“Doubtful if you can see any further through pea-soup than I can myself, Shenstone. Half the time, as I was coming back for dinner, I couldn't see even the pavement; so I'm afraid your local knowledge wouldn't give you much of a pull. Thanks all the same. I've got a map of the town and I'll try to find my way by it.”
He paused, and then, as Shenstone turned to go, he added:
“Put a decanter—Scotch—and some soda on the table over yonder. Then I shan't need to worry you again to-night.”
“Very good, sir.”
As Shenstone left the room, Dr. Ringwood tore open the wrapper of the B.M.J., threw the paper into the fire, and unfolded the journal. He scanned the contents while sipping his coffee; but in a few minutes the bulky magazine slipped down on to his knees and he resigned himself completely to the comfort of his surroundings.
“Thank the Lord I didn't need to become a G.P.” he reflected. “Specialism's a tough enough row to hoe, but general practice is a dog's life, if this is a sample of it.”
He picked up the B.M.J. again; but as he did so his sharp ear caught the sound of the front door bell. An expression of annoyance crossed his features and deepened as he heard Shenstone admit some visitor. In a few seconds the door of the study opened and Shenstone announced.
“Dr. Trevor Markfield, sir.”
Dr. Ringwood's face cleared as a clean-shaven man of about thirty entered the room; and he rose from his chair to greet the newcomer.
“Come in, Trevor. Try that pew beside the fire. I've been meaning to ring you up ever since I came last week, but I haven't had a moment. This 'flu epidemic has kept me on the run.”