“Very good,” said Geoffrey, sharply. “You persist, then, in believing that?”
“I would rather not discuss the matter, Mr Trethick,” said the doctor. “Good evening.”
“I must go to the hotel, then, that’s all,” said Geoffrey to himself. “Confound them all! They will find that I’ve Cornish blood in my veins, and can be as pig-headed in obstinacy as the best.”
Chapter Forty.
Something Wrong.
They were civil enough to him at the hotel, but Geoffrey could not help noticing that there was a peculiar something in his reception.
Of course it was strange his going there, and it led to talking about him; of this he could not help feeling sure.
“Let them talk,” he muttered, “if it pleases them;” and, after a late dinner, and spending an hour or two in writing, he made up his mind to go to bed and have a good night’s rest, to make up for the losses of the previous night.