"Oh! I only thought you meant something more." Dollar made a pause. "Don't you feel it rather hot in here, Scarth?"
"Do you know, I do!" confessed the visitor, as though it were Dollar's house and breeding had forbidden him to volunteer the remark. "It's the heat of this stove, with the window shut. Thanks so much, doctor!"
And he wiped his strong, brown, beautifully shaven face; it was one of those that require shaving more than once a day, yet it was always glossy from the razor; and he burnished it afresh with a silk handkerchief that would have passed through a packing-needle's eye.
"And what are you really doing about this—monster?" he resumed, as who should accept the monster's existence for the sake of argument.
"Nothing, Scarth."
"Nothing? You intend to do nothing at all?"
Scarth had started, for the first time; but he started to his feet, while he was about it, as though in overpowering disgust.
"Not if he keeps out of England," replied the crime doctor, who had also risen. "I wonder if he's sane enough for that?"
Their four eyes met in a protracted scrutiny, without a flicker on either side.
"What I am wondering," said Scarth deliberately, "is whether this Frankenstein effort of yours exists outside your own imagination, Doctor Dollar."