Free The Empty Coffins by John Russell Fearn Page A

telephone. To his satisfaction Dr. Meadows was at home, having just arrived back from his morning round.
    â€œSo she’s returned to consciousness?” he asked eagerly, as Peter finished explaining. “Good! See that she has some nourishing soup to begin with. I’ll be over to work things out. Expect me in about twenty minutes.”
    Peter rang off and went into the kitchen. Then he returned to the bedroom and crept in silently. Elsie was still sleeping, so quietly she looked almost dead.
    She had not awakened by the time Dr. Meadows had arrived. He studied her for a while and then shook his head slowly.
    â€œI don’t like it,” he whispered, as Peter stood beside him. “She’s so thin she’s nearly a shadow. In the past two weeks she’s wasted away in the most alarming fashion—”
    â€œBut she can be built up again now she’s out of that coma!” Peter looked at him with desperate eyes. “Doc, we’ve got to bring her back. I can’t bear to think that I might—lose her.”
    â€œWe’ll do our best, but it’s going to be tough. The trouble is, she doesn’t answer to any known treatment, which is why I think venom from George when he attacked her is consuming her bloodstream—­ Oh, I got that other specialist to come. Sir Gerald Montrose. He should be here today.”
    â€œYou think he’s a good man?” Peter asked.
    â€œI’m convinced of it. I would hardly call on him—thereby admitting myself baffled—if I didn’t believe in him. You’ve heard of him, surely?”
    â€œAfraid not—but you know what you’re doing.”
    Meadows was silent for a moment, then he pulled up a chair and sat down.
    â€œAll we can do is wait for her to awaken again,” he said. “I wish I’d been here when she awakened before: I could probably have kept her conscious. It may be a long job now.”
    â€œHow about your own patients?”
    â€œThey can wait. Elsie means more to me than anything else. You know that. She’s yours, yes, but that doesn’t stop me loving her as much as you do.”
    Peter nodded slowly, a thought crossing his mind like a shadow. Then it passed on and he pulled up a chair.
    At the end of half an hour Elsie had not awaken­ed. Then the weary waiting was interrupted, by a hammer­ing on the front door. Peter left the room, but evidently the housekeeper had already got ahead of him.
    â€œWho is it, Mrs. Dawlish?” he asked, from the head of the stairs.
    â€œIt’s a Mr. Rawnee Singh, sir. He says he would like to see you.”
    â€œSingh!” Peter gave a start. He glanced back towards the bedroom, hesitated, and then made up his mind. Quickly he hurried downstairs into the hall. He found Mrs. Dawlish regarding the brown-skinned visitor in some suspicion.
    â€œAll right, Mrs. Dawlish, thank you,” Peter said to her. “I’ll attend to Mr. Singh.”
    Mrs. Dawlish bustled away and Peter looked at the mystic in surprise.
    â€œWhat brings you here, Mr. Singh? I thought you’d dropped right out of sight.”
    â€œAn interview I had with Chief-inspector Rushton led me to examine the case of your wife again, Mr. Malden. I had the idea you might wish to hear my conclusions.”
    Peter said nothing. He opened the drawing room door and led the way into it. Then he motioned Singh to a chair. He sat down with a cat-like elegance, his eyes intently studying Peter’s face. Even here, with modern furniture around him, his manner was still that of the enigmatic Easterner, rendered all the more obvious by his silk turban with a small jewel in its centre.
    â€œI have little time to spare, Mr. Singh,” Peter said quietly. “I don’t wish to seem rude, but my wife is desperately ill and I am keeping a constant watch on her—”
    â€œAlong with Dr. Meadows. Yes, I know.” Singh gave his faint smile.