“Talk to him, Dr. Felkin. Clear his mind for him,” said the invalid.
Challenger looked up at the cornice and round at the skirting. His pupil was clearly addressing some doctor in the room and yet none was visible. Surely his aberration had not reached the point when he thought that actual floating apparitions were directing his cure.
“Indeed, it needs some clearing,” said a deep and virile voice at his elbow. He bounded round. It was the frail young woman who was talking.
“Let me introduce you to Dr. Felkin,” said Miss Delicia, with a mischievous laugh.
“What tomfoolery is this!” cried Challenger.
The young woman rose and fumbled at the side of her dress. Then she made an impatient gesture with her hand.
“Time was, my dear colleague, when a snuff-box was as much part of my equipment as my phlebotomy case. I lived before the days of Laennec, and we carried no stethoscope, but we had our little chirurgical battery, none the less. But the snuff-box was a peace-offering, and I was about to offer it to you, but, alas! it has had its day.”
Challenger stood with staring eyes and dilated nostrils while this speech was delivered. Then he turned to the bed.
“Do you mean to say that this is your doctor—that you take the advice of this person?”
The young girl drew herself up very stiffly.