“You’ve taken up bicycling lately, I see,” he said, as he thrust his stethoscope back into his pocket.
“Yes. Anything against it?” asked Fayre, who was standing before the glass over the mantelpiece, refastening his collar.
“Nothing. You’re in as perfect a state of health as any one can expect to be who has lived the greater part of his life in the Tropics. In fact, you’re an admirable example of what temperate living will do for a man in a hot climate. I congratulate you!”
The words were harmless enough, but Fayre, suddenly catching sight of Gregg’s face in the glass, was not taken in by them. He realized, and the discovery was anything but pleasant, that the doctor was laughing at him in a grim way all his own.
“I’ll make you up a prescription, if you like,” he went on, unaware that Fayre was watching him, “but I warn you it will probably be the same as the one you’ve got already.”
“Thanks,” said Fayre warily. He was waiting for the other’s next move. “I suppose I may count myself lucky to have got off so lightly.”
“You can thank your own common sense,” was Gregg’s curt rejoinder, as he turned to his writing-table.
Fayre slipped his hand into his breast pocket and the doctor gave him a quick, sidelong glance.
“There’s no fee,” he said abruptly.
Fayre’s colour deepened as he took out his note-case and opened it, but he waited in silence for Gregg’s explanation. It came with startling clarity.