"M. Stainton," he asked, "you come here to-day as a patient, is it not?"
"Well, I hope that I won't need any treatment, but——"
"But you do not come here to pass the time, hein?"
"No, doctor."
"Then," said Boussingault, spreading out his hands and shrugging his shoulders, "tell me why in the so early morning, not sick, you take absinthe for the second time in your life."
He was looking at Stainton in a manner that distinctly added to Jim's nervousness. The American was not a man to quail before most, and he had come here to get this expert's opinion on a vital matter; yet he feared to furnish the only data on which an opinion could, to have use, be founded.
"Well, doctor," he said, trying hard for the easiest words, "you—you met my wife last evening."
Boussingault's bullet head bobbed.
"What then?" he inquired.