He paused and put down his glass.
“I wonder that you haven’t prescribed this delicious sherry for Mrs. Greene long ago. I’m sure she would serve you with a writ of confiscation if she knew you had it.”
“The fact is,” Von Blon returned, “I once took her a bottle, and she gave it to Chester. She doesn’t care for wine. I remember my father’s telling me she objected violently to her husband’s well-stocked cellar.”
“Your father died, did he not, before Mrs. Greene became paralyzed?” Vance asked incuriously.
“Yes—about a year.”
“And was yours the only diagnosis made of her case?”
Von Blon looked at him with an air of gentle surprise.
“Yes. I saw no necessity of calling in any of the bigwigs. The symptoms were clear-cut and conformed with the anamnesis. Furthermore, everything since then has confirmed my diagnosis.”
“And yet, doctor”—Vance spoke with great deference—“something has occurred which, from the layman’s point of view, tends to cast doubt on the accuracy of that diagnosis. Therefore, I feel sure you will forgive me when I ask you quite frankly if it would not be possible to place another, and perhaps less serious, interpretation on Mrs. Greene’s invalidism.”
Von Blon appeared greatly puzzled.