V

It was late afternoon of the last Sunday in September. Nancy Ashford’s snug retreat, immediately adjacent to the general administrative offices in Brightwood Hospital, had proved too small to house the radiant spirits of herself and her guest. She had gratefully accepted Bobby’s suggestion that they take a drive. Sitting close to him in the big, gaudy, rakish roadster, her elbow touching his, it pleased Nancy to indulge the fancy that passersby might think him her son. Her life had been filled and emptied twice. It was brimming again.

Nothing could have been more clear to the white-haired hospital superintendent, as she greeted her expected visitor, at the door of her little office, that afternoon, than that he was hopeful of stating his errand in a manner to insure against its reception with surprise or emotion. He had a very businesslike air, and she determined to match it.

He had blurted out his story immediately upon arrival. Tossing his hat upon her desk, and seating himself by her on the little divan, he had said brusquely, “Well, I’m resolved to do it. It will be no surprise to you; for it was really your idea in the first place, even if you didn’t specify the details. It’s all arranged now. I am entering the Medical School at the University, a week from Thursday⁠ ⁠… Are you glad?”

Nancy had reached out a hand for his, winked back the sudden tears and bit her lip in an effort at control. Her eyes shone. But she did not speak.

“Of course,” continued Bobby hurriedly, as if reciting lines, “I have no illusions in this matter. It means a long, hard grind of drudgery, and I am not naturally industrious. It will be five years, at least, before I can even guess whether I am likely to succeed, or have only been making myself ridiculous. I take chances of becoming an obscure second-rater. In that case, I shall have become merely absurd at the cost of a very great deal of time and trouble. People would grin. They would say⁠—I can hear them⁠—‘Yeah; he’s the fellow that thought he’d be another Doctor Hudson.’ But maybe the threat of that will put a little more fight into me. It’s foolish, I suppose, to hope that I might sometime be even a halfway substitute for him; but⁠—I can move in that direction, anyway.”

“I felt confident you would come to some such decision as this, Bobby,” commented Nancy quietly, “and I feel even more sure⁠—now you have decided⁠—that you will succeed.”

“Your hope will help⁠—a lot!”

“Now you will be wanting to learn all you can find out about Doctor Hudson, won’t you?”

At this juncture, the tiny office had seemed stifling. They would ride. Bobby would drive and listen; Nancy would do the talking. For fully twenty miles they had been weaving swiftly in and out of the Sunday traffic on crowded boulevards; and, now, with speed reduced, were traversing a more quiet suburban street. Nancy had been recalling some of the more singular facts in the life of her hero, especially relating to his wide diversity of philanthropic interests and his odd whim of keeping them a secret.

“Did his family know?”

“I doubt it. Joyce was a mere baby when he began doing these queer things for people, and it is unlikely that he ever told her. And Mrs. Hudson, during a call she made at the hospital only last Thursday, asked some questions indicating he had not confided that feature of his life to her. Many of his wards and beneficiaries have been coming to see her with expressions of sympathy, and some with proffers of assistance if she needed it. She was naturally curious.”

“Yes; I know just a little about that. Learned it only today. Tom Masterson dropped in, as I was preparing to leave Windymere, at noon. He had driven Joyce up to the Hudson cottage, where Mrs. Hudson is spending a few days. He came over to inquire if I would join them there for the afternoon. I told him of my engagement in town.”

“Perhaps you should have gone. You could have telephoned to me. Have you seen Joyce at all?”

“Not since I’m back from France.”

“And I presume you never met Mrs. Hudson.”

Bobby wished that question had not been raised. Perhaps it would be near enough the truth to reply in the negative. On second thought, absolute sincerity with Nancy Ashford was but her rightful due. He decided to be honest.

“Yes,” he answered reluctantly, “I spent a whole hour with her last night, on a country road”⁠—adding after a considerable pause, “But she doesn’t know it.”

“Meaning what?” demanded Nancy, in amazement.

Briefly he narrated the whole circumstance of their meeting. Nancy Ashford’s blue eyes widened. Underneath the boyish recital ran a strong current of unmistakable personal interest which Bobby’s attempted tone of casualness failed to conceal.

“I think you liked her, Bobby. Didn’t you?”

He essayed a smile of indifference. He might even have been able to delude himself into the belief that Nancy accepted the smile as a sufficient answer to her query, had he not been so audacious with his little deceit as to look her full in the face. What he saw there of incredulity and disappointment instantly sobered him. There was no use trying to keep anything from this woman.

“My dear,” he confessed, with an unsteady voice, “I like her so much I’d rather we didn’t talk about it.”

His big car had idled to a full stop alongside the kerb flanking a little park. They were both silent for a while. At length, Nancy said mechanically, “Well, of all things!”

“Yes,” agreed Bobby abstractedly, “something like that.” There was another protracted pause.

“And she did not know who you were?”

“I couldn’t tell her.”

“How long do you think you can maintain your⁠—incognito?”

“Oh, that should be simple enough,” Bobby declared, in a tone of self-deprecation. “I took pains to invent an alibi for the evening, when I talked to Masterson, in case some inquiries might be made. But Mrs. Hudson has probably forgotten all about the little episode by this time.”

Nancy laughed.

“Bobby Merrick, do you really believe that a young woman of Helen Hudson’s temperament could produce the impression she made on you without being fully aware of it? You confessed how acutely conscious you were of her⁠—that was your phrase, wasn’t it?⁠—as you sat together in her car. Do you think you would have had that sensation had she not shared it?”

“Of course; why not? See here⁠—you’re taking altogether too much for granted in this case. Mrs. Hudson was no more than courteous, friendly, appreciative of a little favour. She had no reason to think me interested in her. In fact, I was almost rude to her when we parted.” He did not feel it necessary to add that her car had crept along, in low gear, for fully two hundred yards, apparently reluctant to leave.

“Yes,” said Nancy significantly, “she would notice that!”

“And she would know⁠—by my abruptness⁠—wouldn’t she?⁠ ⁠…”

“Know what?” persisted Nancy ruthlessly.

“Why⁠—that I was not interested.”

“Dear boy, how very little you know about her!”

“Meaning that she has unusual gifts for interpreting other people’s private thoughts?”

“No⁠—Foolish! Meaning only that she is a woman!”

They strolled under the elms, stopping to watch some small boys sailing toy boats on the little lagoon, dappled with lily-pads. A bench was found unoccupied. By common consent, their discussion was resumed of Doctor Hudson’s queer penchant for concerning himself with the private perplexities of nobody knew how many people, and the thick wall of secrecy with which these strange negotiations were surrounded.

“You may as well put it down as a fact,” Nancy was saying, with strong conviction, “that the curious manner of Wayne Hudson’s costly investments in these cases, from which he never expected or accepted any reimbursement, was occasioned by no mere whim. He was not given to whims. He was not an eccentric. I never knew him to do anything without an adequate motive. Nobody could have said that he was reckless with his money or incompetent in business. He could drive a shrewd bargain. He knew when to buy and when to sell. Plenty of business men, with more commercial experience, asked his advice on probable trends in the real estate market and took his judgment about industrial stocks. I am convinced he did these strange things for certain people, in this furtive way, with a definite motive. In some fashion, which I don’t pretend to understand, his professional success was involved in it. When you find out what that motive was, you’ll know why Wayne Hudson was a great surgeon!”

“Do you know any more about it than you have told me?” regarding her searchingly.

“There is a little book⁠—a sort of journal⁠—I think you have a right to know about it. He kept it in the office safe, along with valuable records; some relating to professional matters, some to private business affairs. The book was there when I took over the management of Brightwood. Once⁠—we were looking for some insurance papers⁠—I asked Doctor Hudson whether the little book concerned hospital business⁠ ⁠…”

“Couldn’t you tell?” interrupted Bobby.

“It was not written in English, nor in any other language I ever saw.”

“What did it look like⁠—Spanish, German, Greek?”

She shook her head, and resumed her story.

“I asked him what the little book was. I vividly remember how earnestly thoughtful he grew, and how he stood, for many minutes, rubbing his temple with the tips of his fingers⁠—a trick of his when trying to arrive at an important decision⁠—saying, after a long wait, ‘It’s just a personal record.’ And then he added, smiling, ‘You are at liberty to read it, if you can.’ ”

“Did you ever try?”

“Did I?” she echoed. “Hours and hours⁠—lately.”

“Get anything out of it?”

“Headache!”

“I wish I could see it!”

“I’ll show it to you! Nobody has a better right to it. I told Mrs. Hudson there were many valuable documents of the doctor’s in the hospital safe, and she insisted that we keep them until she was up to looking them over with me; so the book is still there.”

“Let’s go back,” he said impetuously.

Darkness had fallen before they arrived at Brightwood. Nancy brought the book from the safe, and laid it on the desk before him. He sat down, and took it in his hands⁠—a plain, black, leather-bound journal, eight inches by five, and more than an inch thick. On the flyleaf was written, in Doctor Hudson’s quite distinctive hand, the single sentence.

To whom this may concern

“Nobody could be any more concerned than I am!” He glanced up at Nancy for approval. She nodded.

“Now turn over to the next page, and see what you make of that!”

Bobby stared long and hard.

“It’s in code!”

“You will find it difficult,” said Nancy. “The way I have it figured is this: Doctor Hudson purposed not to have the matters which he kept secret divulged during his lifetime. The fact that so many of these odd wards of his are bobbing up now, ready to tell their stories of his strange dealings with them, convinces me that they were all virtually sworn to secrecy while he lived. Now that he is gone, they tell. I think the mystery is all contained in this book. Whoever reads it, knows the real story. Perhaps the doctor was willing it should be known after he was done with it, but made it inaccessible to anyone who might chance upon it while he lived.”

“He’s made it inaccessible enough⁠—I’ll say!” Bobby growled. “Did you ever see the like?”

“This first page,” explained Nancy, “is unquestionably a sort of preface. You notice that all the other pages are completely filled. This one has only ten lines. It must be a foreword; an explanation; dedication, perhaps⁠ ⁠… You take it along with you⁠ ⁠… Know any Greek?”

Bobby shook his head.

“Oh, I know the alphabet,” he qualified, smiling.

“That’s enough⁠ ⁠… What’s the last letter?”

“Omega,” recited Bobby glibly.

“And omega is a sort of stop-signal, isn’t it? A sign for the end of something?”

He nodded.

“How many letters are there in the Greek alphabet?”

Bobby closed his eyes and counted on his fingers.

“Twenty-four.”

“Omega being the twenty-fourth⁠—and signifying the end!”

“Right!”

“Now, what is the twelfth letter?”

“Mu,” answered Bobby, after another calculation.

“Well, if omega means ‘finished,’ what do you suppose mu means?”

“ ‘Half finished’⁠—I suppose.”

Bobby soberly returned to the preface of the little book and found, at almost regular intervals, the letters μ (mu) and ω (omega).

“Is that a clue?”

“I think so,” said Nancy, “but it did me no good. I just offer it to you for what it seems to be worth.”

Not at any given moment of his long drive home did Bobby Merrick realize exactly where he was, as he swiftly covered the familiar road to Windymere. At midnight, he put up his car; went to his room; sat down before his desk, with Doctor Hudson’s private journal, a pencil, and a thick pad of paper; and at dawn was still experimenting without a glimmer of encouragement.

Meggs, opening the door to call him to breakfast, found him sitting fully dressed, with his head on his arms, asleep, and tiptoed downstairs, his eyes shining.

A few minutes later he whispered to the cook, in a tone of victory, “You lost your bet!”

“Drunk again?”

“Quite!”