"Looked just a baby," he informed Mrs. Brandon afterwards.
"Mrs. Warlock?" he asked.
"No," said Maggie defiantly. "I'm a friend of Mr. Warlock's."
"Ah, yes—quite so." He wiped his mouth, disappeared into another room, returned with a shabby black bag and a still shabbier top hat, and declared himself ready to start.
"It's pneumonia," he told her as they went along. "Had it three weeks ago. Of course if he was out in yesterday's fog that finished him."
"He was out," said Maggie, "for a long time."
"Quite so," said Dr. Abrams. "That's killed him, I shouldn't wonder." He snuffled in his speech and he snuffled in his walk.
Before they had gone very far he put his hand on Maggie's arm; she hated his touch, but his last words had so deeply terrified her that nothing else affected her. If Martin were killed by going out yesterday then she had killed him. He had gone out to escape her. But she drove that thought from her as she had driven so many others.
"The pneumonia's bad enough," said the little man, becoming more confidential as his grip tightened on her arm, "but it's heart's the trouble. Might finish him any day. Tells me his father was the same. What a nice warm arm you've got, my dear—it's a pleasant day, too."
They entered the house and Dr. Abrams stayed chatting with Emily in the passage for a considerable time. Any one of the opposite sex seemed to hare an irresistible attraction for him.