Joe Chegg was not playing policeman long before he ran to the front door and knocked.
“Mist—Salis, sir! Mist—Salis. Here’s one on ’em.”
Salis was with North, and did not hear, so that when a keen old gentleman with white hair alighted from a fly, it was to find the door barred by the sturdy young workman.
“Is Dr North here?”
“What do you want with Dr North?” cried Joe surlily.
“I am a medical man, my lad,” said the old gentleman, smiling. “I have come down from London to see him.”
“Yes, I thought you had,” said Joe; “and you can’t see him, so you may just go back, as the t’others have done before. Eh? Oh, I beg pardon, sir. I thought it was the wrong sort.”
For Salis, hearing the altercation, had hurried out, and a brief explanation had set all straight.
“Poor fellow, poor fellow!” said the doctor, after following Salis into his room and hearing an explanation of the case. “Overwrought, I suppose. Well, let’s see him.”
They went to the darkened drawing-room to pause at the door, the doctor making a sign to Salis to stay while he watched the patient, who was ignorant of his presence.