"Seeing his sister the afternoon before. They told you about that, I imagine, since you seem to know all about the business. He came along to Harley Street afterwards and saw me. I told him to go to bed and keep quiet. Arteries very strained, and pulse erratic. He was excited—naturally. He ought to have taken a complete rest. As I see it, he must have insisted on getting up, in spite of feeling groggy, walked here—he would do it—and collapsed straight away."
"That's all right, Penberthy, but when—just when—did it happen?"
"Lord knows. I don't. Have another?"
"No, thanks; not for the moment. I say, I suppose you are perfectly satisfied about it all?"
"Satisfied?" The doctor stared at him. "Yes, of course. If you mean, satisfied as to what he died of—of course I'm satisfied. I shouldn't have given a certificate if I hadn't been satisfied."
"Nothing about the body struck you as queer?"
"What sort of thing?"
"You know what I mean as well as I do," said Wimsey, suddenly turning and looking the other straight in the face. The change in him was almost startling—it was as if a steel blade had whipped suddenly out of its velvet scabbard. Penberthy met his eye, and nodded slowly.
"Yes, I do know what you mean. But not here. We'd better go up to the Library. There won't be anybody there."