“A civilian below,” said an hospital sergeant, “wishes to see Mr. Conway.”
“Can't be,—say so,” was the curt reply, as the doctor tore, without reading, the piece of paper on which a name was written.
“The lawyer, I have no doubt,” said the other; “as if the poor fellow could care to hear of title-deeds and rent-rolls now. He 'd rather have twenty drops of morphine than know that his estate covered half a county.”
The sergeant waited for a second or two to see if the doctor should reconsider his reply, and then respectfully retired. The stranger, during the short interval of absence, had denuded himself of great-coat and snow-shoes, and was briskly chafing his hands before the fire.
“Well, Sergeant, may I see him?” asked he, eagerly.
“No. The doctors won't permit it.”
“You did n't tell them who I was, then, that's the reason. You did n't say I was the confidential agent of his family, charged with a most important communication?”
“If I didn't, it was, perhaps, because I didn't know it,” said the man, laughing.
“Well, then, go back at once, and say that I've come out special,—that I must see him,—that the ten minutes I 'll stay will save years and years of law and chancery,—and that”—here he dropped his voice—“there's a hundred pounds here for the same minutes.”
“You'd better keep that secret to yourself, my good friend,” interposed the sergeant, stiffly.