Jane asked leave to note these all down in her note-book.
Mr. Hardie assented adroitly; for he was thinking whether he could not sift some grain out of all this chaff. Should Alfred blab his suspicions, here were two gentlemen who would at all events help him to throw ridicule on them.
Dr. Wycherley having politely aided Jane Hardie to note down the “preliminary process of the Incubation of disorders of the Intellect,” resumed: “Now, sir, your son appears to be in a very inchoate stage of the malady: he has cerebral Kephalalgia and Insomnia——”
“And, oh, doctor,” said Jane, “he knits his brows often and has given up his studies; won't go back to Oxford this term.”
“Exactly; and seeks isolation, and is a prey to morbid distraction and reverie: but has no palpable illusions, has he?”
“Not that I know of,” said Mr. Hardie.
“Well, but,” objected Jane, “did not he say something to you very curious the other night about Captain Dodd and fourteen thousand pounds?”
Mr. Hardie's blood ran cold. “No,” he stammered, “not that I remember.”
“Oh, yes, he did, papa: you have forgotten it: but at the time you were quite puzzled what he could meant: and you did so.” She put her finger to her forehead, and the doctors interchanged a meaning glance.
“I believe you are right, Jenny,” said Mr. Hardie, taking the cue so unexpectedly offered him: “he did say some nonsense I could not make head nor tail of; but we all have our crotchets. There, run away, like a good girl, and let me explain all this to our good friends here: and mind, not a word about it to Alfred.”