The Red Lodge: A Mystery of Campden Hill

A dark green Rolls-Royce limousine slid round the corner of Sydney Place and, proceeding a few hundred yards along the Fulham Road, drew up in front of St. Christopher's Hospital. It had scarcely stopped before the door opened and its solitary occupant--a tall, well-dressed man of about fifty--stepped out on to the pavement.

"You can wait here, Simmons," he said, addressing the chauffeur. "I shan't be more than a few minutes."

The porter on duty, who was talking to a friend in the hall, touched his cap respectfully as the newcomer hurried past him in the direction of the main staircase.

"See that bloke, Fred?" he whispered, jerking his thumb after the retreating figure. "That's Sir George Onslow, that is. Some pore beggar's for it, you can take my word."

"Well, thank Gawd 'e ain't a-goin' to 'ack me about," returned the other. "Pack o' butchers, all the lot of 'em, if they gets 'alf a chance."

Unconscious of having been the cause of this somewhat drastic criticism of his profession, the famous surgeon mounted rapidly to the second landing, where a long, bare, distempered corridor stretched away in either direction. Choosing the one on the left, he came to a halt in front of a white door, on which the two words "House Surgeon" were neatly painted in black letters, and, without troubling to knock, turned the handle and walked in.

A broad-shouldered, cheerful-looking young man, who was sitting at the table reading a medical book, glanced up carelessly at his entrance. On seeing who the visitor was his expression changed, and with a certain air of surprise he rose quickly to his feet.

"Hullo, Sir George," he exclaimed. "We weren't expecting you this morning."

The elder man stepped forward and offered his hand.

"Sorry to interrupt your studies, Gray," he said, smiling. "This isn't an official visit. I've just looked in on a little private and personal matter."

The young house surgeon pulled forward a tattered armchair.

"Well, I'm delighted to see you, sir," he said heartily. "Won't you take a pew?"

Sir George sat down, and, leaning forward, helped himself to a cigarette from the box which his companion offered him.

"You were telling me about your plans a week or two ago," he said. "Have you come to any decision yet?"

Gray, who was standing with his back to the fireplace, nodded his head.

"Yes," he answered. "I've made up my mind to send in my resignation as soon as the secretary comes back. I can't help feeling that I'm wasting my time here. I have always meant to go in for research work, and if I'm to do any good at it it's quite time I started." He laughed a little awkwardly. "I hope it doesn't sound conceited talking like this, sir, but I really believe I've got a turn in that direction."

Sir George looked up at him with a friendly, half-quizzical twinkle in his eye.

"You needn't apologize, my boy," he said gravely. "I don't think any one would accuse you of having a swelled head." He paused. "If it doesn't sound an impertinent question, may I ask how you are situated with regard to money matters?"

"I can manage all right," replied the other. "I've got a small private income of about three hundred a year. I should have to give up the car, of course, but one can't expect luxuries if one goes in for laboratory work."

Sir George nodded his head approvingly.

"That's the proper frame of mind, anyhow," he observed. "There's no half-and-half business about science. It's a great game if you're prepared to give up everything else to it, but if you want money and comfort and reputation--well, you'd better copy my example and spend your time cutting out the entrails of over-fed millionaires." He flicked the ash off his cigarette, and, sinking back again in the chair, crossed his legs. "All the same," he added, "it just happens that I might be able to put something in your way which would make it possible for you to keep the car and hunt bugs at the same time."

Gray's boyish face lit up with sudden interest.

"By Jove, sir!" he exclaimed. "That sounds promising!"

"How would you like to go and live with old Carter as a sort of residential assistant?"

"Carter?" Gray repeated the name almost reverently. "Do you mean Professor Carter?"

"Of course I do. You don't suppose I'm referring to the man who makes the liver pills?"

"You can bet I should like it all right," was the eager reply. "Why, it's a chance for which any chap in my position would sell his soul."

The surgeon smiled again at his young companion's enthusiasm.

"Well, I think it might be arranged on less dramatic terms than that. As a matter of fact, I was talking to the old boy last night. He doesn't often show up in public nowadays, but he happened to come along to a special meeting of the Board of Health, and he and I had a long yarn together. Amongst other things he asked me if I knew a young fellow who'd make a suitable assistant. He wants someone to live in the house, and he told me that if he could find the right man he was prepared to pay a salary of four hundred a year. That, of course, would be in addition to living expenses."

"Four hundred a year!" echoed Gray in astonishment.

"Oh, he can afford it well enough. He's rolling in money, and he never spends a bob on anything except his work."

"Why, he can take his pick amongst the best-trained men in England," declared Gray. "They'd simply fall over themselves to get in with Carter, whether there's a salary attached to it or not."

"That may be the case," assented Sir George drily, "but, as it happens, very few of them possess the particular qualification on which the Professor insists. You see, he wants someone who's an expert boxer as well as being a fully qualified scientist."

Gray stared at his visitor in utter bewilderment.

"Sounds a bit comic, doesn't it?" pursued the latter tranquilly. "The fact is the old gentleman's suffering from nerves. About nine weeks ago his house on Campden Hill was broken into by burglars, and ever since then he seems to have been living in a mortal funk that the same thing would happen again."

"But hasn't he any one in the place besides himself?" demanded Gray.

"Only a couple of women who cook for him and look after the house. He had an old servant for about forty years, but I think he's pensioned him off. Of course, it really isn't very safe as things are. Carter must be over eighty, and the Red Lodge is a devilish lonely place, shut in behind a high wall amongst a lot of trees. I don't wonder he feels a bit jumpy."

"But is he quite serious about wanting an assistant?" demanded Gray. "At present it sounds as if he were in more need of a bull-dog."

Sir George laughed. "It's a genuine enough offer," he said. "He confided to me that he'd just undertaken some very important researches, and that it was absolutely necessary he should have a first-class man to help him. I thought of you at once. I said all the complimentary things I could about your work, and I added, as a sort of little extra inducement, that you'd won the inter-hospital heavyweight boxing competition for two years in succession."

Gray coloured modestly. "It was awfully good of you, Sir George," he replied.