“Yes,” said Mr Frewen to me, but watching his patient the while; “medicine is as a rule very nasty, and the strong mixtures worst of all; but there are cases where you cannot hesitate to administer them, even if they are distasteful; and where you disguise their taste with syrups and essential oils you often do harm instead of good.”
“Do you think he is very bad, Mr Frewen?” I said.
“Oh yes—very,” was the reply. “Not dangerous!” I whispered.
“Yes, decidedly dangerous,” he said, in the same low tone.
“Then he ought not to be left?”
“Oh yes, better left. He’ll come round. There, I’m going to see how the other prisoners are getting on. I’m afraid that I am badly wanted there.”
He stood looking down at the patient with his brow knit, and I noticed a fidgety movement about one of his feet.
“Oughtn’t I to stop and nurse him?” I asked.
“No; certainly not. He is better alone. This kind of case does not require attention—only time. Come along,” and he went to the door.
“All right, Mr Frewen; I’ll come directly,” I said softly.