Next day men talked, newspaper in hand, at the breakfast-table, in the early trains, omnibuses, and tramcars, of the singular railway outrage. It was clear its purpose was not robbery. What, then, did it mean? Some probably most declared it was very plain what it meant; while others, the few, after much argument, confessed themselves quite mystified.

The police, too, were not idle. They made inquiries and took notes here and there. They discovered that the five o’clock train made but two pauses on its journey to London at Croydon and at Clapham Junction. At neither of those places could a man in a fur coat be heard of as having descended from the train; and yet it was manifest that he did not arrive at Grosvenor Road, where tickets were taken. After persistent and wider inquiries, however, at Clapham Junction (which was the most likely point of departure), a cabman was found who remembered having taken up a fare a gentleman in a fur coat about the hour indicated. He particularly remarked the gentleman, because he looked odd and foreign and half tipsy (that was how he seemed to him), because he was wrapped up “enough for Father Christmas,” and because he asked to be driven such a long way to a well-known hotel near the Crystal Palace, where “foreign gents” were fond of staying. Being asked what in particular had made him think the gentleman a foreigner, cabby could not exactly say; he believed, however, it was his coat and his eyes. Of his face he saw little or nothing, it was so muffled up; yet his tongue was English enough.

Inquiry was then pushed on to the hotel named by the cabman. A gentleman in a fur coat had certainly arrived there the evening before, but no one had seen anything of him after his arrival. He had taken dinner in his private sitting-room, and had then paid his bill, because, he said, he must be gone early in the morning. About half an hour after dinner, when a waiter cleared the things away, he had gone to his room, and next morning he had left the hotel soon after dawn. Boots, half asleep, had seen him walk away, bag in hand, wrapped in his greatcoat, walk away, it would seem, and dissolve into the mist of the morning, for from that point no further trace could be got of him. No such figure as his had been seen on any of the roads leading from the hotel, either by the early milkman, or by the belated coffee-stall keeper, or night cabman. Being asked what name the gentleman had given at the hotel, the book-keeper showed her record, with the equivocal name of “M. Dolaro.” The name might be Italian or Spanish, or English or American for that matter, and the initial “M” might be French or anything in the world.

In the meantime Dr Lefevre had been pondering the details of the affair, and noting the aspects of his patient’s condition; but the more he noted and pondered, the more contorted and inexplicable did the mystery become. His understanding boggled at its very first notes. It was almost unheard of that a young man of his patient’s strong and healthy constitution and temper should be hypnotised or mesmerised at all, much less hypnotised to the verge of dissolution; and it was unprecedented that even a weak, hysterical subject should, after being unhypnotised, remain so long in prostrate exhaustion. Then, suppose these circumstances of the case were ordinary, there arose this question, which refused to be solved: Since it was ridiculous to suppose that the hypnotisation was a wanton experiment, and since it had not been for the sake of robbery, what had been its object?

The interest of the case was emphasised and enlarged by an article in ‘The Daily Telegraph,’ in which was called to mind the singular story in its Paris correspondence a day or two before, of the young woman in the Hotel-Dieu, which Lefevre had forgotten. The writer remarked on the points of similarity which the case in the Brighton train bore to that of the Paris pavement; insisted on the probable identity of the man in the fur coat with the man in the cloak; and appealed to Dr Lefevre to explain the mystery, and to the police to find the man “who has alarmed the civilised world by a new form of outrage.”

Lefevre was piqued by that article, and he went to see his patient day after day, in the constant hope of finding a solution of the puzzle that perplexed him. The direction in which he looked for light will be best suggested by remarking what were his peculiar theory and practice. Lefevre was not a materialistic physician; indeed, in the opinion of many of his brethren, he erred on the other side, and was too much inclined to mysticism. It may at least be said that he had an open mind, and a modest estimate of the discoveries of modern medical science. He had perceived while still a young man (he was now about forty) that all medical practice as distinct from surgical is inexact and empirical, that, like English common law, it is based merely on custom, and a narrow range of experience; and he had therefore argued that a wider experience and research, especially among decaying nations, might lead to the discovery of a guiding principle in pathology. That conviction had taken him as medical officer to Egypt and India, where, amid the relics of civilisations half as old as time, he found traditions of a great scientific practice; and thence it had brought him back to study such foreign medical writers as Du Bois-Reymond, Nobili, Matteucci, and Mueller, and to observe the method of the famous physicians of the Salpetrière. Like the great Charbon, he made nervous and hysterical disorders his specialty, in the treatment of which he was much given to the use of electricity. He had very pronounced “views,” though he seldom troubled his brethren with them; for he was not of those who can hold a belief firmly only if it is also held by others.

More than a week had passed without discovery or promise of light, when one afternoon he went to the hospital resolved to compass some explanation.

He walked at once, on entering the ward, to the bedside of his puzzling patient, who still lay limp as a dish-clout and drowsy as a sloth. He tested as he had done almost daily his nervous and respiratory powers with the exact instruments adapted for the purpose, and then, still unenlightened, he questioned him closely about his sensations. The young officer answered him with tolerable intelligence.

“I feel,” he ended with saying, “as if all my energy had evaporated, and I used to have no end, just as a spirit evaporates if it is left open to the air.”

The saying struck Lefevre mightily. “Energy” stood then to Lefevre as an almost convertible term for “electricity,” and his successful experiments with electricity had opened up to him a vast field of conjecture, into which, on the smallest inflaming hint, he was wont to make an excursion. Such a hint was the saying of the young officer now, and, as he walked away, he found himself, as it were, knocking at the door of a great discovery. But the door did not open on that summons, and he resolved straightway to discuss the subject with Julius Courtney, who, though an amateur, had about as complete a knowledge of it as himself, and who could bring to bear, he believed, a finer intelligence.

He first sought Julius at the Hyacinth Club, where he frequently spent the afternoon. Failing to find him there, he inquired for him at his chambers in the Albany. Hearing nothing of him there, and the ardour of his quest having cooled a little, he stepped out across the way to his own home in Savile Row.

There he found a note from his mother, with a touch of mystery in its wording. She said she wanted very much to have a serious conversation with him; she had been expecting for days to see him, and she begged him to go that evening to dinner if he could. “Julius,” said she, “will be here, and one or two others.”

The mention of Julius as a visitor at his mother’s house reminded him of his promise to that lady to find out how the young man was connected: engrossed as he had been with his strange case, he had almost forgotten the promise, and he had done nothing to fulfil it but tap ineffectually for admission to his friend’s confidence. He therefore considered with some anxiety what he should do, for Lady Lefevre could on occasion be exacting and severe with her son. He concluded nothing could be done before dinner, but he went prepared to be questioned and perhaps rated. He was pleased to find that his mother seemed to have forgotten his promise as much as he had, and to see her in the best of spirits with a tableful of company.

“Oh, you have come,” said she, presenting her cheek to her son; “I thought that after all you might be detained by that mysterious case you have at the hospital. Here’s Dr. Rippon and Julius too dying to hear all about it;” but she gave no hint of the serious conversation which she said in her note she desired.

“Not I, Lady Lefevre,” Julius protested. “I don’t like medical revelations; they make me feel as if I were sitting at the confessional of mankind.”

Noting by the way that Julius and his sister seemed much taken up with each other, and that Julius, while as fascinating as ever, and as ready and apt and intelligent of speech, seemed somewhat more chastened in manner and less effervescent in health, like a fire of coal that has spent its gas and settled into a steady glow of heat, he turned to Dr Rippon, a tall, thin old gentleman of over seventy, but who yet had a keen tongue, and a shrewd, critical eye. He had been an intimate friend of the elder Lefevre, and the son greeted him with respect and affection.

“Who is the gentleman?” said Dr Rippon, aside, when their greeting was over. “It does an old man’s heart good to see and hear him,” and the old doctor straightened himself. “But he’ll get old too; that’s the sad thing, from my point of view, that such beauty of person and swift intelligence of mind must grow old and withered, and slow and dull. What did you say his name is, John?”

“His name is Courtney Julius Courtney,” said Lefevre.

“Courtney,” mused the old man, stroking his eyebrow; “I once knew a man of that name, or, rather, who took that name. I wonder if this friend of yours is of the same family; he is not unlike the man I knew.”

“Oh,” said Lefevre, immediately interested, “he may be of the same family, but I don’t know anything of his relations. Who was the man, may I ask, that you knew?”

“Well,” said the old gentleman, settling down to a story, which Lefevre was sure would be full of interest and contemporary allusion, for the old physician had in his time seen many men and many things “it is a romantic story in its way.”

He was on the point of beginning it when dinner was announced.

“I should like to hear the story when we return to the drawing-room,” said Lefevre.

Over dinner, Lefevre was beset with inquiries about his mysterious case: Was the young man better? Had he been very ill? Was he handsome? What had the foreign-looking stranger done to him? and for what purpose had he done it? These questions were mostly ignorant and thoughtless, and Lefevre either parried them or answered them with great reserve. When the ladies retired from table, however, more particular and curious queries were pressed upon him as to the real character of the outrage upon the young man. He replied that he had not yet discovered, though he believed he was getting “warm.”

“Is it fair,” said Julius, “to ask you in what direction you are looking for an explanation or revelation?”

“Oh, quite fair,” said Lefevre, welcoming the question. “To put it in a word, I look to electricity, animal electricity. I have been for some time working round, and I hope gradually getting nearer, a scientific secret of enormous of transcendent value. Can you conceive, Julius, of a universal principle in Nature being got so under control as to form a universal basis of cure?”

“Can I conceive?” said Julius. “And is that electricity too?”

“I hope to find it is.”

“Oh, how slow!” exclaimed Julius, “oh, how slow you professional scientific men become! You begin to run on tram-lines, and you can’t get off them! Why fix yourself to call this principle you’re seeking for ‘electricity’? It will probably restrict your inquiry, and hamper you in several ways. I would declare to every scientific man, ’Unless you become as a little child or a poet, you will discover no great truth!’ Setting aside your bias towards what you call ‘electricity,’ you are really hoping to discover something that was discovered or divined thousands of years ago! Some have called it ’öd’ an ’imponderable fluid’ as you know; you and others wish to call it ‘electricity.’ I prefer to call it ’the spirit of life,’ a name simple, dignified, and expressive!”

“It has the disadvantage of being poetic,” said Dr Rippon, with grave irony; “and doctors don’t like poetry mixed up with their science.”

“It is poetic,” admitted Julius, regarding the old doctor with interest, “and therefore it is intelligible. The spirit of life is electric and elective, and it is ‘imponderable:’ it can neither be weighed nor measured! It flows and thrills in the nerves of men and women, animals and plants, throughout the whole of Nature! It connects the whole round of the Cosmos by one glowing, teasing, agonising principle of being, and makes us and beasts and trees and flowers all kindred!”

“That is all very beautiful and fresh,” said Lefevre, “but

“But,” interrupted Julius, “it is not a new truth: the poet divined it ages ago! Buddha, thousands of years ago, perceived it, and taught that ‘all life is linked and kin;’ so did the Egyptians and the Greeks, when they worshipped the principle of life everywhere; and so did our own barbaric ancestors, when the woods the wonderful, mystic woods! were their temples. Life the spirit of life! is always beautiful; always to be desired and worshipped!”

“Yes,” said old Dr Rippon, who had listened to this astonishing rhapsody with evident interest, with sympathetic and intelligent eye; “but a time will come even to you, when death will appear more beautiful and friendly and desirable than life.”

Courtney was silent, and looked for a second or two deadly sick. He cast a searching eye on Dr Rippon.

“That’s the one thought,” said he, “that makes me sometimes feel as if I were already under the horror of the shade. It’s not that I am afraid of dying of merely ceasing to live; it is that life may cease to be delightful and friendly, and become an intolerable, decaying burden.”

He filled a glass with Burgundy, and set himself attentively to drink it, lingering on the bouquet and the flavour. Lefevre beheld him with surprise, for he had never before seen Julius take wine: he was wont to say that converse with good company was intoxicating enough for him.

“Why, Julius,” said Lefevre, “that’s a new experience you are trying, is it not?”

Julius looked embarrassed an instant, and then replied, “I have begun it very recently. I did not think it wise to postpone the experience till it might become an absolute necessity.”

Old Dr Rippon watched him empty the glass with a musing eye. “’I sought in mine heart,’” said he, gravely quoting, “’to give myself unto wine, yet acquainting mine heart with wisdom.’”

“True,” said Julius, considering him closely. “But, for completeness’ sake, you ought to quote also, ’Whatsoever mine eyes desired I kept not from them; I withheld not my heart from any joy.’”

Lefevre looked from the one to the other in some darkness of perplexity.

“You appear, John,” said the old doctor, with a smile, “not to know one of the oldest and greatest of books: you will find it included in your Bible. Mr Courtney clearly knows it. I should not be surprised to hear he had adopted its philosophy of ‘wisdom and madness and folly.’”

“Surely you cannot say,” remarked Julius, “that the writer of that book had what is called a ‘philosophy.’ He was moved by an irresistible impulse, of which he gives you the explanation when he uses that magnificent sentence about having ‘the world set in his heart.’”

“Yes,” said the old doctor, in a subdued, backward voice, regarding Julius with the contemplative eyes of memory. “You will, I hope, forgive me when I say that you remind me very much of a gentleman who took the name of Courtney. I knew him years ago: was he a relation of yours, I wonder?”

“Possibly,” said Julius, seeming scarcely interested; “though the name of Courtney, I believe, is not very uncommon.” Then, turning to Lefevre, he said, “I hope you don’t think I wish to make light of your grand idea. I only mean that you must widen your view, if you would work it out to success.”

With that Lefevre became more curious to hear Dr Rippon’s story. So when they went to the drawing-room he got the old gentleman into a secluded corner, and reminded him of his promise.

“Yes,” said the doctor, “it is a romantic story. About forty years ago, yes, about forty: it was immediately after the fall of Louis Philippe, I went with my friend Lord Rokeby to Madrid. He went as ambassador, and I as his physician. There was then at the Spanish Court a very handsome hidalgo, Don Hernando I forget all his names, but his surname was De Sandoval. He was of the bluest blood in Spain, and a marquis, but poor as a church mouse. He had a great reputation for gallant adventures and for mysterious scientific studies. On the last ground I sought and cultivated his acquaintance. But he was a proud, reserved person, and I could never quite make out what his studies were, except that he read a great deal, and believed firmly in the Arabic philosophers and alchemists of the middle ages; and he would sometimes talk with the same sort of rhapsodical mysticism as this young man delights you with. We did not have much opportunity for developing an intimacy in any case; for he fell in love with the daughter of our Chief Secretary of Legation, a bright, lovely English girl, and that ended disastrously for his position in Madrid. He made his proposals to her father, and had them refused; chiefly, I believe, on account of his loose reputation. The girl, too, was the heiress of an uncle’s property on this curious condition, it appeared, that whoever should marry her should take the uncle’s name of Courtney. Don Hernando and the young lady disappeared; they were married, and he took the name of Courtney, and was forbidden to return to Madrid. He and his wife settled in Paris, where I used to meet them frequently; then they travelled, I believe, and I lost sight of them. I returned to Paris on a visit some few years ago, and I asked an old friend about the Courtneys; he believed they were both dead, though he could give me no certain news about them.”

“Supposing,” said Lefevre, “that this Julius were their son, do you know of any reason why he should be reserved about his parentage?”

“No,” said the old man, “no; unless it be that Hernando was not episcopal in his affections; but I should think the young man is scarcely Puritan enough to be ashamed of that.”

Lefevre and the old man both looked round for Julius. They caught sight of him and Leonora Lefevre standing one on either side of a window, with their eyes fixed upon each other.

“The young lady,” said the old doctor, “seems much taken up with him.”

“Yes,” said Lefevre; “and she’s my sister.”

“Ah,” said the old doctor; “I fear my remark was rather unreserved.”

“It is true,” said Lefevre.

He left Dr Rippon, to seek his mother. He found her excited and warm, and without a word to spare for him.

“You wanted,” said he, “some serious talk with me, mother?”

“Oh yes,” said she; “but I can’t talk seriously now: I can scarcely talk at all. But do you see how Nora and Julius are taken up with each other? I never before saw such a pair of moonstruck mortals! I believe I have heard of the moon having a magnetic influence on people: do you think it has? But he is a charming man!” glancing towards Julius “I’m more than half in love with him myself. Now I must go. Come quietly one afternoon, and then we can talk.”

Her son abstained from recounting, as he had proposed to himself, what he had heard from Dr Rippon: he would reserve it for the quiet afternoon. He took his leave almost immediately, bearing with him a deep impression like a strongly bitten etching wrought on his memory of his last glimpse of the drawing-room: Nora and Julius set talking across a small table, and the tall, pale, gaunt figure of Dr Rippon approaching and stooping between them. It seemed a sinister reminder of the words the old doctor had addressed to Julius, A time will come when death will appear more beautiful and friendly and desirable than life!”