Poynter’s face grew convulsed and angry, and he seemed to be looking about for some moral weapon with which to attack his enemy, but contented himself with a whisk of his handkerchief across his hat.
“Heath, dear? This is Mr Heath, you say—Heath?” and the doctor’s face grew troubled.
“Yes, yes. Do you remember his coming to see you?”
The doctor looked from one to the other, and shook his head.
“Oh, father, dear father, for my sake try!” cried Rich. “Do you not remember his coming to you?”
The doctor put his hand to his head, and looked wildly round.
“No,” he said at last. “No, I don’t think I have seen Mr Heath before;” but the wild look was still in his eyes.
“Don’t say that, doctor,” said Mark, taking his hand. “You have forgotten. Don’t you remember? That dreadful foggy night. I came to you, and you let me into the surgery?”
“Yes, dear, you recollect,” cried Rich, piteously.
“I was utterly exhausted, and worn out—very much excited,” continued Mark. “You took me into the consulting-room, and I lay down upon the sofa. You gave me brandy, and some narcotic.”