“We shall be able to account for it, my dear madam, there is not the slightest doubt about that. But where is the patient?”
“In the surgery.”
“I will see what can be done for him,” said Garnet, with the same soft voice—the same mellifluous and measured accents—for he never at any time permitted himself to be betrayed into an expression of surprise. To use a common phrase, he invariably took things in a quiet sort of way.
He entered the surgery, and glanced at the face of Bourne; then he felt his pulse, and then placed his hand on the region of the heart; then he lifted up one of the eyelids and looked at the pupil of the eye.
This done, he drew a chair up to the table and sat down, placing at the same time another chair for the mistress of the establishment.
“Well, doctor, what is it?”
“It is very plain what it is, Mrs. Bourne; but let me beg of you to bear up against this terrible trial.”
“What is it?” cried the lady.
“It is death!” returned Garnet. “But the cause which led to it we have yet to determine.”
“My husband is dead then?” exclaimed Mrs. Bourne. “Then there is no hope?”