"I've just been telling you why not. Difference in ages. Too great."
Stainton's face became graver. He leaned forward toward Holt, pushed his glass aside and, with his heavy forefinger, tapped for emphasis upon the board.
"I told you," he said, "that your best New York doctor has pronounced me to all intents and purposes only twenty-five years old."
"O, Hell!" said Holt.
Stainton's brows drew close together.
"I mean what I say," he declared.
"Of course you do. But did the doctor-fellow mean what he said?"
"Why shouldn't he? I paid him to tell the truth. He probably thought I suspected some illness, so that, from his point of view, there would have seemed more money in it for him if he had said I needed treatment—his treatment."
"Perhaps. But medicine isn't an exact science yet—not by several thousand graveyards full."
"What of that? I didn't need the doctor's assurances—really. I have my own feelings to go by."