“Almost a pity not to have had him undressed,” he said to himself. “What’s the matter with you—uncomfortable? Why, poor old boy,” he continued, with a half laugh, as his hands busily felt round the sick man, “how absurd!”
He had passed a hand through the opening in Gartram’s shirt front, and after a little effort succeeded in unbuckling a cash belt which was round his patient’s waist, drawing the whole out, and noting that on one side there was a pocket stuffed full and hard as he threw the belt carelessly on the table.
“Nice wadge that for a man to lie on. There, old fellow, you’ll be more comfortable now.”
As if to endorse his words, Gartram uttered a deep sigh, and seemed to settle off to sleep.
“Breeches pockets full too, I daresay,” muttered the doctor; “and shouldn’t be surprised if there’s a good, hard bunch of keys somewhere in his coat. Doesn’t trouble him, though.”
He rose, and went back to the tray at the side, filled the already primed coffee cup and carried it to the table, wheeled forward an easy chair, selected a cigar, which he lit, and then threw himself back and sipped his coffee and smoked.
“Yes, sweet little girl Claude,” he thought; “make a man a good wife—good rich wife, and if—no, no, not the slightest chance for me, and I’ll go on as I am, and make the best of it.”
He had another sip.
“Delicious coffee, fine cigar. Worse things than being a doctor. We get as much insight of family matters as the parsons, and are trusted with more secrets.”
He laughed to himself as he lay back.