John Whyley’s beat took him in another direction, but something—a feeling of dissatisfaction with his late act, or the suspicion engendered by his calling made him turn back and go slowly to the doctor’s door.
All was perfectly still; the red lamp burned over the principal door, while over the surgery door the three last letters were more indistinct than ever, and “Surg” somehow looked like a portion of “Resurgam” on a memorial stone.
John Whyley went close up to the latter door, and listened. All was still.
He hesitated a few moments, and then tapped and listened again, when there seemed to be a slight rustling sound within, but he could not be sure.
Turning on his light, there, beside him, was a bell-pull with the hole half-filled with snow.
“Shall I?” he said, hesitating. “People don’t like being called up for a cock-and-bull story, and what have I got to say? These gents came away tight.”
He paused and removed his helmet for another refreshing scratch.
“Was it acting? I’ve heerd a chap on the stage drawl just like that one with the thick voice. Now, stop a moment. Let’s argufy. Couldn’t be burglary. Yes, it could—body burglary!”
John Whyley grew excited as a strange train of thought ran through his head in connection with what he had heard tell about surgeons and their investigations, and purchases delivered in the dead of night.
“I don’t care,” he said; “wrong or right, I wish I hadn’t let that cab go, and I’ll get to the bottom of it before I’ve done.”