The doctor hesitated for some time over the subscription to his letter, and finally, he wrote:
Your old friend,
Maurice Lucian.
A week later he was sent for to Ovington Street.
The small maid-servant who came for him was breathless. “Felix Menebees, ’im as is the assistant, sent me,” she explained, obedient to the fate which decreed that Felix should invariably be denied any ceremonious prefix to his peculiar name. “The old gentleman, he don’t know nothing about you being sent for.”
“Is he ill?”
“M’m,” she nodded hard.
“Do you know what’s the matter with him?”
“The influenza,” she glibly asserted.
“How long has he been bad?”
“About a week, but ’e didn’t let on.”