"Not that I know of. My father was drowned—out fishing, one day. The boat overturned, caught by a squall. He was, I believe, a strong healthy man."
"And your mother?"
"She never seemed the same after his death. And then the climate tried her. She'd been brought up in the South. The end was pneumonia. I was only twelve at the time, but I don't think that either of them suffered from the heart."
"I see. And now if you'll take off your things—strip to the waist, please—and lie on that sofa."
It seemed to McTaggart that at this juncture the devil himself entered into his clothes. Buttons multiplied and waxed evasive, his collar stud stuck, his vest clove to his head.
He dragged it off at last, breathless and ruffled.
"That's capital." The great man adjusted his stethoscope and leaned over the white young body outstretched. McTaggart felt dexterous hands passing swiftly, surely; tapping here, pressing there, over his bare flesh.
"A deep breath—so. Thank you, that will do. Now gently in and out ... quite naturally. Ah...!" He paused, listened a second and gave a grunt. "I wonder?"
A wave of anger swept over the prostrate man.
"He's found something, damn him!" he said to himself, resenting the eager light on that lean, absorbed face.