‘Is there any hope for the little fellow?’ Reardon asked.
Yes, there was hope; a favourable turn might be expected.
‘Now I wish to trouble you for a moment on my own account. I shouldn’t be surprised if you tell me that I have congestion of the lungs.’
The doctor, a suave man of fifty, had been inspecting his interlocutor with curiosity. He now asked the necessary questions, and made an examination.
‘Have you had any lung trouble before this?’ he inquired gravely.
‘Slight congestion of the right lung not many weeks ago.’
‘I must order you to bed immediately. Why have you allowed your symptoms to go so far without—’
‘I have just come down from London,’ interrupted Reardon.
‘Tut, tut, tut! To bed this moment, my dear sir! There is inflammation, and—’
‘I can’t have a bed in this house; there is no spare room. I must go to the nearest hotel.’