THE HAUNTED HOTEL

A Mystery of Modern Venice
by Wilkie Collins

THE FIRST PART
CHAPTER I

In the year 1860, the reputation of Doctor Wybrow as a London
physician reached its highest point. It was reported on good

authority that he was in receipt of one of the largest incomes
derived from the practice of medicine in modern times.

One afternoon, towards the close of the London season, the Doctor
had just taken his luncheon after a specially hard morning's work

in his consulting-room, and with a formidable list of visits
to patients at their own houses to fill up the rest of his day--

when the servant announced that a lady wished to speak to him.
'Who is she?' the Doctor asked. 'A stranger?'

'Yes, sir.'
'I see no strangers out of consulting-hours. Tell her what the hours are,

and send her away.'
'I have told her, sir.'

'Well?'
'And she won't go.'

'Won't go?' The Doctor smiled as he repeated the words. He was
a humourist in his way; and there was an absurd side to the situation

which rather amused him. 'Has this obstinate lady given you her name?'
he inquired.

'No, sir. She refused to give any name--she said she wouldn't keep
you five minutes, and the matter was too important to wait till

to-morrow. There she is in the consulting-room; and how to get
her out again is more than I know.'

Doctor Wybrow considered for a moment. His knowledge of women
(professional" target="_blank" title="a.职业的 n.自由职业">professionally speaking) rested on the ripe experience of more

than thirty years; he had met with them in all their varieties--
especially the variety which knows nothing of the value of time,

and never hesitates at sheltering itself behind the privileges of its sex.
A glance at his watch informed him that he must soon begin his rounds

among the patients who were waiting for him at their own houses.
He decidedforthwith on taking the only wise course that was open

under the circumstances. In other words, he decided on taking
to flight.

'Is the carriage at the door?' he asked.
'Yes, sir.'

'Very well. Open the house-door for me without making any noise,
and leave the lady in undisturbed possession of the consulting-room.

When she gets tired of waiting, you know what to tell her.
If she asks when I am expected to return, say that I dine at my club,

and spend the evening at the theatre. Now then, softly, Thomas!
If your shoes creak, I am a lost man.'

He noiselessly led the way into the hall, followed by the servant
on tip-toe.

Did the lady in the consulting-room suspect him? or did Thomas's
shoes creak, and was her sense of hearingunusually keen?

Whatever the explanation may be, the event that actually happened
was beyond all doubt. Exactly as Doctor Wybrow passed his

consulting-room, the door opened--the lady appeared on the threshold--
and laid her hand on his arm.

'I entreat you, sir, not to go away without letting me speak
to you first.'

The accent was foreign; the tone was low and firm. Her fingers
closed gently, and yet resolutely" target="_blank" title="ad.坚决地；果断地">resolutely, on the Doctor's arm.

Neither her language nor her action had the slightest effect in inclining
him to grant her request. The influence that instantly stopped him,

on the way to his carriage, was the silent influence of her face.
The startlingcontrast between the corpse-like pallor of her

complexion and the overpowering life and light, the glittering
metallic brightness in her large black eyes, held him literally

spell-bound. She was dressed in dark colours, with perfect taste;
she was of middle height, and (apparently) of middle age--say a year

or two over thirty. Her lower features--the nose, mouth, and chin--
possessed the fineness and delicacy of form which is oftener seen

among women of foreign races than among women of English birth.
She was unquestionably a handsome person--with the one serious

drawback of her ghastlycomplexion, and with the less noticeable
defect of a total want of tenderness in the expression of her eyes.

Apart from his first emotion of surprise, the feeling she produced
in the Doctor may be described as an overpowering feeling of

professional" target="_blank" title="a.职业的 n.自由职业">professionalcuriosity. The case might prove to be something entirely
new in his professional" target="_blank" title="a.职业的 n.自由职业">professional experience. 'It looks like it,' he thought;

'and it's worth waiting for.'
She perceived that she she had produced a strong impression

of some kind upon him, and dropped her hold on his arm.
'You have comforted many miserable women in your time,' she said.

'Comfort one more, to-day.'
Without waiting to be answered, she led the way back into the room.

The Doctor followed her, and closed the door. He placed her
in the patients' chair, opposite the windows. Even in London

the sun, on that summer afternoon, was dazzlingly bright.
The radiant light flowed in on her. Her eyes met it unflinchingly,

with the steely steadiness of the eyes of an eagle. The smooth
pallor of her unwrinkled skin looked more fearfully white than ever.

For the first time, for many a long year past, the Doctor felt his pulse
quicken its beat in the presence of a patient.

Having possessed herself of his attention, she appeared,
strangely enough, to have nothing to say to him. A curious apathy

seemed to have taken possession of this resolute woman. Forced to
speak first, the Doctor merely inquired, in the conventional phrase,

what he could do for her.
The sound of his voice seemed to rouse her. Still looking straight

at the light, she said abruptly: 'I have a painful question to ask.'
'What is it?'

Her eyes travelled slowly from the window to the Doctor's face.
Without the slightest outward appearance of agitation, she put

the 'painful question' in these extraordinary words:
'I want to know, if you please, whether I am in danger of going mad?'

Some men might have been amused, and some might have been alarmed.
Doctor Wybrow was only conscious of a sense of disappointment.

Was this the rare case that he had anticipated, judging rashly
by appearances? Was the new patient only a hypochondriacal woman,

whose malady was a disordered stomach and whose misfortune was a
weak brain? 'Why do you come to me?' he asked sharply. 'Why don't

you consult a doctor whose special employment is the treatment of
the insane?'

She had her answer ready on the instant.
'I don't go to a doctor of that sort,' she said, 'for the very

reason that he is a specialist: he has the fatal habit of judging
everybody by lines and rules of his own laying down. I come to you,

because my case is outside of all lines and rules, and because you are
famous in your profession for the discovery of mysteries in disease.

Are you satisfied?'
He was more than satisfied--his first idea had been the right idea,

after all. Besides, she was correctly informed as to his
professional" target="_blank" title="a.职业的 n.自由职业">professional position. The capacity which had raised him to fame

and fortune was his capacity (unrivalled among his brethren)
for the discovery of remote disease.

'I am at your disposal,' he answered. 'Let me try if I can find
out what is the matter with you.'

He put his medical questions. They were promptly and plainly answered;
and they led to no other conclusion than that the strange lady was,

mentally and physically, in excellent health. Not satisfied
with questions, he carefully examined the great organs of life.

Neither his hand nor his stethoscope could discover anything that
was amiss. With the admirablepatience and devotion to his art

which had distinguished him from the time when he was a student,
he still subjected her to one test after another. The result was