"Well, you know, I don't often talk of these matters; there are men in our profession, my dear sir, who gossip and chatter, and I believe make it pay very well; but they are men of no intellect, mere quacks and charlatans--quacks and charlatans! But with gentlemen like yourselves, men of the world, I don't mind occasionally revealing a few of the secrets of the--the--what d'ye call 'em?--prison-house. The fact is--" and the doctor lowered his voice and looked additionally solemn,--"that Mr. Schröder's life hangs by a thread."
Both his listeners started, and Mr. Simnel from between his set teeth said, "The devil!"
"By a thread!" repeated the doctor, holding out his finger and thumb as though he actually had the thread between them. "He may go off at any moment; his life is not certain for an hour; he's engaged, as you know, in tremendous transactions, and any sudden fright or passion would be his certain death."
"Ah, then his disease is--"
"Heart, my dear sir, heart!" said the doctor, tapping himself on the left side of his waistcoat; "his heart's diseased,--one cannot exactly say how far, but I suspect strongly,--and he may go out at any moment like the snuff of a candle."
"Have you known this long?" asked Beresford.
"Only two days: he came to me two days ago to consult me about a little worrying cough which he described himself as having; and in listening at his chest I heard the death-beat. No mistaking it, my dear sir; when you've once heard that 'click,' you never forget it."
"By Jove, how horrible!" said Simnel.
"Poor devil! does he know it himself?" asked Beresford.
"Know it, my dear sir? Of course not. You don't imagine I told him? Why the shock might have killed him on the spot. Oh, dear, no! I prescribed for his cough, and told him specially to avoid all kind of excitement: that was the only warning I dare give him."