“Very well. Discretion, then, you understand, my good friend.”
“I’ll telephone to Sir Lawson at once.”
“Indeed? It is serious, then?”
“It’s a bad concussion.” Reggie bowed and made for the door.
“You—Dr. Fortune——” the Archduchess cried. “Will he—what will happen?”
“There’s no reason we shouldn’t hope, madame,” Reggie said, and paused a moment watching them. Emotion plays queer tricks with faces. They were both in the grip of emotions.
Sir Lawson Hunter is rather fat and his legs are rather short. His complexion is greyish and his eyes look boiled. People call him dyspeptic, though his capacious stomach has never known an ache: or imagine that he drinks, though alcohol and physicians are his chief abominations. His European reputation as a surgeon has been won by knowing his own mind.
Reggie met him at the door and took him upstairs before that puzzling pair, the Archduke and the Archduchess, had a sight of him. “Glad you could come, sir. It’s an odd case.”
“Every case is odd,” said Sir Lawson Hunter.
“He was knocked down by a car. The—”