The Judge kindly but firmly told him that he would not require him to prescribe for the case, and, bowing him out, he again went to his telephone.
He would request the superintendent of the City Hospital to call. He had been greatly impressed by his knowledge of boys.
An hour later Dr. Reynald drove up.
“Against my rules, you know,” he said, shaking his head at the Judge; “no private practice, but I couldn’t refuse you. What do you want?”
The Judge told him. “I have an English boy staying with me. He was to have gone to New York this morning. He is ill and can’t go; won’t eat, and I am anxious about him.”
“Take me to him,” said Dr. Reynald.
They went upstairs together, and Dr. Reynald, after giving a sharp glance round his patient’s room, went to the windows and pulled back the curtains. Then he sat down by the bed and fixed his bright, gray eyes on the boy.
Dallas became a more furious red than ever under his glance, and when the doctor said, “Let me feel your pulse,” he half hesitated.
Dr. Reynald, however, gave a peremptory tap on the bedclothes, and the boy put out his hand.
It was only detained a short time. The doctor bent over him, passed a hand over his forehead, whispered a question, to which the boy gave a reluctant reply, then, getting up, he nodded to the Judge and went out of the room, followed by an ashamed, despairing glance from his patient.