“It is here, perhaps,” the latter continued, “that a gentleman who was riding a bicycle and was run into by a motor car, was brought after the accident and treated so skilfully?”
“That is so,” Dr. Whiles admitted. “There was nothing much the matter with him. He had rather a narrow escape.”
“I am that gentleman’s servant,” the visitor continued with a bland smile. “He has sent me down here to see you. The leg which was injured is perfectly well, but there was a pain in the side of which he spoke to you, which has not disappeared. This morning, in fact, it is worse,—much worse. My master, therefore, has sent me to you. He begs that if it is not inconvenient you will return with me at once and examine him.”
The doctor drew a little breath. This might mean another week or so of respite!
“Where does your master live?” he asked the man.
“In the West end of London, sir,” was the reply. “The Square of St. James it is called.”
Dr. Whiles glanced at his watch.
“It will take me some time to go there with you,” he said, “and I shall have to arrange with a friend to treat any other patients. Do you think your master will understand that I shall need an increased fee?”
“My master desired me to say,” the other answered, “that he would be prepared to pay any fee you cared to mention. Money is not of account with him. He has not had occasion to seek medical advice in London, and as he is leaving very soon, he did not wish to send for a strange physician. He remembered with gratitude your care of him, and he sends for you.”
“That’s all right,” Dr. Whiles declared, “so long as it’s understood. You’ll excuse me for a moment while I write a note, and I’ll come along.”