“In Sloane-street, No. 40. But it is of no use for you to go to her, for she will not see you. Cannot you prescribe for her without?”
“Certainly not. Can you describe her symptoms?”
“No; only she is in great pain, and seems feverish, and has no appetite, and cannot sleep.”
“Not uncommon symptoms these. Most patients have them. Is she poor?”
“Very, and in dreadful trouble about Mary Wythburn, who was always good to her.”
“I have a little money to give away. I will call with it, and perhaps I shall find some way of helping her. Excuse me if I advise you to return. The town will be neither pleasant nor safe later. What is this woman’s name?”
“Robinson. She says a doctor’s mistake made her a widow, and that she never knew one yet who properly understood his business. Good-bye, Dr. Stapleton.”
Tom’s smile was full of pleasant mischief, but it soon vanished. “Poor fellow, I am really afraid he did care for Mary,” she said. “Certainly something is the matter with him.”
The next moment she met her cousin. “Tom,” she said, “Scourby will be no place for you to-day.”
“That is what Dr. Stapleton has been telling me, and I am obediently making my way home already.”