“Yes,” and the chauffeur nodded and smiled. “You are not ill, I hope, monsieur. If you are, there is a physician nearer—”
“Oh, no. I'm all right. I just want to have a talk with the doctor. Did you ever consult him?”
“Me? Oh, no, monsieur, I have no need of a doctor. I am never sick. I feel most excellent!” and certainly he looked it. There was a sparkle in his eyes—perhaps too brilliant a sparkle, but he did not look like a “dope fiend.”
“If you are in a hurry,” went on the chauffeur, “I can—”
“No, no hurry,” responded the colonel. “Why, do you feel like driving fast?”
“Very fast, monsieur. I always like to drive fast, only there is seldom call for it. Mr. Carwell, he at times would like speed, and again he was like the tortoise. But as for me—poof! What would you?” and he shrugged his shoulders and reverted to his own tongue.
“Hum,” mused the colonel. “Rather a different story from the garage man's. However, we shall see.”
Dr. Baird was in. In fact, being a very young doctor indeed, he was rather more in than out—too much in to suit his own inclination and pocketbook, for, as yet, the number of his patients was small.
“I did not come to see you for myself, professionally,” said Colonel Ashley, as he took a seat in the office, and introduced himself. “I am trying to establish, for the satisfaction of Miss Carwell, that her father was not a suicide, and—”
“What else could it be?” asked Dr. Baird.