Desmond remembered to have seen the man already looking out of a window opposite his on one of the upper floors of the house. In reply to a casual inquiry, Mrs. Viljohn-Smythe had informed him that the house was a nursing home kept by a Dr. Radcombe, a nerve specialist.
“It is quite like spring!” replied Desmond, wondering if this were the doctor. Doctors get about a good deal and Dr. Radcombe might be able to tell him something about Mrs. Malplaquet.
“I think we have seen one another in the mornings sometimes,” said the heavily-jowled man, “though I have noticed that you are an earlier riser than I am. But when one is an invalid—”
“You are one of Dr. Radcombe’s patients, then!” said Desmond.
“I am,” returned the other, “a great man, that, my dear sir. I doubt if there is his equal for diagnosis in the kingdom.”
“He has lived here for some years, I suppose?”
“Oh yes!” answered the man, “in fact, he is one of the oldest and most-respected residents of Kensington, I believe!”
“I am rather anxious to find some friends of mine who live about here,” Desmond remarked, quick to seize his opportunity, “I wonder whether your doctor could help me...”
“I’m sure he could,” the man replied, “the doctor knows everybody...”
“The name—” began Desmond, but the other checked him.