“Hah!” ejaculated Poynter, with a smile of satisfaction.
“Mark Heath, father dear,” said Rich gently, “Don’t you remember Mr Heath, who went to the Cape?”
“Heath?” said the doctor; “Heath—Heath? No—no,” he added thoughtfully. “Glad to see Mr Heath. Friend of Hendon’s?” His words were calm, but he seemed to wince.
“No, doctor: I’m Hendon’s friend,” said Poynter, with a laugh; and he gave his hat a loving wipe.
“Yes, Mr Poynter. You came to see me the day before yesterday. I remember—remember. I prescribed—”
“That’s right, sir; that’s right,” cried Poynter, with one of his horse laughs.
“Is this man going, Hendon?” whispered Mark impatiently.
“No, Mr Mark Heath, he ain’t,” said Poynter fiercely. “Speak lower if you don’t want people to hear; we’ve got sharp ears in the City, and I’m not going.”
“No, no; Mr Poynter has come to see me,” said the doctor, gazing in a frightened way at Mark. “Don’t go, Mr Poynter. It’s very dull here.”
“I’m not going, doctor. It’s all right,” said the unwelcome visitor. “You’re going to set me right.”