“Good morning, Mr. Blake,” said the doctor, shaking hands with him, “back again, are you?”
Mr. Blake had been to C—, his native city. He had not been well for some time and had evinced a desire to go back and consult his old physician there, in which Dr. Blank had heartily concurred.
“How long do you think I can live?” Mr. Blake asked now.
“What do you mean?” replied the doctor, regarding him closely.
“I want to know how much time I have. I want to get my business fixed up before—”
“Blake, you couldn't die if you wanted to. You're not a sick enough man for that.”
The patient took a letter from his pocket and handed it in silence to the doctor. The latter took it, looked carefully at the superscription, read it slowly through, then folded it with cool deliberation and put it back into the envelope.
“I thought you were going to your old physician,” he said.
“Dr. Kenton was out of the city so I went to the great specialist.”
“Did he tell you what was in this letter he sent to me?”