Granthope dumped a pile of newspapers from the chair and sat down. The sun never came into the room, and the place was, as usual, chill, dim and dusty. A handful of fire fought for life upon the hearth. Behind a fringed portière, which was stretched across the back of the room, the doctor's cot was seen, dirty and unkempt.
Masterson finished the last of his orange with a gulp, went to a bowl in the corner where a skull was perched on a shelf, and washed his hands. After he had wiped them and rubbed a blotch of juice from the front of his plaid flannel waistcoat, he put on his coat and sat down by the fire.
"Well, I must say you're quite a stranger. How's things, Frank?" he said casually.
"So-so," was the reply. "I've given up my business."
"So I hear. What's the matter? Sold out?" asked Masterson.
"Oh, no, I just threw it all up and left."
"That's funny. I should have thought you could have got something for the good-will. What you going to do now?"
"Nothing. I didn't come here to talk about myself, Masterson, I came to talk about you."
"Well, well, that's kind of you," said the healer, buttoning on his collar. "That's what you might call friendly. You didn't use to be so much interested when you was wearing your Prince Albert. What makes you so anxious, all of a sudden?"
Granthope smiled good-naturedly, and poked at the fire till it blazed up. "See here," he said. "I can show you how to make some money easily."