Hewet stood firmly between him and the door. He was determined to see for himself what kind of man he was. His confidence in the man vanished as he looked at him and saw his insignificance, his dirty appearance, his shiftiness, and his unintelligent, hairy face. It was strange that he had never seen this before.
“You won’t object, of course, if we ask you to consult another doctor?” he continued.
At this the little man became openly incensed.
“Ah!” he cried. “You have not confidence in me? You object to my treatment? You wish me to give up the case?”
“Not at all,” Terence replied, “but in serious illness of this kind—”
Rodriguez shrugged his shoulders.
“It is not serious, I assure you. You are overanxious. The young lady is not seriously ill, and I am a doctor. The lady of course is frightened,” he sneered. “I understand that perfectly.”
“The name and address of the doctor is—?” Terence continued.
“There is no other doctor,” Rodriguez replied sullenly. “Every one has confidence in me. Look! I will show you.”
He took out a packet of old letters and began turning them over as if in search of one that would confute Terence’s suspicions. As he searched, he began to tell a story about an English lord who had trusted him—a great English lord, whose name he had, unfortunately, forgotten.