“It was not one of your cases,” he said.
“Private affair, eh?”
“My child is ill.”
“Your child?”
“Yes; I’m a bit worried, that’s all.”
Murchison turned the tap off with a jerk, rasped the dirty towel round the roller, and began to dry his hands as though he were trying to crush something between his palms. Dr. Tugler thrust out a lower lip, looked hard at Murchison, and fidgeted his fists in his trousers-pockets.
“What’s the matter?”
The big man’s silence suggested for a moment that he resented the abruptness of the question.
“Can’t say—yet.”
“Serious?”