"Here's Ritchie," I said. "I'll just see what he's got to say."
Maurice made no attempt to rise. "Right you are," he answered languidly. "I'll wait and hear the verdict."
I again felt a rich desire to box his ears, but, consoling myself with the reflection that it was possibly only a pleasure delayed, I walked out of the room, closing the door behind me.
I met the doctor in the hall. A grey-haired, clean-shaven man of about fifty, with a pompous but rather kind face, he came forward at once and shook my hand.
"Good morning, Mr. Northcote," he said. "I'm sorry to hear your butler's ill. A most excellent fellow, I should think."
"Yes," I said; "Milford is by way of being rather a treasure. Come along down and have a look at him, doctor. I'm afraid he's really bad."
I led the way down the stone staircase, and we entered the room together.
If anything, Milford looked worse than when I had seen him before. There were mottled patches on his grey face and his lips were twisted with pain. When he saw us, however, he made a faint effort to raise himself in bed.
Ritchie stepped forward at once. "No, no," he said kindly; "you must lie quite still."
Then, pulling up a chair, he began to ask a few curt questions, at the same time taking a brief examination of his patient's eyes and pulse. His face was rather grave.