“Yes, sir. I perceived it as I approached the drawing-room—this room. She was on the sofa,” he looked over to it, “very pale and dishevelled, only partly conscious.”
“Who was Miss Stevens?”
“Her maid. Quite a character. Something like your nurse, only more so.”
“What did you do?”
“I felt her pulse, her heart, thought of strychnine.”
“You are not a great doctor, are you?” I scoffed lightly.
“Oh! I know my work all right; it’s simple enough. You try this drug or the other....”
“Or none, as in my case.”
“That’s right.”
“And then if the patient does not get better or her relatives get restive, you call in some one else, who makes another shot.” There was a twinkle in his eye. I always thought he knew more about medicine than he pretended. “And what did you do for Margaret?” I went on.