He was taken briskly through the town, along streets of white-painted, red-tiled houses. Lofoden boats were in the harbour, laden with klipfisk, or oil. The greyness turned to drizzling rain, and the view from the Floien, which was the object of their walk, had vanished into mist. Dr Scott advised his companion to come early one morning.
On the way back, Wareham put a question. Had Hugh seen either Mrs Martyn or Miss Dalrymple since they reached Bergen? Dr Scott’s answer came after a momentary hesitation.
“Once. To say the truth, we have not encouraged their visits. Mrs Martyn—well, Mrs Martyn was not intended by nature for a sick-room, and though Miss Dalrymple showed extreme tact and kindness, the sight of her sent up his temperature.” He added dryly—“I imagine she not infrequently has a disturbing effect upon heads and hearts?” and without waiting for an answer, went on—“So far we have succeeded in warding it off; it is, however, highly probable that he will insist, in which case—”
“He is to see her?”
“Certainly. The irritation of refusal would be more harmful than the other sort of excitement.”
“One question. When do you expect a crisis?”
He was answered that this was difficult to say, owing to their not knowing the time that he was attacked. Things pointed, however, to a day early in next week. Dr Scott hoped not longer, then turned the conversation.
They were met at the door of the hotel by Colonel Martyn.
“Just back from the yacht,” he announced. “Milborough wanted us to dine on board. As we wouldn’t, he’s coming here. I’ve been up, doctor, and seen one of your dragons. No change.”
The doctor nodded and began to mount the stairs. He turned to say to Wareham—“What’s your number? I’ll send for you if I think it desirable.”