I hesitated. For what his professional opinion was worth, this man had always stood to us as adviser in such small ailments as we suffered. I had no notion where to seek another. My father would be unconscious of his presence. At least he could pronounce upon the nature of the stroke.
“Very well,” I said, ungraciously. “You can see him and judge what’s the matter.”
The old man was lying as I had left him when we entered the bedroom. His eyes were still closed, and his breathing sounded hard and stertorious.
“He’s mortal bad, sir,” Peggy said. “He’ll die hard, I do believe.”
Dr. Crackenthorpe waved her away and bent over the prostrate figure. As he did so its eyelids seemed to flicker, as if with dread consciousness of his approach.
“Be quick!” I said. “What has happened?”
He felt the dying pulse; bent his yellow face and listened at the heart. He was some minutes occupied.
Presently he rose and came to me, all formal and professional.
“You must prepare for the worst,” he said. “He may speak again by and by, but I doubt it. In my opinion it is a question of a few days only. No medical skill can avail.”
“Is there nothing I can do?”