“Why? I was ill—it was the same thing. You saved me—so you save her too. She must not die. It means too many things. If she dies, other people will die. You will die, Dr Pryce.”
“Shall I?” said Pryce, smiling. He took his revolver from the case at his belt, held it by the barrel, and handed it to Smith. “Catch hold of that, will you? Thanks. Now then, you can either put a bullet through my head or you can take your words back. You shall do one or the other. Refuse and I leave you to do the doctoring.”
The King examined the revolver, and handed it back again.
“I apologise,” said the King. “But I have not slept much, and so I judge badly. You must excuse me. Perhaps I wished, too, to make a test. You will take no notice. It is—”
“I’m in a hurry,” said Pryce. “I want fresh milk for my patient. I’d like cow’s milk, but that can’t be got. Goats?”
“Yes,” said the King. “I had yesterday to decide the possession of a goat. It was a goat in milk, valuable because the milk could be sold to the Exiles’ Club. Shall I have some milk sent up?”
“How far away is the goat?”
“About a mile.”
“Then have the goat driven here, and driven very gently. I’d like to vet the beast first. If she’s healthy, then with a little modification the milk will do. Have you an ice-machine here?”