“That—er—is, within limits, correct,” conceded the doctor.
“Right; once again we know where we are. What about diet?”
“Oh! light.... Not too much meat.... No alcohol...” He rose to his feet as Hugh opened the door; really the war seemed to have produced a distressing effect on people’s manners. Diet was the one question on which he always let himself go....
“Not much meat—no alcohol. Right. Good morning, doctor. Down the stairs and straight on. Good morning.” The door closed behind him, and he descended to his waiting car with cold disapproval on his face. The whole affair struck him as most suspicious—thumbscrews, strange drugs.... Possibly it was his duty to communicate with the police....
“Excuse me, sir.” The doctor paused and eyed a well-dressed man who had spoken to him uncompromisingly.
“What can I do for you, sir?” he said.
“Am I right in assuming that you are a doctor?”
“You are perfectly correct, sir, in your assumption.”
The man smiled: obviously a gentleman, thought the practitioner, with his hand on the door of his car.
“It’s about a great pal of mine, Captain Drummond, who lives in here,” went on the other. “I hope you won’t think it unprofessional, but I thought I’d ask you privately, how you find him.”