ing up to the moment of his hasty retreat to bed. And lying among the proofs, as though it had been taken out and looked at quite recently was the photograph of a girl. For a moment Dr. Martineau’s mind hung in doubt and then he knew it for the young American of Stonehenge. How that affair had ended he did not know. And now it was not his business to know.
These various observations printed themselves on Dr. Martineau’s mind after his first cursory examination of his patient and while he cast about for anything that would give this large industrious apartment a little more of the restfulness and comfort of a sick room. “I must get in a night nurse at once,” he said. “We must find a small table somewhere to put near the bed.
“I am afraid you are very ill,” he said, returning to the bedside. “This is not, as you say, my sort of work. Will you let me call in another man, a man we can trust thoroughly, to consult?”
“I’m in your hands, said Sir Richmond. I want to pull through.”
“He will know better where to get the right sort of nurse for the case—and everything.”...
The second doctor presently came, with the right sort of nurse hard on his heels. Sir Richmond submitted almost silently to his expert handling and was sounded and looked to and listened at.
“H’m,” said the second doctor, and then en-
