“But this must be a most unusual case,” said Clayton. “Surely you never had a suspension of the faculties for so long?”
“Oh yes!” said the surgeon. “Such things do happen. Concussion of, or pressure upon the brain from a fracture, gives us at times some exceedingly interesting studies. In this case, the horse must have struck your friend full on the temple, and I wonder that he was not killed.”
Then, according to the custom of his confrères, the surgeon proceeded to dilate upon the number of eighths of an inch higher or lower which would have been sufficient for the blow to have caused death. But he was interrupted in his discourse by the approach of Sir Francis, who now came up, watch in hand.
“The ten minutes are at an end, and I thank you, sir,” he said. “I am indeed most grateful for your skilful treatment of my son. How can I ever disburden myself of the obligation?”
“Oh! if you come to that, easily enough,” laughed the surgeon, who fully believed, and held unflinchingly to the faith, that his hospital was the best in London, sparing no pains to let every one know that it was also one of the poorest. “We don’t want such patients as your son here, Sir Francis Redgrave; and you may depend in future upon receiving our yearly report, with, I hope, your name down as one of our donors.”
Sir Francis shook hands warmly, saying nothing, but thinking the more deeply; and then, bidding farewell to the sergeant at the door, he was accompanied by Clayton back to their temporary home.
They had not been back long though, before there was a step on the stair, and Mr Stiff, the landlord, came up to announce a visitor.
“Who?” said Sir Francis.
“That there little jigging man, sir, as Mr Lionel used to buy his dogs of in—”
“Tell him that I am unwell—that I cannot see him,” exclaimed Sir Francis; and Mr Stiff took his departure, but only to return at the end of five minutes.