Soon after my cousin Sullivan’s reception, the papers had reported Sir Cyril to be ill, and then it was stated that he had retired to a remote Austrian watering-place (name unmentioned) in order to rest and recuperate.  Certain weekly papers of the irresponsible sort gave publicity to queer rumors—­that Sir Cyril had fought a duel and been wounded, that he had been attacked one night in the streets, even that he was dead.  But these rumors were generally discredited, and meanwhile the opera season ran its course under the guidance of Sir Cyril’s head man, Mr. Nolan, so famous for his diamond shirt-stud.

Perhaps I could have thrown some light upon the obscurity which enveloped the doings of Sir Cyril Smart.  But I preferred to remain inactive.  Locked away in my writing-case I kept the jewelled dagger so mysteriously found by me outside the Devonshire Mansion.

I had mentioned the incidents of that night to no one, and probably not a soul on the planet guessed that the young doctor in attendance upon Alresca had possession of a little toy-weapon which formed a startling link between two existences supposed to be unconnected save in the way of business—­those of Sir Cyril and Rosetta Rosa.  I hesitated whether to send the dagger to Rosa, and finally decided that I would wait until I saw her again, if ever that should happen, and then do as circumstances should dictate.  I often wondered whether the silent man with the fixed gaze, whom I had met in Oxford Street that night, had handled the dagger, or whether his presence was a mere coincidence.  To my speculations I discovered no answer.

Then the moment had come when Alresca’s thigh was so far mended that, under special conditions, we could travel, and one evening, after a journey full of responsibilities for me, we had arrived in Bruges.

Soon afterwards came a slight alteration.

Alresca took pleasure in his lovely house, and I was aware of an improvement in his condition.  The torpor was leaving him, and his spirits grew livelier.  Unfortunately, it was difficult to give him outdoor exercise, since the roughly paved streets made driving impossible for him, and he was far from being able to walk.  After a time I contrived to hire a large rowing boat, and on fine afternoons it was our custom to lower him from the quay among the swans into this somewhat unwieldy craft, so that he might take the air as a Venetian.  The idea tickled him, and our progress along the disused canals was always a matter of interest to the towns-people, who showed an unappeasable inquisitiveness concerning their renowned fellow citizen.

It was plain to me that he was recovering; that he had lifted himself out of the circle of that strange influence under which he had nearly parted with his life.  The fact was plain to me, but the explanation of the fact was not plain.  I was as much puzzled by his rise as I had been puzzled by his descent.  But that did not prevent me from trying to persuade myself that this felicitous change in my patient’s state must be due, after all, to the results of careful dieting, a proper curriculum of daily existence, supervision of mental tricks and habits—­in short, of all that minute care and solicitude which only a resident doctor can give to a sick man.