“Why, certainly,” agreed the Doctor at once. He turned back. Miss Cornelia seemed pleased.
“I hoped you would,” she said with a little tremble in her voice such as might easily occur in the voice of a nervous old lady. “Oh, yes, here’s paper and a pencil,” as the Doctor fumbled in a pocket.
The Doctor took the sheet of paper she proffered and, using the side of his bag as a pad, began to write out the prescription.
“I don’t generally advise these drugs,” he said, looking up for a moment. “Still—”
He paused. “What time is it?”
Miss Cornelia glanced at the clock. “Half-past eleven.”
“Then I’d better bring you the powders myself,” decided the Doctor. “The pharmacy closes at eleven. I shall have to make them up myself.”
“That seems a lot of trouble.”
“Nothing is any trouble if I can be helpful,” he assured her, smilingly. And Miss Cornelia also smiled, took the piece of paper from his hand, glanced at it once, as if out of idle curiosity about the unfinished prescription, and then laid it down on the table with a careless little gesture. Dale gave her aunt a glance of dumb entreaty. Miss Cornelia read her wish for another moment alone with the Doctor.
“Dale will let you out, Doctor,” said she, giving the girl the key to the front door.