"Because I want you to treat such a case."
The doctor considered his patient narrowly. "Of course, you understand, Mr. Brooks, that my professional charges are very high."
Duvall took out his pocketbook and removing from it a note for a hundred francs, laid it carelessly on the table. "I have understood so, Doctor," he remarked. "Luckily I am a man of considerable wealth."
"In that event," Hartmann remarked, eying the bill in a gratified way, "I am at your service. What is the nature of your complaint?"
"It isn't about myself that I have come," Duvall hastened to inform him. "It concerns a man in my employ—my valet, to be exact."
"Your valet?" The doctor frowned, and made as though to rise. "My dear sir—"
"One moment, please, Doctor. The man is a most worthy fellow. He has been in my service for years. A Belgian, too, I think. I have a very high regard for him—an excellent servant, except for the peculiar delusions with which he has lately become possessed."
"I fear that I cannot undertake his treatment, Mr. Brooks. I receive only a few patients, and those of the highest standing."
"I know that. I did not propose to have the man quartered here in your house. I merely want you to examine him, in order that I may find out whether his case is curable or not. If it is, I shall take him to Paris and place him under treatment—if not, I must, of course, discharge him. It is for that reason that I have come to you."
"What are the man's symptoms?" asked the doctor, shortly.