"Flogged! How awful! But I can't believe it."
"Indeed!"
"Certainly not. You must be mistaken. The bruises may be the result of a fall."
"They are not," snapped the doctor.
"Flogged! here in England, in the twentieth century! But who could have done such a thing?"
"That is for you to explain, and I must warn you that unless your explanation is unexpectedly satisfactory, I shall at once notify the police."
Police! Crichton wiped beads of perspiration from his forehead.
"But, doctor, I know no more about it than you do."
"So you think that it will be sufficient for you to deny all knowledge as to how, where, and by whom a woman who is your wife—yes, sir—your wife, has been maltreated? Man, do you take me for a fool?"
What should he do? Was this the moment to tell him the truth? No, it would be useless. The doctor, believing him to be a brute, was not in a frame of mind to attach credence to his story. The truth was too improbable, a convincing lie could alone save the situation.