"No," snapped out the doctor. "Mrs. Crichton is very seriously, not to say dangerously, ill."
What an extraordinary way of announcing a wife's illness to a supposed husband! Was every one mad to-day?
"I am awfully sorry—" began Crichton.
"Oh, you are, are you?" interrupted the doctor, and this time there could be no doubt he was intentionally insulting. "Will you then be kind enough to explain how your wife happens to be in the condition she is?"
"What condition?" faltered Cyril.
"Tut, man, don't pretend to be ignorant. Remember I am a doctor and can testify to the facts; yes, facts," he almost shouted.
Poor Crichton sat down abruptly. He really felt he could bear no more.
"For God's sake, doctor, tell me what is the matter with her. I swear I haven't the faintest idea."
His distress was so evidently genuine that the doctor relaxed a little and looked at him searchingly for a moment.
"Your wife has been recently flogged!"