Chapter 6: The Woman With One Hand

“Mrs. Lascelles-Trevor’s compliments, sir, and would you mind stepping upstairs?”

I had a lighted match in my hand, and was in the very act of applying it to the bowl of my pipe when the latest importation in waiters brought me the message.

“Mrs. Lascelles-Trevor?” I let the match go out. “And pray who may Mrs. Lascelles-Trevor be?”

“The lady who arrived to-day, sir, and who has taken a private sitting-room--No. 8.”

“Indeed! And what does Mrs. Lascelles-Trevor want with me?”

“I don’t know, sir; she asked me to give you her compliments, and would you be so kind as to step upstairs.”

I stepped upstairs, wondering. I was received by a tall and somewhat ponderous woman, who was dressed in a dark-blue silk costume, almost as if she were going to a ball. She half rose from the couch as I came in, inclining her head in my direction with what struck me as a slightly patronising smile. She spoke in a loud, hearty tone of voice, which was marked by what struck me as being a Yorkshire twang.

“It is so good of you to come to see me, Mr. Southam. I was really more than half afraid to ask you. As it is, I beg ten thousand pardons, but I do so want you to write me a letter.”

“To write you a letter? I am afraid I am a little slow of comprehension.”

“I have lost my hand.” She stretched out her right arm. Both arms were bare to the shoulder. I could not but notice how beautifully they were moulded, their massive contours, their snowy whiteness. She wore gloves which reached nearly to her elbows. So far as I could judge there appeared to be a hand inside of both. She seemed to read my thoughts, still continuing to hold her right arm out in front of her.

“You think my hand is gloved? I always wear it so. But the glove conceals a dummy. Come and feel it.” I bowed. I was content to take her at her word; I had no wish to put her to the actual test. “I have never been able to gain complete control over my left hand--to use it as if it were my right. I suppose it is because I am not clever enough. I can scribble with it, but only scribble. When I desire to have a letter properly written I am dependent upon outsiders’ help. Will you write one for me now?”

It was an odd request for a new-comer at an hotel to address to a perfect stranger, but I complied. The letter she dictated, and which I wrote at her dictation, seemed to me the merest triviality--a scribble would have served the purpose just as well. She chattered all the time that I was writing, and, when I had finished, she went on chattering still. All at once she broke into a theme to which I ought to have become accustomed, but had not.