The doctor sat at the Embury breakfast table, heartily partaking of the dishes Ferdinand offered. He had prescribed aromatic ammonia for Eunice, and a cup of coffee for Miss Ames, and then he had made a careful examination of Sanford Embury’s mortal body.
Upon its conclusion he had insisted that the ladies join him at breakfast and he saw to it that they made more than a pretense of eating.
“You’ve a hard day ahead of you,” he said, in his gentle, paternal way, “and you must be fortified as far as possible. I may seem harsh, Mrs. Embury, but I’m going to ask you to be as brave as you can, right now—at first—as I may say—and then, indulge in the luxury of tears later on. This sounds brutal, I daresay, but I’ve a reason, dear madam. There’s a mystery here. I don’t go so far as to say there’s anything wrong—but there’s a very mysterious death to be looked into, and as your physician and your friend, I want to advise—to urge you to keep up your strength for what may be a trying ordeal. In the first place, I apprehend an autopsy will be advisable, and I trust you will give your consent to that.”
“Oh, no!” cried Eunice, her face drawn with dismay, “not that!”
“Now, now, be reasonable, Mrs. Embury. I know you dislike the idea—most people do—but I think I shall have to insist upon it.”
“But you can’t do it, unless I agree, can you?” and Eunice looked at him sharply.
“No—but I’m sure you will agree.”
“I won’t! I never will! You shan’t touch Sanford! I won’t allow it.”
“She’s right!” declared Aunt Abby. “I can’t see, doctor, why it is necessary to have a postmortem. I don’t approve of such things. Surely you can, somehow discover what Mr. Embury died of—and if not, what matter? He’s dead, and nothing can change that! It doesn’t seem to me that we have to know—”
“Pardon me, Miss Ames, it is necessary that I should know the cause of the death. I cannot make a report until—”