"Thorold," Mistrial repeated, "give me a moment, will you?"
The physician raised the arm that he had pressed against his waistcoat, and, with four fingers straightened and the fifth askew, stroked an imaginary whisker.
"It is about Justine," Mistrial continued. "She is out of sorts; I want you to see her."
"Ah!" And Thorold looked down and away.
"Yes, I had intended to speak to Dr. McMasters; but when by the merest chance I saw you in there I told myself that, whatever our differences might be, there was no one who would understand the case more readily than you."
As Mistrial spoke he imitated the discretion of his enemy; he looked down and away. The next moment, however, both were gazing into each other's face.
"H'm." Thorold, as he stared, seemed to muse. "I saw her the other day," he said, at last; "she looked well enough then."
"But can't a person look well and yet be out of sorts?"
Mistrial was becoming angry, and he showed it. It was evident, however, that his irritation was caused less by the man to whom he spoke than by the physician whom he was seeking to consult. This Thorold seemed to grasp, for he answered perplexedly:
"After what has happened I don't see very well how I can go to your house."