"I see—not taken your degree, eh? Well, well, I told our New York office in my cable to do the best they could; indeed, I wasn't at all sure that our manager could manage it in the time. But Lowry's a spry chap—he don't come from Bolton for nothing—and he knows that when th'oud man gives an order he expects it to be carried out. Did you meet Lowry, doctor?"
Now I understood Miss Garth's inexplicable and embarrassing desire to show me her burnt arm.
"I'm afraid you've made a mistake, Sir Alexander," I said. "I'm not a doctor...."
"Eh?" ejaculated the baronet, sitting back in his chair and looking at me. "Then who the devil are you?"
"My name is Okewood, Major Desmond Okewood," I replied as boldly as might be, though my host's countenance was hoisting all manner of storm signals in the shape of a reddening of the cheeks and a twitching of the nostrils, "and I have rather a strange request to make...."
But I got no farther for Garth exploded.
"Damn it!" he exclaimed, pounding the table with his big, sun-burnt hand, "I knew it. You're from Allan's. My Manchester office turned their proposition down without reference to me, and as soon as I heard about it, I wrote and confirmed the decision. And they've done nothing but badger me about it ever since. At every port there's been a cable. And now you have the brass to come interfering with my holiday, asking yourself to breakfast under false pretences.... Parsons!"
He yelled for the steward, at the same time putting forth his hand to pound a bell that stood on the table at his side.
"Stop!" I said.
"Will you stop me from ringing for my own servants?" he demanded truculently.