"We are in great distress, Sir. It is a bad case,"—the man said.
"Who is ill?"
The man stood speechless, fixing his gaze on the floor.
"Who is ill? What's the trouble?"—The Doctor repeated.
"I hardly know what to say, Sir."
The Doctor was not a little astonished at this mysterious reply. "Who are you, please?"—he said.
"I am the writer-constable at the thana. My name is Hara Dhan Sircar. The Daroga is very ill. He is extremely sorry and repentant for all that has happened to-day. Is he past forgiveness?"
"What is he suffering from?"—enquired Babu Hara Govind.
"He has a great pain in his chest and the head. Do come, Sir, and forget the past."
"There are other doctors besides me in this town. Go to one of them."
The writer-constable then drew out of his pocket a hundred rupees in silver and currency notes. Placing the amount near the Doctor Babu's feet, he said—"Have mercy, Sir."
The sight of the money highly offended the Doctor. "Have you come to tempt me with money?"—he said angrily.—"Do you suppose
