"That will be all," said the Inspector. "I hope you and Mrs. Hall have a very happy honeymoon. Next!"
He gritted his teeth to stop his trembling as the Inspector reached for the passport, glanced at a notation, then looked up.
"I'll have to ask you to step in and see Dr. Willoughby, our ship's doctor. It will only take a moment, Dr. Chase."
"But I'm not infectious!"
"But there seems to be some question of fitness. In cases like yours the Star Line likes to have a final check, just to make sure you'll be able to stand the trip. We're responsible, after all. Last door on my right."
Close to exhaustion, Alan walked down the hall to the last door and stepped inside. A healthy, rugged man with prominent black eyes looked at him with a speculative glance.
"And what can I do for you?"
Holding out his passport, Alan sank down into a chair, glad of a chance to rest, while Dr. Willoughby studied the document, then looked up, the routine smile wiped off his face.
"Well! So you're Dr. Alan Chase. I've been much interested in the papers you've been publishing recently. But this is bad news, Dr. Chase. I suppose you had an independent check on the diagnosis?"
"Not even one of our freshmen could have missed it, but I had it confirmed by Simmons and von Kramm."