Kennedy bent over to look at the glass tray more closely, a puzzled look crossed his face, and with a glance at the other room he gathered up the tray and its contents.
“Keep up a good courage,” said Dr. Bryant. “You’ll come out all right, Haughton.” Then as he left the bedroom he added to us, “Gentlemen, I hope you will pardon me, but if you could postpone the remainder of your visit until a later day, I am sure you will find it more satisfactory.”
There was an air of finality about the doctor, though nothing unpleasant in it. We followed him down the stairs, and as we did so, Felicie, who had been waiting in a reception room, appeared before the portieres, her earnest eyes fixed on his kindly face.
“Dr. Bryant,” she appealed, “is he—is he, really—so badly?”
The Doctor, who had apparently known her all her life, reached down and took one of her hands, patting it with his own in a fatherly way. “Don’t worry, little girl,” he encouraged. “We are going to come out all right—all right.”
She turned from him to us and, with a bright forced smile which showed the stuff she was made of, bade us good night.
Outside, the Doctor, apparently regretting that he had virtually forced us out, paused before his car. “Are you going down toward the station? Yes? I am going that far. I should be glad to drive you there.”
Kennedy climbed into the front seat, leaving me in the rear where the wind wafted me their brief conversation as we sped down Woodbridge Avenue.
“What seems to be the trouble?” asked Craig.
“Very high blood pressure, for one thing,” replied the Doctor frankly.