“Oh,” said Desmond, rather puzzled, “what doctor?”
“It’s not Dr. Haines from the village, Mr. Bellward, sir,” said the housekeeper, “It’s a genel’man from Lunnon!”
Then Desmond remembered Crook’s promise to look him up and guessed it must be he. He bade Martha show the doctor in and bring tea for two.
Desmond’s surmise was right. The old woman ushered in Crook, looking the very pattern of medical respectability, with Harley Street written all over him from the crown of his glossy top-hat to the neat brown spats on his feet. In his hand he carried a small black bag.
“Well,” he said, surveying Desmond, “and how do we find ourselves to-day? These chills are nasty things to shake off, my dear sir!”
“Oh, stow that!” growled Desmond, who was in little mood for joking.
“Voice inclined to be laryngeal,” said Crook putting down his hat and bag on a chair, “we shall have to take care of our bronchial tubes! We are not so young as we were!”
“You can drop all that mumming, Crook!” snapped Desmond irascibly.
“Voice rotten,” replied Crook calmly surveying him through his pince-nez. “Really, Major—I should say, Mr. Bellward—you must take more pains than that. You are talking to me exactly as though I were a British Tommy. Tut, tut, this will never do, sir! You must talk thicker, more guttural-like, and open the vowels well.”
He had dropped his jesting manner altogether and spoke with the deep earnestness of the expert airing his pet topic. He was so serious that Desmond burst out laughing. It must be said, however, that he laughed as much like a German as he knew how. This appeared to mollify Crook who, nevertheless, read him a long lecture against ever, for a moment, even when alone, quitting the role he was playing. Desmond took it in good part; for he knew the soundness of the other’s advice.