Sax Rohmer - The Golden Scorpion

Stuart ran across the room, jerked open the curtains and stared out

across the moon-bathed lawn, its prospect terminated by high privet

hedges. One of the French windows was wide open. There was no one on

the lawn; there was no sound.

"Mrs. M'Gregor swears that I always forget to shut these windows at

night!" he muttered.

He closed and bolted the window, stood for a moment looking out across

the empty lawn, then turned and went out of the room.

Dr. Stuart awoke in the morning and tried to recall what had occurred

during the night. He consulted his watch and found the hour to be six

a. m. No one was stirring in the house, and he rose and put on a

bath robe. He felt perfectly well and could detect no symptoms of

nervous disorder. Bright sunlight was streaming into the room, and

he went out on to the landing, fastening the cord of his gown as he

descended the stairs.

His study door was locked, with the key outside. He remembered having

locked it. Opening it, he entered and looked about him. He was

vaguely disappointed. Save for the untidy litter of papers upon the

table, the study was as he had left it on retiring. If he could

believe the evidence of his senses, nothing had been disturbed.

Not content with a casual inspection, he particularly examined those

papers which, in his dream adventure, he had believed to have been

submitted to mysterious inspection. They showed no signs of having

been touched. The casement curtains were drawn across the recess

formed by the French windows, and sunlight streamed in where,

silhouetted against the pallid illumination of the moon, he had seen

the man in the cowl. Drawing back the curtains, he examined the window

fastenings. They were secure. If the window had really been open in

the night, he must have left it so himself.

"Well," muttered Stuart--"of all the amazing nightmares!"

He determined, immediately he had bathed and completed his toilet, to

write an account of the dream for the Psychical Research Society, in

whose work he was interested. Half an hour later, as the movements of

an awakened household began to proclaim themselves, he sat down at

his writing-table and commenced to write.

Keppel Stuart was a dark, good-looking man of about thirty-two, an

easy-going bachelor who, whilst not over ambitious, was nevertheless

a brilliant physician. He had worked for the Liverpool School of

Tropical Medicine and had spent several years in India studying snake

poisons. His purchase of this humdrum suburban practice had been

dictated by a desire to make a home for a girl who at the eleventh

hour had declined to share it. Two years had elapsed since then, but

the shadow still lay upon Stuart's life, its influence being revealed

in a certain apathy, almost indifference, which characterised his

professional conduct.

His account of the dream completed, he put the paper into a

pigeon-hole and forgot all about the matter. That day seemed to be

more than usually dull and the hours to drag wearily on. He was

conscious of a sort of suspense. He was waiting for something, or for

someone. He did not choose to analyse this mental condition. Had he

done so, the explanation was simple--and one that he dared not face.

At about ten o'clock that night, having been called out to a case, he

returned to his house, walking straight into the study as was his

custom and casting a light Burberry with a soft hat upon the sofa

beside his stick and bag. The lamps were lighted, and the book-lined

room, indicative of a studious and not over-wealthy bachelor, looked

cheerful enough with the firelight dancing on the furniture.

Mrs. M'Gregor, a grey-haired Scotch lady, attired with scrupulous

neatness, was tending the fire at the moment, and hearing Stuart come

in she turned and glanced at him.

"A fire is rather superfluous to-night, Mrs. M'Gregor," he said. "I

found it unpleasantly warm walking."

"May is a fearsome treacherous month, Mr. Keppel," replied the old

housekeeper, who from long association with the struggling

practitioner had come to regard him as a son. "An' a wheen o' dry

logs is worth a barrel o' pheesic. To which I would add that if ye're

hintin' it's time ye shed ye're woolsies for ye're summer wear, all I

have to reply is that I hope sincerely ye're patients are more

prudent than yoursel'."

She placed his slippers in the fender and took up the hat, stick and

coat from the sofa. Stuart laughed.

"Most of the neighbors exhibit their wisdom by refraining from

becoming patients of mine, Mrs. M'Gregor."

"That's no weesdom; it's just preejudice."

"Prejudice!" cried Stuart, dropping down upon the sofa.

"Aye," replied Mrs. M'Gregor firmly--"preejudice! They're no' that

daft but they're well aware o' who's the cleverest physeecian in the

deestrict, an' they come to nane other than Dr. Keppel Stuart when

they're sair sick and think they're dying; but ye'll never establish

the practice you desairve, Mr. Keppel--never--until--"

"Until when, Mrs. M'Gregor?"

"Until ye take heed of an auld wife's advice and find a new

housekeeper."

"Mrs. M'Gregor!" exclaimed Stuart with concern. "You don't mean that

you want to desert me? After--let me see--how many years is it,

Mrs. M'Gregor?"

"Thirty years come last Shrove Tuesday; I dandled ye on my knee, and

eh! but ye were bonny! God forbid, but I'd like to see ye thriving as

ye desairve, and that ye'll never do whilst ye're a bachelor."

"Oh!" cried Stuart, laughing again--"oh, that's it, is it? So you

would like me to find some poor inoffensive girl to share my struggles?"

Mrs. M'Gregor nodded wisely. "She'd have nane so many to share. I

know ye think I'm old-fashioned, Mr. Keppel and it may be I am; but

I do assure you I would be sair harassed, if stricken to my bed--which,

please God, I won't be--to receive the veesits of a pairsonable young

bachelor--"

"Er--Mrs. M'Gregor!" interrupted Stuart, coughing in mock

rebuke--"quite so! I fancy we have discussed this point before, and

as you say your ideas are a wee bit, just a wee bit, behind the times.

On this particular point I mean. But I am very grateful to you, very

sincerely grateful, for your disinterested kindness; and if ever I

should follow your advice----"

Mrs. M'Gregor interrupted him, pointing to his boots. "Ye're no' that

daft as to sit in wet boots?"

"Really they are perfectly dry. Except for a light shower this

evening, there has been no rain for several days. However, I may as

well, since I shall not be going out again."

He began to unlace his boots as Mrs. M'Gregor pulled the white

casement curtains across the windows and then prepared to retire. Her

hand upon the door knob, she turned again to Stuart.

"The foreign lady called half an hour since, Mr. Keppel."

Stuart desisted from unlacing his boots and looked up with lively

interest. "Mlle. Dorian! Did she leave any message?"

"She obsairved that she might repeat her veesit later," replied

Mrs. M'Gregor, and, after a moment's hesitation; "she awaited ye're

return with exemplary patience."

"Really, I am sorry I was detained," declared Stuart, replacing his

boot. "How long has she been gone, then?"

"Just the now. No more than two or three minutes. I trust she is no

worse."

"Worse!"

"The lass seemed o'er anxious to see you."