No More Learning

"Oh, you so clever woman! " he said. "I long knew that Mr. Jonathan was
a man of much thankfulness; but see, his wife have all the good things.
And will you not so much honour me and so help me as to read it for
me? Alas! I know not the shorthand. " By this time my little joke was
over, and I was almost ashamed; so I took the typewritten copy from my
work-basket and handed it to him.

"Forgive me," I said: "I could not help it; but I had been thinking
that it was of dear Lucy that you wished to ask, and so that you might
not have to wait--not on my account, but because I know your time must
be precious--I have written it out on the typewriter for you. "

He took it, and his eyes glistened. "You are so good," he said. "And may
I read it now? I may want to ask you some things when I have read. "

"By all means," I said, "read it over whilst I order lunch; and then you
can ask me questions whilst we eat. " He bowed and settled himself in a
chair with his back to the light, and became absorbed in the papers,
whilst I went to see after lunch, chiefly in order that he might not be
disturbed. When I came back I found him walking hurriedly up and down
the room, his face all ablaze with excitement. He rushed up to me and
took me by both hands.

"Oh, Madam Mina," he said, "how can I say what I owe to you? This paper
is as sunshine. It opens the gate to me. I am daze, I am dazzle, with so
much light; and yet clouds roll in behind the light every time. But that
you do not, cannot, comprehend. Oh, but I am grateful to you, you so
clever woman. Madam"--he said this very solemnly--"if ever Abraham Van
Helsing can do anything for you or yours, I trust you will let me know.
It will be pleasure and delight if I may serve you as a friend; as a
friend, but all I have ever learned, all I can ever do, shall be for you
and those you love. There are darknesses in life, and there are lights;
you are one of the lights. You will have happy life and good life, and
your husband will be blessed in you. "

"But, doctor, you praise me too much, and--and you do not know me. "

"Not know you--I, who am old, and who have studied all my life men and
women; I, who have made my speciality the brain and all that belongs
to him and all that follow from him! And I have read your diary that
you have so goodly written for me, and which breathes out truth in
every line. I, who have read your so sweet letter to poor Lucy of your
marriage and your trust, not know you! Oh, Madam Mina, good women tell
all their lives, and by day and by hour and by minute, such things that
angels can read; and we men who wish to know have in us something of
angels' eyes. Your husband is noble nature, and you are noble too, for
you trust, and trust cannot be where there is mean nature. And your
husband--tell me of him. Is he quite well? Is all that fever gone,
and is he strong and hearty? " I saw here an opening to ask him about
Jonathan, so I said:--

"He has almost recovered, but he has been greatly upset by Mr.
Hawkins's death. " He interrupted:--

"Oh yes, I know, I know. I have read your last two letters. " I went
on:--

"I suppose this upset him, for when we were in town on Thursday last he
had a sort of shock. "

"A shock, and after brain fever so soon! That was not good. What kind of
shock was it? "

"He thought he saw some one who recalled something terrible, something
which led to his brain fever. " And here the whole thing seemed to
overwhelm me in a rush. The pity for Jonathan, the horror which he
experienced, the whole fearful mystery of his diary, and the fear that
has been brooding over me ever since, all came in a tumult. I suppose I
was hysterical, for I threw myself on my knees and held up my hands to
him, and implored him to make my husband well again. He took my hands
and raised me up, and made me sit on the sofa, and sat by me; he held my
hand in his, and said to me with, oh, such infinite sweetness:--

"My life is a barren and lonely one, and so full of work that I have not
had much time for friendships; but since I have been summoned to here
by my friend John Seward I have known so many good people and seen such
nobility that I feel more than ever--and it has grown with my advancing
years--the loneliness of my life. Believe me, then, that I come here
full of respect for you, and you have given me hope--hope, not in what
I am seeking of, but that there are good women still left to make life
happy--good women, whose lives and whose truths may make good lesson for
the children that are to be. I am glad, glad, that I may here be of some
use to you; for if your husband suffer, he suffer within the range of my
study and experience. I promise you that I will gladly do _all_ for him
that I can--all to make his life strong and manly, and your life a happy
one. Now you must eat. You are overwrought and perhaps over-anxious.
Husband Jonathan would not like to see you so pale; and what he like
not where he love, is not to his good. Therefore for his sake you must
eat and smile. You have told me all about Lucy, and so now we shall not
speak of it, lest it distress. I shall stay in Exeter to-night, for I
want to think over what you have told me, and when I have thought I will
ask you questions, if I may. And then, too, you will tell me of husband
Jonathan's trouble so far as you can, but not yet. You must eat now;
afterwards you shall tell me all. "

After lunch, when we went back to the drawing-room, he said to me:--

"And now tell me all about him. " When it came to speaking to this great,
learned man, I began to fear that he would think me a weak fool, and
Jonathan a madman--that journal is all so strange--and I hesitated to
go on. But he was so sweet and kind, and he had promised to help, and I
trusted him, so I said:--

"Dr. Van Helsing, what I have to tell you is so queer that you must not
laugh at me or at my husband. I have been since yesterday in a sort of
fever of doubt; you must be kind to me, and not think me foolish that I
have even half believed some very strange things. " He reassured me by
his manner as well as his words when he said:--

"Oh, my dear, if you only knew how strange is the matter regarding which
I am here, it is you who would laugh. I have learned not to think little
of any one's belief, no matter how strange it be. I have tried to keep
an open mind; and it is not the ordinary things of life that could close
it, but the strange things, the extraordinary things, the things that
make one doubt if they be mad or sane. "

"Thank you, thank you, a thousand times! You have taken a weight off
my mind. If you will let me, I shall give you a paper to read. It is
long, but I have typewritten it out. It will tell you my trouble and
Jonathan's. It is the copy of his journal when abroad, and all that
happened. I dare not say anything of it; you will read for yourself and
judge. And then when I see you, perhaps, you will be very kind and tell
me what you think. "

"I promise," he said as I gave him the papers; "I shall in the morning,
so soon as I can, come to see you and your husband, if I may. "

"Jonathan will be here at half-past eleven, and you must come to lunch
with us and see him then; you could catch the quick 3. 34 train, which
will leave you at Paddington before eight. " He was surprised at my
knowledge of the trains offhand, but he does not know that I have made
up all the trains to and from Exeter, so that I may help Jonathan in
case he is in a hurry.

So he took the papers with him and went away, and I sit here
thinking--thinking I don't know what.


_Letter (by hand), Van Helsing to Mrs. Harker. _

"_25 September, 6 o'clock. _

"Dear Madam Mina,--

"I have read your husband's so wonderful diary. You may sleep without
doubt. Strange and terrible as it is, it is _true_! I will pledge my
life on it. It may be worse for others; but for him and you there is
no dread. He is a noble fellow; and let me tell you from experience of
men, that one who would do as he did in going down that wall and to
that room--ay, and going a second time--is not one to be injured in
permanence by a shock. His brain and his heart are all right; this I
swear, before I have even seen him; so be at rest. I shall have much to
ask him of other things. I am blessed that to-day I come to see you, for
I have learn all at once so much that again I am dazzle--dazzle more
than ever, and I must think.

"Yours the most faithful,
"/Abraham Van Helsing. /"


_Letter, Mrs. Harker to Van Helsing. _


"_25 September_, 6. 30 _p. m. _

"My dear Dr. Van Helsing,--

"A thousand thanks for your kind letter, which has taken a great weight
off my mind. And yet, if it be true, what terrible things there are
in the world, and what an awful thing if that man, that monster, be
really in London! I fear to think. I have this moment, whilst writing,
had a wire from Jonathan, saying that he leaves by the 6. 25 to-night
from Launceston and will be here at 10. 18, so that I shall have no fear
to-night. Will you therefore, instead of lunching with us, please come
to breakfast, at eight o'clock, if this be not too early for you? You
can get away, if you are in a hurry, by the 10. 30 train, which will
bring you to Paddington by 2. 35. Do not answer this, as I shall take it
that, if I do not hear, you will come to breakfast.

"Believe me,
"Your faithful and grateful friend,
"/Mina Harker. /"


/Jonathan Harker's Journal. /

_26 September. _--I thought never to write in this diary again, but the
time has come. When I got home last night Mina had supper ready, and
when we had supped she told me of Van Helsing's visit, and of her having
given him the two diaries copied out, and of how anxious she had been
about me. She showed me in the doctor's letter that all I wrote down was
true. It seems to have made a new man of me. It was the doubt as to the
reality of the whole thing that knocked me over. I felt impotent, and in
the dark, and distrustful. But, now that I _know_, I am not afraid, even
of the Count. He has succeeded after all, then, in his design in getting
to London, and it was he I saw. He has got younger, and how? Van Helsing
is the man to unmask him and hunt him out, if he is anything like what
Mina says. We sat late, and talked it all over. Mina is dressing, and I
shall call at the hotel in a few minutes and bring him over. . . .

He was, I think, surprised to see me. When I came into the room where
he was, and introduced myself, he took me by the shoulder and turned my
face round to the light, and said, after a sharp scrutiny:--

"But Madam Mina told me you were ill, that you had had a shock. " It
was so funny to hear my wife called "Madam Mina" by this kindly,
strong-faced old man. I smiled, and said:--

"I _was_ ill, I _have_ had a shock; but you have cured me already. "

"And how? "

"By your letter to Mina last night. I was in doubt, and then everything
took a hue of unreality, and I did not know what to trust, even the
evidence of my own senses. Not knowing what to trust, I did not know
what to do; and so had only to keep on working in what had hitherto been
the groove of my life. The groove ceased to avail me, and I mistrusted
myself. Doctor, you don't know what it is to doubt everything, even
yourself. No, you don't; you couldn't with eyebrows like yours. " He
seemed pleased, and laughed as he said:--

"So! You are physiognomist. I learn more here with each hour. I am with
so much pleasure coming to you to breakfast; and, oh, sir, you will
pardon praise from an old man, but you are blessed in your wife. " I
would listen to him go on praising Mina for a day, so I simply nodded
and stood silent.

"She is one of God's women, fashioned by His own hand to show us men
and other women that there is a heaven where we can enter, and that its
light can be here on earth. So true, so sweet, so noble, so little an
egoist--and that, let me tell you, is much in this age, so sceptical and
selfish. And you, sir--I have read all the letters to poor Miss Lucy
and some of them speak of you, so I know you since some days from the
knowing of others; but I have seen your true self since last night. You
will give me your hand, will you not? And let us be friends for all our
lives. "

We shook hands, and he was so earnest and so kind that it made me quite
choky.

"And now," he said, "may I ask you for some more help? I have a great
task to do, and at the beginning it is to know. You can help me here.
Can you tell me what went before your going to Transylvania? Later on I
may ask more help, and of a different kind; but at first this will do. "

"Look here, sir," I said, "does what you have to do concern the Count? "

"It does," he said solemnly.

"Then I am with you heart and soul. As you go by the 10. 30 train, you
will not have time to read them; but I shall get the bundle of papers.
You can take them with you and read them in the train. "

After breakfast I saw him to the station. When we were parting he said:

"Perhaps you will come to town if I send to you, and take Madam Mina
too. "

"We shall both come when you will," I said.

I had got him the morning papers and the London papers of the previous
night, and while we were talking at the carriage window, waiting for
the train to start, he was turning them over. His eye suddenly seemed
to catch something in one of them, "The Westminster Gazette"--I knew
it by the colour--and he grew quite white. He read something intently,
groaning to himself: "Mein Gott! Mein Gott! So soon! so soon! " I do not
think he remembered me at the moment. Just then the whistle blew, and
the train moved off. This recalled him to himself, and he leaned out of
the window and waved his hand, calling out: "Love to Madam Mina; I shall
write so soon as ever I can. "


_Dr. Seward's Diary. _

_26 September. _--Truly there is no such thing as finality. Not a week
since I said "Finis," and yet here I am starting fresh again, or rather
going on with the same record. Until this afternoon I had no cause to
think of what is done. Renfield had become, to all intents, as sane as
he ever was. He was already well ahead with his fly business; and he
had just started in the spider line also; so he had not been of any
trouble to me. I had a letter from Arthur, written on Sunday, and from
it I gather that he is bearing up wonderfully well. Quincey Morris is
with him, and that is much of a help, for he himself is a bubbling well
of good spirits. Quincey wrote me a line too, and from him I hear that
Arthur is beginning to recover something of his old buoyancy; so as to
them all my mind is at rest. As for myself, I was settling down to my
work with the enthusiasm which I used to have for it, so that I might
fairly have said that the wound which poor 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. To-day he came back, and
almost bounded into my 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 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 blood lost or waste? " I shook my head. He stepped over and
sat down beside me, and went on:--

"You are clever man, friend John; you reason well, and your wit is bold;
but you are too prejudiced. You do not let your eyes see nor your ears
hear, and that which is outside your daily life is not of account to
you. Do you not think that there are things which you cannot understand,
and yet which are; that some people see things that others cannot? But
there are things old and new which must not be contemplate by men's
eyes, because they know--or think they know--some things which other
men have told them. Ah, it is the fault of our science that it wants to
explain all; and if it explain not, then it says there is nothing to
explain. But yet we see around us every day the growth of new beliefs,
which think themselves new; and which are yet but the old, which pretend
to be young--like the fine ladies at the opera. I suppose now you do
not believe in corporeal transference. No? Nor in materialisation. No?
Nor in astral bodies. No? Nor in the reading of thought. No? Nor in
hypnotism----"

"Yes," I said. "Charcot has proved that pretty well. " He smiled as
he went on: "Then you are satisfied as to it. Yes? And of course
then you understand how it act, and can follow the mind of the great
Charcot--alas that he is no more! --into the very soul of the patient
that he influence. No? Then, friend John, am I to take it that you
simply accept fact, and are satisfied to let from premise to conclusion
be a blank? No? Then tell me--for I am student of the brain--how you
accept the hypnotism and reject the thought-reading. Let me tell you,
my friend, that there are things done to-day in electrical science
which would have been deemed unholy by the very men who discovered
electricity--who would themselves not so long before have been burned as
wizards. There are always mysteries in life. Why was it that Methuselah
lived nine hundred years, and 'Old Parr' one hundred and sixty-nine,
and yet that poor Lucy, with four men's blood in her poor veins, could
not live even one day? For, had she lived one more day, we could have
save her. Do you know all the mystery of life and death? Do you know the
altogether of comparative anatomy, and can say wherefore the qualities
of brutes are in some men, and not in others? Can you tell me why,
when other spiders die small and soon, that one great spider lived for
centuries in the tower of the old Spanish church and grew and grew,
till, on descending, he could drink the oil of all the church lamps? Can
you tell me why in the Pampas, ay and elsewhere, there are bats that
come at night and open the veins of cattle and horses and suck dry their
veins; how in some islands of the Western seas there are bats which hang
on the trees all day, that those who have seen describe as like giant
nuts or pods, and that when the sailors sleep on the deck, because that
it is hot, flit down on them, and then--and then in the morning are
found dead men, white as even Miss Lucy was? "

"Good God, Professor! " I said, starting up. "Do you mean to tell me
that Lucy was bitten by such a bat; and that such a thing is here in
London in the nineteenth century? " He waved his hand for silence, and
went on:--

"Can you tell me why the tortoise lives more long than generations of
men; why the elephant goes on and on till he have seen dynasties; and
why the parrot never die only of bite of cat or dog or other complaint?
Can you tell me why men believe in all ages and places that there are
some few who live on always if they be permit; that there are men and
women who cannot die? We all know--because science has vouched for the
fact--that there have been toads shut up in rocks for thousands of
years, shut in one so small hole that only hold him since the youth of
the world. Can you tell me how the Indian fakir can make himself to die
and have been buried, and his grave sealed and corn sowed on it, and
the corn reaped and be cut and sown and reaped and cut again, and then
men come and take away the unbroken seal, and that there lie the Indian
fakir, not dead, but that rise up and walk amongst them as before? " Here
I interrupted him. I was getting bewildered; he so crowded on my mind
his list of nature's eccentricities and possible impossibilities that
my imagination was getting fired. I had a dim idea that he was teaching
me some lesson, as long ago he used to do in his study at Amsterdam;
but he used then to tell me the thing, so that I could have the object
of thought in mind all the time. But now I was without his help, yet I
wanted to follow him, so I said:--

"Professor, let me be your pet student again. Tell me the thesis, so
that I may apply your knowledge as you go on. At present I am going in
my mind from point to point as a mad man, and not a sane one, follows an
idea. I feel like a novice blundering through a bog in a mist, jumping
from one tussock to another in the mere blind effort to move on without
knowing where I am going. "

"That is good image," he said. "Well, I shall tell you. My thesis is
this: I want you to believe. "

"To believe what? "

"To believe in things that you cannot. Let me illustrate. I heard once
of an American who so defined faith: 'that which enables us to believe
things which we know to be untrue. ' For one, I follow that man. He meant
that we shall have an open mind, and not let a little bit of truth check
the rush of a big truth, like a small rock does a railway truck. We get
the small truth first. Good! We keep him, and we value him; but all the
same we must not let him think himself all the truth in the universe. "

"Then you want me not to let some previous conviction injure the
receptivity of my mind with regard to some strange matter. Do I read
your lesson aright? "

"Ah, you are my favourite pupil still. It is worth to teach you. Now
that you are willing to understand, you have taken the first step to
understand. You think then that those so small holes in the children's
throats were made by the same that made the hole in Miss Lucy? "

"I suppose so. " He stood up and said solemnly:--

"Then you are wrong. Oh, would it were so! but alas! no. It is worse,
far, far worse. "

"In God's name, Professor Van Helsing, what do you mean? " I cried.

He threw himself with a despairing gesture into a chair, and placed his
elbows on the table, covering his face with his hands as he spoke:--

"They were made by Miss Lucy! "




CHAPTER XV.

/Dr. Seward's Diary/--_continued. _


For a while sheer anger mastered me; it was as if he had during her life
struck Lucy on the face. I smote the table hard and rose up as I said to
him:--

"Dr. Van Helsing, are you mad? " He raised his head and looked at me, and
somehow the tenderness of his face calmed me at once. "Would I were! " he
said. "Madness were easy to bear compared with truth like this. Oh, my
friend, why, think you, did I go so far round, why take so long to tell
you so simple a thing? Was it because I hate you and have hated you all
my life? Was it because I wished to give you pain? Was it that I wanted,
now so late, revenge for that time when you saved my life, and from a
fearful death? Ah no! "

"Forgive me," said I. He went on:--

"My friend, it was because I wished to be gentle in the breaking to
you, for I know you have loved that so sweet lady. But even yet I do
not expect you to believe. It is so hard to accept at once any abstract
truth, that we may doubt such to be possible when we have always
believed the 'no' of it; it is more hard still to accept so sad a
concrete truth, and of such a one as Miss Lucy. To-night I go to prove
it. Dare you come with me? "

This staggered me. A man does not like to prove such a truth; Byron
excepted from the category, jealousy.

"And prove the very truth he most abhorred. "

He saw my hesitation, and spoke:--

"The logic is simple, no madman's logic this time, jumping from tussock
to tussock in a misty fog. If it be not true, then proof will be relief;
at worst it will not harm. If it be true! Ah, there is the dread; yet
very dread should help my cause, for in it is some need of belief. Come,
I tell you what I propose: first, that we go off now and see that child
in the hospital. Dr. Vincent of the North Hospital, where the papers say
the child is, is friend of mine, and I think of yours since you were in
class at Amsterdam. He will let two scientists see his case, if he will
not let two friends. We shall tell him nothing, but only that we wish to
learn. And then----"

"And then? " He took a key from his pocket and held it up. "And then we
spend the night, you and I, in the churchyard where Lucy lies. This
is the key that lock the tomb. I had it from the coffin-man to give
to Arthur. " My heart sank within me, for I felt that there were some
fearful ordeal before us. I could do nothing, however, so I plucked up
what heart I could and said that we had better hasten, as the afternoon
was passing. . . .

We found the child awake. It had had a sleep and taken some food,
and altogether was going on well. Dr. Vincent took the bandage from
its throat, and showed us the punctures. There was no mistaking the
similarity to those which had been on Lucy's throat. They were smaller,
and the edges looked fresher; that was all. We asked Vincent to what
he attributed them, and he replied that it must have been a bite of
some animal, perhaps a rat; but, for his own part, he was inclined to
think that it was one of the bats which are so numerous on the northern
heights of London. "Out of so many harmless ones," he said, "there may
be some wild specimen from the South of a more malignant species. Some
sailor may have brought one home, and it managed to escape; or even from
the Zoological Gardens a young one may have got loose, or one be bred
there from a vampire. These things do occur, you know. Only ten days
ago a wolf got out, and was, I believe, traced up in this direction.
For a week after, the children were playing nothing but Red Riding Hood
on the Heath and in every alley in the place until this 'bloofer lady'
scare came along, since when it has been quite a gala-time with them.
Even this poor little mite, when he woke up today, asked the nurse if he
might go away. When she asked him why he wanted to go, he said he wanted
to play with the 'bloofer lady. '"

"I hope," said Van Helsing, "that when you are sending the child home
you will caution its parents to keep strict watch over it. These fancies
to stray are most dangerous; and if the child were to remain out another
night, it would probably be fatal. But in any case I suppose you will
not let it away for some days? "

"Certainly not, not for a week at least; longer if the wound is not
healed. "

Our visit to the hospital took more time than we had reckoned on, and
the sun had dipped before we came out. When Van Helsing saw how dark it
was, he said:--

"There is no hurry. It is more late than I thought. Come, let us seek
somewhere that we may eat, and then we shall go on our way. "

We dined at "Jack Straw's Castle" along with a little crowd of
bicyclists and others who were genially noisy. About ten o'clock we
started from the inn. It was then very dark, and the scattered lamps
made the darkness greater when we were once outside their individual
radius. The Professor had evidently noted the road we were to go, for
he went on unhesitatingly; but as for me, I was in quite a mix-up
as to locality. As we went further, we met fewer and fewer people,
till at last we were somewhat surprised when we met even the patrol
of horse police going their usual suburban round. At last we reached
the wall of the churchyard, which we climbed over. With some little
difficulty--for it was very dark, and the whole place seemed so strange
to us--we found the Westenra tomb. The Professor took the key, opened
the creaky door, and standing back, politely, but quite unconsciously,
motioned me to precede him. There was a delicious irony in the offer,
in the courtliness of giving preference on such a ghastly occasion. My
companion followed me quickly, and cautiously drew the door to, after
carefully ascertaining that the lock was a falling, and not a spring
one. In the latter case we should have been in a bad plight. Then he
fumbled in his bag, and taking out a match-box and a piece of candle,
proceeded to make a light. The tomb in the daytime, and when wreathed
with fresh flowers, had looked grim and gruesome enough; but now some
days afterwards, when the flowers hung lank and dead, their whites
turning to rust and their greens to browns; when the spider and the
beetle had resumed their accustomed dominance; when time-discoloured
stone, and dust-encrusted mortar, and rusty, dank iron, and tarnished
brass, and clouded silver-plating gave back the feeble glimmer of a
candle, the effect was more miserable and sordid than could have been
imagined. It conveyed irresistibly the idea that life--animal life--was
not the only thing which could pass away.

Van Helsing went about his work systematically. Holding his candle so
that he could read the coffin plates, and so holding it that the sperm
dropped in white patches which congealed as they touched the metal, he
made assurance of Lucy's coffin. Another search in his bag, and he took
out a turnscrew.

"What are you going to do? " I asked.

"To open the coffin. You shall yet be convinced. " Straightway he began
taking out the screws, and finally lifted off the lid, showing the
casing of lead beneath. The sight was almost too much for me. It seemed
to be as much an affront to the dead as it would have been to have
stripped off her clothing in her sleep whilst living; I actually took
hold of his hand to stop him. He only said: "You shall see," and again
fumbling in his bag, took out a tiny fret-saw. Striking the turnscrew
through the lead with a swift downward stab, which made me wince, he
made a small hole, which was, however, big enough to admit the point
of the saw. I had expected a rush of gas from the week-old corpse. We
doctors, who have had to study our dangers, have to become accustomed to
such things, and I drew back towards the door. But the Professor never
stopped for a moment; he sawed down a couple of feet along one side
of the lead coffin, and then across, and down the other side. Taking
the edge of the loose flange, he bent it back towards the foot of the
coffin, and holding up the candle into the aperture, motioned to me to
look.

I drew near and looked. The coffin was empty.

It was certainly a surprise to me, and gave me a considerable shock, but
Van Helsing was unmoved. He was now more sure than ever of his ground,
and so emboldened to proceed in his task. "Are you satisfied now, friend
John? " he asked.

I felt all the dogged argumentativeness of my nature awake within me as
I answered him:

"I am satisfied that Lucy's body is not in that coffin; but that only
proves one thing. "

"And what is that, friend John? "

"That it is not there. "

"That is good logic," he said, "so far as it goes. But how do you--how
can you--account for it not being there? "

"Perhaps a body-snatcher," I suggested. "Some of the undertaker's people
may have stolen it. " I felt that I was speaking folly, and yet it was
the only real cause which I could suggest. The Professor sighed. "Ah
well! " he said, "we must have more proof. Come with me. "

He put on the coffin-lid again, gathered up all his things and placed
them in the bag, blew out the light, and placed the candle also in the
bag.