Hilda’s estimate of Dr Pryce would probably have excited some mirth among his friends at the Exiles’ Club. Lechworthy, as he resumed his notes on South Sea Missions, found himself puzzled by Dr Pryce. Somehow or other Lechworthy had expected to see a furtive, very polite, shaky little man, one who would try to ingratiate himself—something like Mast or Bassett. He found that he could not fit Dr Pryce into any reasonable idea of the fugitive from justice.
Meanwhile Pryce had found the King asleep in a long chair in the garden. The King had spent less than one hour in bed, and at such times he slept when he got the chance. But he was awake and alert almost as soon as he heard Pryce’s voice.
“And what is this illness?” he asked immediately.
“The same that you had—and your boss man on the plantations.”
“Good,” said the King. “Then you must cure her.”
“You, like your plantation boss, are a man and a native; Miss Auriol is a woman and a European. I got on to your case at once; here, before I arrived, Miss Auriol had been made to swallow a mess of boiled leaves—of a kind that might have poisoned a woman in good health. She has the disease in a worse form than you had it. I could give you horse-medicine; I should kill Miss Auriol if I gave the same doses to her. Well, I don’t expect you to understand. But you can understand this—on the whole, the probability is that Miss Auriol will die.”
“You stop here?”
“Of course.”
“My servants, my house, myself—all are at your disposal. I am no more King here: here the doctor is King. All that you say will be done. But Miss Auriol must not die. I have given my word that you can save her and that you will save her.”
“Then you’re a fool,” said Dr Pryce, bluntly.