The words came in gasps, but otherwise fairly distinctly. Doctor Newington, in all his professional experience, had never been placed in such an extraordinary dilemma. He was not quite so obstinate about the whole thing as he had originally been, and a kind of hopeless bewilderment showed itself upon his face.
"Will you send for Sir Thomas, doctor?" asked Louisa. "You see that Lord Radclyffe wishes it."
The doctor shrugged his shoulders. The responsibility was getting all too heavy for him. Besides being a fashionable physician, he was also a man, and as such not altogether inhuman. He had seen much acute suffering, both mental and physical, throughout the length of his career, but never had he been brought face to face with such an acute psychological problem, and—frankly—he did not know how to deal with it.
So he sent the nurse to ask Sir Thomas Ryder once more to step up stairs, whilst he himself went up to his patient, and with the mechanical movement born of life-long habit, he placed his white, podgy fingers on the feebly fluttering pulse.
"God only knows what will be the issue," he said almost inaudibly. "I don't."
The sick man, on the other hand, seemed to be husbanding his strength. He had most obediently taken the brandy which had been given him, and now he lay back quietly among the pillows, with eyes closed and lips slightly parted. The hands wandered somewhat restlessly along the smooth surface of the quilt, otherwise Lord Radclyffe lay perfectly still. It even seemed—to Louisa's super-sensitive gaze—as if an expression of content had settled over the pale face. Once the sick man opened his eyes and looked up at the portrait: the lips murmured the one word:
"Luke!" and slowly, very slowly, two tears formed in the sunken eyes and trickled down the wan cheeks.
"You had better," said the doctor curtly, "leave the patient to me and to Sir Thomas."
"Certainly," she replied. "I'll wait in the next room."
"Sir Thomas will call you, no doubt, if your presence is desirable."