The doctor summoned up his courage.
“We will say a guinea, then,” he remarked with studied indifference.
“You must allow me to make it a little more than that,” the patient answered. “Your treatment was worth it. I feel perfectly recovered already. Good night, sir!”
The doctor’s eyes sparkled as he glanced at the gold which his visitor had laid upon the table.
“You are very good, I’m sure,” he murmured. “I hope you will have a comfortable journey. With a nerve like yours, you’ll be all right in a day or so.”
He let his patient out and watched him depart with some curiosity, watched until the great motor-car had swung round the corner of the street and started on its journey to London.
“No bicycle there,” he remarked to himself, as he closed the door. “I wonder what they did with it.”
CHAPTER IV. MISS PENELOPE MORSE
It was already a little past the customary luncheon hour at the Carlton, and the restaurant was well filled. The orchestra had played their first selection, and the stream of incoming guests had begun to slacken. A young lady who had been sitting in the palm court for at least half an hour rose to her feet, and, glancing casually at her watch, made her way into the hotel. She entered the office and addressed the chief reception clerk.