“Yes; of course. We know—fashionable fibs: Out of town; not at home, etcetera, etcetera.”
“My dear doctor,” said Huish, fidgeting slightly in his seat, “I have always made it a practice to try and be honest in my statements. I tell you I only came back two days ago.”
“That be hanged, John Huish!” cried the doctor. “Why, you were here a fortnight ago yesterday.”
“Nonsense,” cried Huish excitedly. “How absurd!”
“Absurd? Hang it, boy! do you think I’m mad? Here is the entry,” he continued, reading. “Seventh, John Huish, Nervous fit—over-excitement—old bite of dog—bad dreams—dread of hydrophobia. Prescribed, um—um—um—etcetera, etcetera. Now then, what do you say to that?”
“You were dreaming,” said Huish.
“Dreaming?” said the doctor, laughing. “What! that you—here, stop a moment.” He rang the bell. “Ask Daniel yourself when you were here last.”
“What nonsense!” said Huish, growing agitated. Then as the door opened, “Daniel,” he said quietly, “when was I here last?”
“Yesterday fortnight, sir,” said the man promptly.
“That will do, Daniel!” and the attendant retired as Huish sank back in his chair, gazing straight before him in a strange, vacant manner. “What a fool I am!” muttered the doctor. “I’ve led him on to it again. Hang it! shall I never understand my profession?”