you in the hope that you would be able to tell me something about it.”
Dr. Richardson gave him at once the suspicious glance of a stupid man.
“I don’t know why you come to me instead of to her husband. He will be able to tell you all that you wish to know.”
“I came to you as a fellow-practitioner,” answered Arthur. “I am at St. Luke’s Hospital.” He pointed to his card, which Dr. Richardson still held. “And my friend is Dr. Porhoët, whose name will be familiar to you with respect to his studies in Malta Fever.”
“I think I read an article of yours in the B. M. J.,” said the country doctor.
His manner assumed a singular hostility. He had no sympathy with London specialists, whose attitude towards the general practitioner he resented. He was pleased to sneer at their pretensions to omniscience, and quite willing to pit himself against them.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Burdon?”
“I should be very much obliged if you would tell me as exactly as possible how Mrs. Haddo died.”
“It was a very simple case of endocarditis.”
Arthur looked at him with an expression from which it was easy to see his scorn.
“May I ask how long before death you were called in?”
The doctor hesitated. He reddened a little.
“I’m not inclined to be cross-examined,” he burst out, suddenly making up his mind to be angry.
