“He’s coming round,” said Mrs Milt, going to the window; “and there’s a gentleman with him.”
The doctor looked up hastily, and frowned, as he caught sight of a dark, sleek-looking personage, about to descend from the chaise; while, as Mrs Milt went to open the door, Horace North exclaimed to himself:
“Now, why in the world is it that Nature will set one against one’s relations, and above all against Cousin Thompson, for—”
“Ah! my dear Horace, this was very good and thoughtful of you,” exclaimed the object of his thoughts, entering the room with extended hands.
“Ah! Thompson, glad to see you,” said the doctor, innocently enough—for the lie was from habit, not intentional—“but you are not cyanide of potassium!”
“Sure I’m not, indeed; but I want to consult you.”
“I sent in my man for a portion of that unpleasant chemical; not to meet you.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter, my dear boy. I was coming down, and I saw your chaise; and I know you like me to make myself at home, so give me some breakfast.”
“Yes, of course. Run down this morning?”
“Yes, by the six-thirty from Paddington. Early bird gets the first pick, you know.”