Two of the green-coated wardens of the gate ran up to him. “Oh, Lord,” Reggie Fortune groaned, “why did I be a doctor?” But before he could get through the flurry of people the man was being carried away.
The gift of Lomas for arriving where he wants to be displayed itself. Lomas slid through the crowd and took his arm, “Stout fellow! Come along. It’s Sir Arthur Dean. Touch of sun, what?”
“Arthur Dean? That’s the Persia man, pundit on the Middle East?”
“That’s the fellow. Getting old, you know. One of the best.”
Into the room where the old man lay came the shouting over the first race. By the door Lomas and an inspector of police talked in low tones, glancing now and then at Reggie, who was busy.
“Merry Man! Merry Man! Merry Man!” the crowd roared outside.
Reggie straightened his bent back and stood looking down at his patient. Lomas came forward. “Anything we can get you, Fortune? Would you like some assistance?”
“You can’t assist him,” said Reggie. “He’s dead.”
“Merry Man!” the crowd triumphed. “Merry Man!”
“Good Gad!” said Lomas. “Poor fellow. One of the best. Well, well, what is it? Heart failure?”