He came next morning in a hired carriage from the station. A dressed-up, brushed-up villain, with diamond rings, studs and pin, a heavy gold watch chain, gold-rimmed eyeglasses, and gold-knobbed malacca stick. A crafty, sensual face, and a sharp eye that meant business. “Ah,” thought I, “you’ve had your instructions, that’s plain.” But I received him with all the respect which would have been his due had he been the man he pretended, and possibly believed himself, to be.
His Majesty had graciously honoured him with a command to visit my friend. Herr von Lindheim was better to-day, he ventured to hope.
I thereupon described the illness, somewhat differently, perhaps, from the visitor’s expectation. My friend and I had supped on such an evening at the house of a charming lady in Buyda—possibly well known to the Herr Hof-Artzt, the Baroness Fornbach. The Herr Hof-Artzt conveyed by a bow and a smirk that he was one of that lady’s circle. “On the way home,” I continued, “my friend was taken alarmingly ill. I got him with difficulty to his house; he was put to bed.” I described his symptoms. “But he grew so much worse that we feared he would not live through the night, which was likewise the opinion of the doctor we called in.”
“Who was that?”
“Doctor Rothmer.”
The Herr Hof-Artzt groaned and gave a shrug.
“In the morning, however, my friend felt easier, but in oppressive fear of death. His one idea was to reach his home and die here. The desire seemed so strong that I hastily procured a carriage and brought him hither in the hope that the change would restore him.”
“And it has?” he asked expectantly.
“In a great, great measure. The alarming bodily symptoms have subsided, but, Herr Doctor, it seems as though a worse calamity had befallen us.”
“Indeed?” He looked at me curiously, but I think could make nothing of my anxious, innocent manner.