XIV

Lucy left on me was becoming cicatrised. Everything is, however, now reopened; and what is to be the end God only knows. I have an idea that Van Helsing thinks he knows, too, but he will only let out enough at a time to whet curiosity. He went to Exeter yesterday, and stayed there all night. Today he came back, and almost bounded into the room at about half-past five o’clock, and thrust last night’s Westminster Gazette into my hand. “What do you think of that?” he asked as he stood back and folded his arms. I looked over the paper, for I really did not know what he meant; but he took it from me and pointed out a paragraph about children being decoyed away at Hampstead. It did not convey much to me, until I reached a passage where it described small punctured wounds on their throats. An idea struck me, and I looked up. “Well?” he said. “It is like poor Lucy’s.” “And what do you make of it?” “Simply that there is some cause in common. Whatever it was that injured her has injured them.” I did not quite understand his answer:⁠— “That is true indirectly, but not directly.” “How do you mean, Professor?” I asked. I was a little inclined to take his seriousness lightly⁠—for, after all, four days of rest and freedom from burning, harrowing anxiety does help to restore one’s spirits⁠—but when I saw his face, it sobered me. Never, even in the midst of our despair about poor Lucy, had he looked more stern. “Tell me!” I said. “I can hazard no opinion. I do not know what to think, and I have no data on which to found a conjecture.” “Do you mean to tell me, friend John, that you have no suspicion as to what poor Lucy died of; not after all the hints given, not only by events, but by me?” “Of nervous prostration following on great loss or waste of blood.” “And how the