“Nothing at present,” Mr. Fentolin sighed. “It will be well, I think, for the poor man to remain undisturbed by any communications from his friends. Is he restless at all?”
“He wants to get on with his journey.”
“We shall see,” Mr. Fentolin remarked. “Now feel my pulse, Sarson. How am I this morning?”
The doctor held the thin wrist for a moment between his fingers, and let it go.
“In perfect health, as usual,” he announced grimly.
“Ah, but you cannot be sure!” Mr. Fentolin protested. “My tongue, if you please.”
He put it out.
“Excellent!”
“We must make quite certain,” Mr. Fentolin continued. “There are so many people who would miss me. My place in the world would not be easily filed. Undo my waistcoat, Sarson. Feel my heart, please. Feel carefully. I can see the end of your stethoscope in your pocket. Don’t scamp it. I fancied this morning, when I was lying here alone, that there was something almost like a palpitation—a quicker beat. Be very careful, Sarson. Now.”
The doctor made his examination with impassive face. Then he stepped back.