‘Nonsense, Heckett!’ said the doctor, trying to quiet him.
‘What a queer old fellow you are! Of course you’re poor. Why, you wouldn’t worry me for money as you do if you weren’t.’
‘No, of course, I shouldn’t.’
‘There, there,’ continued the doctor, arranging his pillows and smoothing the bandage that Heckett had moved in his excitement; ‘lie still and get well; that’s what you’ve got to do. I’ll come and see you again in a day or two.’
The doctor nodded to his patient, tumbled over the bulldog, and made a bolt for the door. Outside Gertie was waiting for him.
‘Your grandfather’s better, my child,’ he said. ‘He’ll be about in a week again. Good-bye.’
Dr. Birnie patted her face and went out of the door. He walked rapidly up Little Queer Street and through the Dials, making his way into New Oxford Street. Then he turned up past the Museum, and into Russell Square. Leaving the square, and turning into one of the streets branching off from it, he became aware of something shiny on a doorstep that seemed to shine right at him.
He looked up.
He nodded pleasantly, for he had recognised the highly polished face of Mr. Duck, the clerk of his legal advisers.
‘Fine morning, Mr. Duck!’