Mr. Satterthwaite said: “What about you, Cartwright? Does anything strike you at all? Arising out of our visit to the house, I mean.”
Sir Charles answered slowly. “Yes, there is something - the devil of it is, I can’t remember what.”
Mr. Satterthwaite stared at him in surprise.
The other frowned.
“How can I explain?
There was something - something which at the moment struck me as wrong - as unlikely - only - I hadn’t the time to think about it then, I put it aside in my own mind.”
“And now you can’t remember what it was?”
“No - only that at some moment I said to myself,
‘That’s odd.’”
“Was it when we were questioning the servants?
Which servant?”
“I tell you I can’t remember.
And the more I think the less I shall remember ... If I leave it alone, it may come back to me.”
They came into view of the Sanatorium, a big white modern building, divided from the park by palings.
There was a gate through which they passed, and they rang the front-door bell and asked for the Matron.
The Matron, when she came, was a tall, middle-aged woman, with an intelligent face and a capable manner.
Sir Charles she clearly knew by name as a friend of the late Sir Bartholomew Strange.
Sir Charles explained that he had just come back from abroad, had been horrified to hear of his friend’s death and of the terrible suspicions entertained, and had been up to the house to learn as many details as he could.
The Matron spoke in moving terms of the loss Sir Bartholomew would be to them, and of his fine career as a doctor.
Sir Charles professed himself anxious to know what was going to happen to the Sanatorium.
The Matron explained that Sir Bartholomew had had two partners, both capable doctors, one was in residence at the Sanatorium.
“Bartholomew was very proud of this place, I know,” said Sir Charles.
“Yes, his treatments were a great success.”
“Mostly nerve cases, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“That reminds me - fellow I met out at Monte had some kind of relation coming here.
I forget her name now - odd sort of name - Rushbridger - Rusbrigger - something like that.”
“Mrs. de Rushbridger, you mean?”
“That’s it.
Is she here now?”
“Oh, yes.
But I’m afraid she won’t be able to see you - not for some time yet.
She’s having a very strict rest cure. The Matron smiled just a trifle archly. No letters, no exciting visitors ... ”
“I say, she’s not very bad, is she?”
“Rather a bad nervous breakdown - lapses of memory, and severe nervous exhaustion.
Oh, we shall get her right in time.”
The Matron smiled reassuringly. “Let me see, haven’t I heard Tollie - Sir Bartholomew - speak of her?
She was a friend of his as well as a patient, wasn’t she?”
“I don’t think so, Sir Charles.
At least the doctor never said so.
She has recently arrived from the West Indies - really, it was very funny, I must tell you. Rather a difficult name for a servant to remember - the parlourmaid here is rather stupid.
She came and said to me, ‘Mrs. West India has come,’ and of course I suppose Rushbridger does sound rather like West India - but it was rather a coincidence her having just come from the West Indies.”
“Rather - rather - most amusing.
Her husband over, too?”
“He’s still out there.”
“Ah, quite - quite. I must be mixing her up with someone else.
It was a case the doctor was specially interested in?”
“Cases of amnesia are fairly common, but they’re always interesting to a medical man - the variations, you know. Two cases are seldom alike.”
“Seems all very odd to me.
Well, thank you, Matron, I’m glad to have had a little chat with you.