"Neither did I," returned Blake. "Neither would I—until—"
He told the doctor of the letter that had come; and of that which it contained. In silence the doctor listened, and to the end.
There was a pause; Blake continued:
"I don't believe I could do anything. I'd lose my head. I want you to go to him, to see if there isn't something that you can do. I'll pay—"
The doctor leaped from his chair, waggling an old finger in Blake's face.
"Pay!" he yelled. "Pay me for going to Jack Schuyler! You keep your dashed money, my boy. When I want any, I'll ask you for it. D'ye hear me? I'll ask you for it! When does the first boat sail?"
"It sails to-night—in half an hour," returned Blake. "It's the 'Vagrant'…. I'm going, too…. I want to be near at hand…. Good God!" he cried, suddenly. It was almost a wail. "To think of Jack Schuyler— our Jack Schuyler!—like that!"
The doctor came in from the hall whence he had rushed. One arm was in the sleeve of his coat. His hat was over his ear. He was vainly trying to put his left glove on his right hand.
"Well?" he blurted, "what are you standing there for like a bump on a log? Why don't you get started? What's the matter with you, anyhow? Come on!" He turned, and shouted up the stairs: "Mary! Mary! Ma-a-a-a-ry, I say! I'm going away. Don't know when I'll be back. Ask young Dr. Houghton, across the street, to take care of my patients until I get home. He'll probably kill a lot of 'em; but I can't help that."
And still shouting, still fussing with glove and sleeve, he bumbled out the door, and down the steps to the waiting car.