As the doctor said this, Mr. Simnel rose. "It's a horrible idea," said he with a shudder--"horrible!"
"Very common, my dear sir, very common. If you knew how many men there are whom I meet out at dinner, in society, here and there, whom I know to be as distinctly marked for death as if I saw the plague-spot on their breasts!"
"Well, you've completely frightened me," said Beresford. "I'll get home to bed, and try and forget it in sleep. Are you coming, Simnel? Good night, doctor." And the two gentlemen went out together, leaving the little doctor already sidling up to another group.
When they were out in the street, and had started on their homeward walk, Simnel said to his companion:
"That was strange news we've just heard."
"Strange, indeed," replied Beresford. "Do you think the doctor's right?"
"Not a doubt of it; he's a garrulous idiot; as full of talk as an old woman; but I have always heard very skilful in his profession, and in this special disease I believe there are none to beat him. Oh, yes, he's right enough. Well, you always held winning cards, and now the game looks like yours."
"Simnel," said Beresford, stopping short and looking up into his face, "what the devil do you mean?"
"Mean!" echoed Simnel; "I'll tell you when you come on; it's cold stopping still in the streets, and the policeman at the corner is staring at you in unmitigated wonder. Mean!" he repeated, as they walked on; "well, it's not a very difficult matter to explain. You hear that Schröder has heart-disease--that at any moment he may die. You always had a partiality for Mrs. Schröder, I believe; and if there be any truth in what I gather from yourself and others, you stand very well with her."
"Well?"