II.
I was called in to the Grand Babylon about nine p.m.; suite No. 63, second floor, name of Russell. The outer door of the suite was opened for me by a well-dressed woman of thirty or so, slim, with a face expressive and intelligent rather than handsome. I liked her face—I was attracted by its look of honesty and alert good-nature.
“Good evening, doctor,” she said. She had a charming low voice, as she led me into a highly-luxurious drawing-room. “My name is Russell, and I wish you to see a young friend of mine who is not well.” She hesitated and turned to an old bald-headed man, who stood looking out of the window at the twilight panorama of the Thames. “My friend’s solicitor, Mr. Dancer,” she explained. We bowed, Mr. Dancer and I.
“Nothing serious, I hope,” I remarked.
“No, no!” said Miss Russell.
Nevertheless, she seemed to me to be extremely nervous and anxious, as she preceded me into the bedroom, a chamber quite as magnificent as the drawing-room.
On the bed lay a beautiful young girl. Yes, you may laugh, you fellows, but she was genuinely beautiful. She smiled faintly as we entered. Her features had an ashy tint, and tiny drops of cold perspiration stood on the forehead. However, she certainly wasn’t very ill—I could see that in a moment, and I fixed my conversational tone accordingly.
“Do you feel as if you could breathe freely, but that if you did it would kill you?” I inquired, after I had examined her. And she nodded, smiling again. Miss Russell also smiled, evidently pleased that I had diagnosed the case so quickly.
My patient was suffering from a mild attack of pseudo-angina, nothing worse. Not angina pectoris, you know—that’s usually associated with old age. Pseudo-angina is a different thing. With a weak heart, it may be caused by indigestion. The symptoms are cardiac spasms, acute pain in the chest, a strong disinclination to make even the smallest movement, and a state of mental depression, together with that queer fancy about breathing. The girl had these symptoms, and she also had a headache and a dicrotism of the pulse—two pulsations instead of one, not unusual. I found that she had been eating a too hearty dinner, and that she had suffered from several similar attacks in the immediate past.
“You had a doctor in before?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Miss Russell. “But he was unable to come to-night, and as your house is so near we sent for you.”
“There is no danger whatever—no real cause for anxiety,” I summed up. “I will have some medicine made up instantly.”
“Trinitrin?” demanded Miss Russell.
“Yes,” I answered, a little astonished at this readiness. “Your regular physician prescribed it?”
(I should explain to you that trinitrin is nothing but nitro-glycerine in a non-explosive form.)
“I think it was trinitrin,” Miss Russell replied, with an appearance of doubtfulness. “Perhaps you will write the prescription and I will despatch a messenger at once. I should be obliged, doctor, if you would remain with us until—if you would remain with us.”
“Decidedly!” I said. “I will remain with pleasure. But do accept my assurance,” I added, gazing at her face, so anxious and apprehensive, “that there is no cause for alarm.”
She smiled and concurred. But I could see that I had not convinced her. And I began to suspect that she was not after all so intelligent as I had imagined. My patient, who was not now in any pain, lay calmly, with closed eyes.