He nodded.
“All right. You haven’t found out anything about old Hart, have you? What was the question you went back to ask Milly?”
“Only about her father’s health. No; I haven’t found out anything. It’s only an idea of mine I want to clear up.”
Cecil looked as though he thought I might have told him what the idea was, but he said nothing. In a few minutes he pulled up outside a neat, red-brick house, which, as a shining brass plate indicated, was Dr. Schofield’s abode.
The doctor was in and disengaged. He came at once into the waiting-room, where I had been shown—a respectable family practitioner, with intelligent face and courteous manner.
I explained my position as an acquaintance of Miss Hart’s, interested in the mysterious disappearance of her father. It had occurred to me to make inquiries as to the state of his health, or, rather, his constitution, I added. Perhaps his prolonged absence might be accounted for by sudden and dangerous illness. Could Dr. Schofield give me any information?
His manner was encouraging. He bade me take a seat and went into the matter gravely.
“To tell you the truth,” he said, “I am rather surprised that I have not been appealed to before. In an ordinary case I should feel bound to maintain a strict secrecy with regard to the ailments of my patients, but this is different. As you have asked me this question, I feel bound to tell you what I would not otherwise divulge. Mr. Hart was my patient on two several occasions during the last two years for delirium tremens, and once within my recollection he had a distinct touch of brain fever.”
“His mind would not be very strong, then?” I remarked.
Dr. Schofield hesitated.