"Well ... that's my theory. It would appear logical that—"
Taber leaned forward suddenly and extended his glass, the grin on his face showing some genuine humor. "Let's have another drink, Doctor. Then I'll go. I love the factual way this Scotch of yours hits my stomach."
12
Frank Corson entered the office of Wilson Maynard, Superintendent of Park Hill Hospital. Maynard looked out over the tops of his old-fashioned pince-nez glasses and said, "Oh, Doctor Corson. You phoned for a chat."
It was the rather pompous superintendent's way of saying he was happy to give Frank Corson a little time. He considered all the doctors and nurses at Park Hill his "boys and girls," and he did the "father" bit very well.
"Yes, I—"
Maynard peered even harder. "You don't look well, Frank. Pale. You've been working too hard."
"Nothing important, Doctor Maynard."
"Sit down. Will you have a cigarette?"