"Doctor Gallagher, I believe?" he said. "Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Milbanke. I am a very old friend of your patient."
With a slow but friendly gesture, the young man held out his hand.
"Oh, I know all about you!" he said. "I'm glad to make your acquaintance."
His voice, with its marked Irish accent, was soft and pleasant, and his glance was good-natured; but his tanned skin and rough shooting-suit suggested the sportsman rather than the medical practitioner.
Milbanke eyed him quickly.
"Then you won't misunderstand anything I may say?"
Gallagher smiled.
"Not a bit of it!" he answered nonchalantly. "And what's more, I think I know what it's going to be."
A shade of confusion passed over the Englishman's face. His understanding was still unattuned to the half-shrewd, half-inquisitive tendencies of the Irish mind. With a shadowy suspicion that he was being unobtrusively ridiculed, he became a degree colder.
"I am grieved beyond measure at Mr. Asshlin's condition, Doctor Gallagher," he said, "and it has struck me—it has been suggested to my mind that possibly——" He stopped uncertainly. "That possibly——"