One day the bishop entered the office where Carl was at work, accompanied by a plain-looking man, possibly forty years of age. He was of medium stature, with broad and prominent brow, great brown eyes, and prominent nose. But the most significant and impressive feature of the man's face was his eyes—large, brown, and possessed of that peculiar quality which made them grow luminous when he was much interested and almost frightful when excited. He was introduced to Carl as Mr. Marmion, from New York. As Carl had no particular interest in the New York gentleman, after a few words of commonplaces he turned away and resumed his work; but the bishop having slipped out, the stranger seemed to call for the courtesy of the secretary.
"Take that easy chair, Mr. Marmion," said Carl. "Bishop Albertson will no doubt return presently."
"Bishop Albertson tells me that you are just recovering from a severe illness, Mr. Edwards," said Mr. Marmion, as he sat down in the comfortable chair.
"Yes, I have been quite ill with typhoid fever," was the reply.
"Are you sleeping and eating well?"
"No, not by any means. If I am gaining at all, it is a very slow gain. I have almost an aversion to food, and every exertion is a task."
"Ah, that ought not to be," said the gentleman. "You are surely not gaining if you can neither eat nor sleep. Perhaps your liver is not right. What is the doctor giving you?" Carl handed him the bottle containing the medicine, which he uncorked and after touching the liquid to his tongue remarked: "It seems to be the right stuff. I'm something of a doctor, myself, and I must help to shake up that liver. Who is your doctor?"
"Dr. King."
"Ah, yes—Hiram King. I know him."
The seemingly mere friendly interest of the doctor aroused in Carl no suspicion that he was the direct object of his visit, and that the conversation really constituted a diagnosis of his case.