# Grey Face/Chapter 2
### CHAPTER II
#### THE PSYCHO-ANALYST

LET us exhaust the ordinary physical possibilities first," said Sir Provost Hope.
Douglas Carey had allowed his glance to wander around the room. The trend of Sir Provosts studies was unmistakable. Here was an autographed etching of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, here a copy of Houdon's bust of Cagliostro, whilst above the mantelpiece hung an extraordinary French oil painting depicting the Witches' Sabbath.
But the sun was streaming in from Half-Moon Street, and outside there were cars, taxis, and pedestrians passing. He was recalled to realities by the pleasant voice of the famous consultant.
"I should like to have found, Carey," Sir Provost continued, "that the explanation was such a simple one. But"—he smiled slightly—"I have tasted the contents of this small bottle"—he pointed to a phial on his writing table—"and I find it to be excellent Scotch whisky. Neither is there evidence of the presence of any drug in your tobacco. Therefore"—he fixed his keen glance on Carey—"we must look for some explanation outside the more simple physical agencies to account for your two mysterious lapses from consciousness. Now——" he paused: "your servant?"
"Ecko? I don't follow," said Carey. "He has been with me for five years and I trust him implicitly. Apart from which, since neither my whisky nor my tobacco was doped——"
"Nor even the contents of the siphon which you were using," Sir Provost murmured. "I am quite satisfied that it contained ordinary aërated water."
"This being so," Carey continued, "why suspect Ecko?"
"Well"—the curiously penetrating regard of the specialist's blue eyes rested upon Carey—"has it occurred to you that this man may be a hypnotist?"
"What!" Carey cried. "Ecko?"
"Why not?" Sir Provost continued quietly. "The Japanese are a highly enlightened people, and your discovery of him upon the stair was rather significant. Are you satisfied that his explanation was true?"
"Of course, it is difficult to prove," Carey admitted; "but if there are unsuspected depths in Ecko, which I find it hard to believe, it is strange that he should have served me faithfully for five years, all over the world, and now have turned traitor."
"Yes," the other agreed, "strange, but not impossible. You see, Carey, yours is not a usual case. The causes of the trouble are not within, but without. It would appear that on two separate occasions you have written for two hours or more, with perfect clarity, judging from the reconstructed fragment, and have then entirely forgotten having performed the task. This resembles the interference of a hypnotist. Your recollection, on awaking, of a grey face contemplating you, is also significant."
"But the fact that what I had written was stolen while I slept," Carey interrupted, "brings the thing down again to the realm of the physical."
"Exactly," Sir Provost admitted, "and therefore should lead us to substantial data in our search for the origin of the mystery. Excluding Ecko for the moment, who else has access to your chambers? You have no other resident servant?"
"No."
"Can you think of any one who might have obtained possession of a key?"
"Two keys would be necessary," Carey replied, "one for the street door, which is closed at dusk, and the other for the door of my rooms."
"Of course"—Sir Provost smiled again—"this sort of thing belongs more properly to your province than to mine. No doubt you have satisfied yourself about the people who occupy the office on the ground floor, and the facts of the case are so much better known to you than to me that you have a far better chance than I of discovering who actually stole the draft report. My personal concern is to find an explanation of your strange lapses from consciousness. These, I am convinced, were due to some outside control, and your presence here to-day is sufficient evidence that you agree with me."
"I do," Carey admitted. "If I was not mad and not drugged, then the thing that happened to me last night and the night before is something outside my experience—something I cannot grapple with; but something which may come within your sphere."
"That is so," said Sir Provost, now keenly watching his patient. "I am convinced, by our chat this morning, that your experiences are not due to any pathological nervous or mental condition. They are occasioned by some new, outside condition. Now, I have been in your chambers more than once, and in your study. I can visualize it, with its rather odd appointments, indicating"—he tapped his tortoise-shell-rimmed glasses on the blotting pad—"something of a nomadic life. I am going to ask you another question: Have you recently acquired any new piece of furniture, or any curiosity, particularly of an Oriental character?"
Carey stared reflectively at the speaker for some moments, then:
"You have certainly hit upon a fact," he answered, "whatever its significance. During the last few days I have acquired two Oriental, or pseudo-Oriental curiosities. Both are upon my writing table. An odd little ebony figure, one of them, apparently represents Buddha contemplating a crystal which he holds in his lap: the other, a curious green bowl, not unlike a soup plate in shape, is of very early Korean ware."
Sir Provost Hope, his massive head lowered and elbow resting on the table, ran his fingers through his hair, abundant and iron-grey. He smiled triumphantly. His eyes, which possessed that oddly penetrating quality belonging to the eyes of those who have practised hypnotism, became focussed upon his visitor; and:
"Think carefully before you answer my next question," he said. "On awaking from your unaccountable sleep, can you recall which object in your room first attracted your attention?"
Carey stood up impulsively.
"This is extraordinary," he declared, "almost uncanny. I clearly recall that the first objects which I noticed on recovering consciousness were those which I have described to you!"
"Good!" Sir Provost exclaimed. "I begin to see light."
Carey laughed shortly.
"You are surely not suggesting," he said, "that a mere inanimate object is at the bottom of the mystery?"
Sir Provost shook his head.
"Our materialistic age is very hard to convince," he replied. "But contemplation of almost any bright object may induce hypnosis. Is the Korean bowl glazed?"
"Yes; but I have no recollection of having contemplated the thing."
"Nor do I suggest that you did contemplate it. Nevertheless, we shall see. I think you told me that the ebony figure holds a small crystal?"
"It does," Carey nodded; "quite a tiny one, no larger than a Spanish nut."
"And now tell me," Sir Provost continued, "what you know of the history of these two pieces."
"As a matter of fact," Carey answered laughingly, "the bowl was presented to me less than a week ago by a celebrated comedian who is also a collector of porcelain——"
Sir Provost suggested a name and Carey nodded in confirmation.
"I am familiar with the collection and with the man," explained Sir Provost. "Both are unusual. But this figure of Buddha?"
"Well"—Carey's expression betrayed a certain embarrassment—"perhaps I should preface my explanation with something which I have wanted to say to you for a long time."
Sir Provost Hope tapped his glasses gently on the blotting pad. "I quite understand," he said softly. "You wish to marry my daughter, Jasmine."
The cold voice in which he spoke somewhat discouraged Carey. "Of course," the latter said, "I have achieved a certain amount of success as a writer, but I have a long way to go yet; and as to my ancestry——"
Sir Provost moved his hand, checking the speaker, and raising his peculiar eyes, regarded him. The effect upon Carey was as though Sir Provost looked through him at some other man standing immediately behind his chair. He had suffered this singular regard before, and had always found it disconcerting.
"There are only a few of us to-day," the psychic expert declared, "who can afford to speak of our ancestry. Your ideas regarding Jasmine are perfectly familiar to me, and perhaps I know more of your ancestry than you realize. I am not speaking of your father, nor of your mother. These, my dear fellow"—he reached forward and grasped Carey's arm—"count for so much and yet for so little—so little. It is not the physical but the spiritual ancestry which is all-important. However, as a man of the world, I see in you a healthy young Britisher with a fine head and a profile which would have delighted Lavater. Regarding your professional success you are unduly modest. To this I would add, that until you came to me in the character of a patient, I was unaware of your present association with the secret service, although I knew of your work for the Military Intelligence Department during the war. You are a clever man, and, on the evidence of others competent to judge, a man to be trusted." He extended his hand. "Count on my consent, Carey."
Douglas Carey, whose besetting sin was modesty, found himself at a loss for words, but he grasped the extended hand in a firm grip.
"I rather gather," continued Sir Provost, "that Jasmine hesitates. Am I right?"
"A point," Carey replied, "to which I was coming. It was in a sense because of Jasmine's rather odd moods that this figure of Buddha came into my possession."
"Really!" Sir Provost exclaimed, glancing at his table clock. "Can you give me the facts briefly? I speak, now, not as Jasmine's father, but as the consultant.
"Well——" Carey paused. "Of course, it is a little embarrassing. I rather hesitate to speak of myself—and Jasmine, to——"
"I quite understand. Please be as frank as you would be with any other medical adviser."
"Well, then, last Tuesday evening I called here for Jasmine by appointment. I was given a note in which she excused herself. I went back to my rooms. I was at work on the case which I have mentioned to you, and getting into slippers and a dressing gown, I sat down to make a few notes. At about half-past eleven, Captain Carlyon, an old friend, telephoned me from a neighbouring dance club to remind me that Jasmine and I had promised to join his party for supper. He was so insistent and I so depressed that I shed slippers and dressing gown and went along to join him. I apologized for Jasmine, when, to my surprise, about half an hour later, Jasmine herself came in!"
"Ah!" said Sir Provost. "You belong to a generation, Carey, to which most men of my age are strangers. But I happen to understand. The daughters of to-day enjoy a liberty denied to the sons of yesterday. But I interrupt you."
"I feel painfully conscious," Carey continued, "of seeming to air stupid grievances. But—she was with a man whom I profoundly mistrust—and, I think, with good reason."
"You refer to M. de Trepniak?" Sir Provost suggested quietly.
"Ah!" Carey exclaimed. "You know this man?"
"Only by"—there was a perceptible pause—"report. But I agree with your estimate of his character."
"I am glad," Carey said simply, and continued with greater confidence: "Jasmine explained that Trepniak had called later, and, her headache having disappeared, that she had decided to go out after all. Her manner was odd. In fact, she seemed rather obviously to be avoiding me. As a result I did not see her leave, until, missing Trepniak, I made enquiries, and learned that he had driven her home some time before."
"I remember their arrival," said Sir Provost, drily. "Trepniak's car would have aroused the envy of the late Mr. Barnum."
"I must confess"—Carey laughed unmirthfully—"that I was a little sore. I don't take this Continental showman seriously, myself, but it is a fact that his extravagances appeal to a good many women. In the end, as the club was closing, the party invited itself to my rooms, which brings me to the Buddha figure. Because one of the four must have left it behind."
"Who were the members of the party?"
"Bobby Carlyon and his wife; Pickering, a barrister whom you know; and a lady with whom he had been dancing during the evening, a Madame Sabinov. I am practically certain that it was she who left the Buddha upon my table."
Sir Provost regarded the speaker fixedly, and:
"Of course one has heard of Madame Sabinov," he said. "A possible explanation begins to dawn." He stood up. "My advice for the present, Carey, is this: Lock the ebony Buddha in some safe place and do not touch it or even look at it until you have seen me again. I should also recommend you to have a serious talk with Jasmine. As for your idea of seeking to be released from your government work, forget it. You are not the victim of an obscure mental trouble, as you feared: you have a powerful and an unusually equipped enemy!"