“I’m sure I should be happy to oblige you in any way,” said he—and he seemed to be a very pleasant man. “But I do not quite understand what it is you ask of me.”
“Such a dreadful thing, you know, if she has to be put in a mad-house too!” went on the pater. “A pretty, anxious, hard-working little woman she is, as ever you saw, Dr. Dale! We think the account in your handwriting might ease her. I hope you won’t mind the trouble.”
“The account of what?” asked the doctor.
“Only this,” explained the Squire, laying hold, in his zeal, of the doctor’s button-hole. “Just dot down the particulars of Francis Radcliffe’s death. His death here, you know. I suppose you were an eye-witness to it.”
“But, my good sir, I—pardon me—I must repeat that I do not understand. Francis Radcliffe did not die here. He went away a twelvemonth ago, cured.”
“Goodness bless me!” cried the Squire, staggering back to a chair when he had fully taken in the sense of the words, and staring about him like a real maniac. “It cannot be. I must have come to the wrong place.”
“This is Dale House, and I am Dr. Dale. Mr. Francis Radcliffe was under my charge for some months: I can’t tell exactly how many without referring to my books; seven or eight, I think; and he then left, cured, or nearly so.”
“Johnny, hand me my handkerchief; it’s in my hat. I can’t make top or tail of this.”
“I did not advise his removal,” continued Dr. Dale, who, I do believe, thought the Squire was bad enough for a patient. “He was very nearly, if not quite well, but another month here would have established his recovery on a sure basis. However, his brother insisted on removing him, and I had no power to prevent it.”
“What brother?” cried the Squire, rubbing his head helplessly.