“It might be,” he said softly. “Pish! absurd! The wanderings of a diseased mind.”
Catching up the bottle from where he had placed it on the table, he walked quickly towards the door, paused, returned, and stooped as if to pick up the poker. Then smiled at his folly.
He passed softly out of the door, and closed it after him, to go to the shelves in the dark, where he made a clicking noise among the bottles, as he reached up; for there in the darkness the feeling once more assailed him that his patient might be right, while for the third time, more plainly heard now, there came a sharp tapping.
The doctor crossed to the gas bracket, turned it up, and as its light filled the surgery, he walked boldly to the lobby-door, opened it, and the dull red glare from the fanlight over the outer door shone upon his handsome placid face.
The next moment he had opened the outer door, and was gazing at a group of three men.
Mark Heath’s announcement flashed through his brain once more, and then gave place to the ideas furnished by his visitors.
“Thought you were a-bed. Couldn’t find the bell. This cursed fog, sir. Our friend here knocked down by a cab, and we saw your red light as we were trying to get him to our hotel.”
“Tut, tut, tut!” ejaculated the doctor. “Bring him in, gentlemen.”
He glanced at his visitors. Saw that they were well-dressed men in ulsters and low-crowned hats, and that the speaker was a well-built fellow with a closely-cut beard; while another was a rather Mephistophelean-looking man, with cheeks closely shaven, and upper lip bearing a bristly moustache.
Between them they supported a slight, young-looking companion, who was moaning slightly, but evidently making an effort to be firm.