There was what seemed an uncalled-for sneer in Gastineau’s off-hand reply. “I scarcely thought it would interest you. However, I may tell you I owe my cure to Dr. Hallamar.”
“Dr. Hallamar?” Herriard cried in surprise. “Why, you told me he declared he could do nothing for you.” Gastineau gave a sharper’s laugh at his gull’s remonstrances. “Nor could he then,” he returned, “seeing that the work was done, the cure effected.”
“What, before I spoke of him to you?”
“Just so,” Gastineau replied mockingly, “before you spoke of him to me. When that happened my cure was on the eve of completion. If it suits you to shut your eyes, my dear friend, it is to my advantage to keep mine open.”
Herriard could not be certain whether the suggestion was meant that he had wilfully shut his eyes. He hated the thought that there was near being a grain of truth in the suspicion, if such it were. “I am glad,” he said simply, “that my stupid indifference to Hallamar’s work and fame was counteracted by your vigilance. I admit that my ignorance was inexcusable.”
“It made no difference,” Gastineau replied with cold brevity.
“Happily.”
“Now, don’t let me keep you. You are going to the Countess?”
The words were snapped out; their viciousness scarcely covered by the affectation of half-contemptuous indifference which Gastineau assumed.
“I was.”