
"But the fact that what I had written was stolen while I slept," Carey interrupted, "brings the thing down again to the realm of the physical."
"Exactly," Sir Provost admitted, "and therefore should lead us to substantial data in our search for the origin of the mystery. Excluding Ecko for the moment, who else has access to your chambers? You have no other resident servant?"
"No."
"Can you think of any one who might have obtained possession of a key?"
"Two keys would be necessary," Carey replied, "one for the street door, which is closed at dusk, and the other for the door of my rooms."
"Of course"—Sir Provost smiled again—"this sort of thing belongs more properly to your province than to mine. No doubt you have satisfied yourself about the people who occupy the office on the ground floor, and the facts of the case are so much better known to you than to me that you have a far better chance than I of discovering who actually stole the draft report. My personal concern is to find an explanation of your strange lapses from consciousness. These, I am convinced, were due to some outside control, and your presence here to-day is sufficient evidence that you agree with me."
"I do," Carey admitted. "If I was not mad and not drugged, then the thing that happened to me last night and the night before is something outside my experience—something I cannot grapple with; but something which may come within your sphere."