“Precisely,” answered Sir William, “precisely ... yes ... quite. Ah.... You remember everything, well, since that unfortunate ... since the date on which....”
“Yes,” said Mr. Petre shortly.
“Quite normally, my dear sir? Quite normally?”
“I suppose normally,” said Mr. Petre. “I seem to remember as well as anybody else.”
The Specialist looked at his watch; a sudden light broke over that face which masked so well the profound intelligence within. “It is clearly a case,” he chirruped, “for Sir Christopher Cayley.”
But Mr. Petre had had enough. Whether his new-found wealth had bred in him a new-found assurance, or whether he had reached the limit of what humanity can bear, he kept his own counsel and said: “Well, Sir William, I am sorry you can do nothing for me.”
“It is not that; it is not that,” said the little man eagerly. “It is that really, my dear sir, Sir Christopher is the one man in all England—I think I may say in all Europe....”
“Yes,” said Mr. Petre, “yes.” He had already taken up his hat and his stick.
“Now shall I advise Sir Christopher? Shall I advise him now? Shall I write a note?”
“Thank you,” said Mr. Petre. “I will consider it. If you will allow me, I will communicate with you again.” But alas! for the integrity of a good man; he had firmly determined never to touch the Faculty again till agony should drive him. He was fed up—to the back teeth.