"Who's saying that he's going to poison me?" demanded Deppingham shortly. "I'm objecting because I don't like the idea of taking medicine from a man just out of college. Now judge for yourself, Browne: would you take chances of that sort, away off here where there isn't a physician nearer than twelve hundred miles? Come now, be frank."
Bobby Browne leaned back and laughed heartily. "I daresay you're right. I should be a bit nervous. But if we don't practise on some one, how are we to acquire proficiency? It's for the advancement of science. Lots of people have died in that service."
"By Jove, you're cold-blooded about it!" He stared helplessly at his wife's smiling face. "It's no laughing matter, Agnes. I'm a very sick man."
"Then, why not take the powders?"
"I've just given my wife a powder, old man. She's got a nervous headache," urged Browne tolerantly.
"Your wife?" exclaimed Deppingham, sitting up. "The devil!" He looked hard at Browne for a moment. "Oh, I say, now, old chap, don't you think it's rather too much of a coincidence?"
Browne arose quickly, a flash of resentment in his eyes. "See here, Deppingham—"
"Don't be annoyed, Bobby," pleaded Lady Agnes. "He's nervous. Don't mind him."
"I'm not nervous. It's the beastly chill."
"Just the same. Lady Agnes, I shall not give him a grain of anything if he persists in thinking I'm such a confounded villain as to—"