Susie went out and ordered a trap to be got ready. But since Arthur would not wait, she arranged that it should be sent for them to the doctor’s door. They went there at once, on foot.
Dr Richardson was a little man of five-and-fifty, with a fair beard that was now nearly white, and prominent blue eyes. He spoke with a broad Staffordshire accent. There was in him something of the farmer, something of the well-to-do tradesman, and at the first glance his intelligence did not impress one.
Arthur was shewn with his two friends into the consulting-room, and after a short interval the doctor came in. He was dressed in flannels and had an old-fashioned racket in his hand.
“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, but Mrs Richardson has got a few lady-friends to tea, and I was just in the middle of a set.”
His effusiveness jarred upon Arthur, whose manner by contrast became more than usually abrupt.
“I have just learnt of the death of Mrs Haddo. I was her guardian and her oldest friend. I came to you in the hope that you would be able to tell me something about it.”
Dr Richardson gave him at once, the suspicious glance of a stupid man.
“I don’t know why you come to me instead of to her husband. He will be able to tell you all that you wish to know.”
“I came to you as a fellow-practitioner,” answered Arthur. “I am at St Luke’s Hospital.” He pointed to his card, which Dr Richardson still held. “And my friend is Dr Porhoët, whose name will be familiar to you with respect to his studies in Malta Fever.”
“I think I read an article of yours in the B.M.J.,” said the country doctor.