“Why, sir, you don’t think that?” faltered the woman.
“No, I do not think, because I am quite sure, Mrs Bruff. He was not hurt by your cookery, but by what he took afterward. You understand?”
“Oh, sir!”
“Come along, Vane. Good-morning, Mrs Bruff,” said the doctor, loud enough for his voice to be heard upstairs.
“I am only too glad to come and help when any one is ill; but I don’t like coming upon a fool’s errand.”
The doctor walked out into the road, looking very stern and leaving the gardener’s wife in tears, but he turned to Vane with a smile before they had gone far.
“Then you don’t think it was the fungi, uncle?” said the lad, eagerly.
“Yes, I do, boy, the produce of something connected with yeast fungi; not your chanterelles.”
Vane felt as if a load had been lifted off his conscience.
“Very tiresome, too,” said the doctor, “for I wanted to have a chat with Bruff to-day about that greenhouse flue. He says it is quite useless, for the smoke and sulphur get out into the house and kill the plants. Now then, sir, you are such a genius at inventing, why can’t you contrive the way to heat the greenhouse without causing me so much expense in the way of fuel, eh? I mean the idea you talked about before. I told Mr Syme it was to be done.”