"You must not have a third attack."
"I won't," replied Lamotte, with a nervous laugh. "This one has done me up; I feel weak as a kitten, meek as a lamb."
"Humph," this from Doctor Heath, who proceeded to drop into a druggist's glass, sundry globules of dark liquid, which he qualified with other globules from another bottle, and then half filling the glass with some pale brandy, handed it to Lamotte who drained it off eagerly.
"Physician, heal thyself," quoted Raymond Vandyck, watching the patient with some interest. "Why don't you do your own dosing, Lamotte?"
"I'm shaky," replied Lamotte, lifting an unsteady hand. "And then we are advised to have faith in our physician. I should swallow my own mixture with fear and trembling."
"And pour it down your neighbor's throat with entire satisfaction," interpolated Doctor Heath.
"Precisely, just as you pour this stuff down mine. Thanks, Heath," handing back the glass. "Now then, we are all friends here, and you two know what I wish to learn. Heath," shading his eyes with his hand as he reclined on the settee. "I came back, from a two day's tramp about the country in search of Miss Wardour's robbers, or of traces of them, this morning. Let that pass. I called at Wardour Place first of all, have just come from there in fact—and Constance tells me—"
He paused as if struggling with some emotion, and Ray Vandyck stirred uneasily, flushed slightly, and partially turned away his face. Only Clifford Heath retained his stoical calm.