“I think we’d better go upstairs, dear,” said the unfortunate lady. “Oh dear!” she sighed as a sudden peal rang through the house, and then subsiding, she said: “Oh it’s only a bell!”
“Her ladyship’s nervous to-night, William,” said Repton as one man should to another.
“Yes, Sir Charles,” repeated William in a grave monotone.
A card was brought in upon a salver of enormous dimensions and of remarkable if hideous workmanship.
Lady Repton recognised the name.
“I must go out a moment. I’ll be back in a moment, Charles.” She looked at him with a world of anxiety and affection, and left him chatting gaily to the servant.
Scipio Knickerbocker stood without.
Any doubts upon the matter were settled not only by his appearance but by his first phrase which ran in a singular intonation:
“Lady C. Repton? I am Scipio Knickerbocker, M.D. (Phillipsville), Ma’am,”—and he bowed. He was an exceedingly small man; he wore very long hair beautifully parted in the middle; his jaw was so square, deep and thrust forward as to be a positive malformation, but to convey at the same time an impression of indomitable will, not to say mulish obstinacy. His arms and legs were evidently too thin for health, and the development of his chest was deplorable. He was dressed in exceedingly good grey cloth, but his collar, oddly enough, was of celluloid. His buttoned boots were of patent leather, his tie had been tied once and for ever, and sewed into the shape it bore. He carried in his left hand an ominous little black leather bag.
“Come into this room,” said Lady Repton hurriedly. She took him into a small room next to the dining-room, and communicating with it by a little door; she switched on the electric light and stood while she asked him breathlessly what credentials he had.