He spoke in excellent English, and had a brisk and businesslike air. He was a small and dapper man with ginger hair cut en brosse, and red-brown eyes behind thick glasses. Setting down his bag on a chair, he cast a professional glance at the prostrate figure under the pink quilt, then running his eyes over the room he discovered Dr. Sartorius. At once a look of puzzled recognition, tinged with deference, came over his sharp little face. He bowed stiffly.
"Ah, doctor, how do you do?" he greeted his colleague in a slightly diffident tone. "Am I to understand that … may I ask if I am intruding, or…" and he broke off, obviously uncertain as to the position of things.
Sartorius rose and stood stolidly beside his chair.
"Not at all, doctor," he replied coolly. "Mr. Clifford will no doubt explain why you were sent for. There appears to be a good reason."
Expectantly the little man turned to Roger, who, seeing the necessity of some explanation to satisfy him on a point of professional etiquette, said quietly:
"This lady, doctor, is a nurse who has been employed in our family until my father's death a few days ago. After the funeral she left the house, then this evening she returned suddenly in a very strange and excited state. A few minutes after she entered the room here she became unconscious. The reason Dr. Sartorius does not attempt to do anything for her is that when he did try she became much worse. It seems that she has taken a marked antipathy to him, we don't know why."
The Frenchman raised his bushy red brows.
"Ah, ah?" he commented. "May I inquire if you had any knowledge of this antipathy before she went away?"
"I had," replied Sartorius heavily. "I mentioned the fact to Lady Clifford. I had begun to suspect at the last that she might be suffering from some rather obscure mental derangement."
"I see, I see! I daresay you have come to no conclusion as to her present state, doctor?"