Dr. Mallet was surprised, that is as far as anything of this kind could surprise him.
Here was a man used to facing death, and to seeing death dealt out to others—nay, he had doubtless in his time dealt out death to many. And yet now this famous soldier was unmanned—yes, unmanned was the word, by what was, after all, not a very unusual accident.
"Yes, it's a terrible thing," the doctor said briefly, "a terrible thing!"
Lingard walked over to the sideboard. He poured himself out some brandy, and drank it.
"You must forgive me. I had a touch of fever yesterday—jungle fever," he said. "Your news has given me a great shock."
"Yes, yes. Naturally."
"Will you tell me again? I don't quite understand."
He had come back and now stood facing Dr. Mallet. His face was set, expressionless, but he kept on opening and closing his right hand with a nervous movement.
"It happened, as these things always do, in the most simple way in the world. I had a similar case six months ago. Poor Mrs. Maule took an overdose of chloral last night. When her husband first became ill in Italy many years ago, she had a very anxious time, and had to supervise, so I understand, very inadequate nurses. Her anxiety, and the strain generally, brought on insomnia, and the doctors there—very wrongly from my point of view—gave her chloral. It is a most insidious drug, as you probably know, General Lingard. She and Mr. Maule have both taken it for years."
"Then there is no doubt as to its having been an accident?" Lingard's voice sank in a whisper.