The doctor showed his whole row of teeth in a smile. “Oh, the assembly calls itself Socialist now,” he said, “But we explained to them that this was a question for men of science.”
Turnbull gave one stamp upon the gravel, then pulled himself together, and resumed: “But why should your infernal head medicine-man lock us up in separate cells while he was turning England into a madhouse? I'm not the Prime Minister; we're not the House of Lords.”
“He wasn't afraid of the Prime Minister,” replied Dr. Hutton; “he isn't afraid of the House of Lords. But——”
“Well?” inquired Turnbull, stamping again.
“He is afraid of you,” said Hutton, simply. “Why, didn't you know?”
MacIan, who had not spoken yet, made one stride forward and stood with shaking limbs and shining eyes.
“He was afraid!” began Evan, thickly. “You mean to say that we——”
“I mean to say the plain truth now that the danger is over,” said Hutton, calmly; “most certainly you two were the only people he ever was afraid of.” Then he added in a low but not inaudible voice: “Except one—whom he feared worse, and has buried deeper.”
“Come away,” cried MacIan, “this has to be thought about.”
Turnbull followed him in silence as he strode away, but just before he vanished, turned and spoke again to the doctors.