Cliff Place, Worthing, he read. High‑class Nursing and Private Sanatorium. Electric thermal treatment under medical supervision. Augustus Fagan, M.D., Proprietor. 'Approved by the Home Secretary, said the warder. 'Nothing to complain of.
Later in the afternoon they arrived. A car was waiting to take them to Cliff Place.
'This ends my responsibility, said the warder. 'From now on the doctor's in charge.
* * *
Like all Dr Fagan's enterprises, Cliff Place was conceived on a large scale. The house stood alone on the seashore some miles from the town, and was approached by a long drive. In detail, however, it showed some signs of neglect. The veranda was deep in driven leaves; two of the windows were broken. Paul's escort rang the bell at the front door, and Dingy dressed as a nurse, opened it to them.
'The servants have all gone, she said. 'I suppose this the appendicitis case. Come in. She showed no signs of recognizing Paul as she led him upstairs. 'This is your room. The Home Office regulations insisted that it should be on an upper storey with barred windows. We have had to put the bars in specially. They will be charged for in the bill. The surgeon will be here in a few minutes.
As she went out she locked the door. Paul sat down on the bed and waited. Below his window the sea beat on the shingle. A small steam‑yacht lay at anchor some distance out to sea. The grey horizon faded indistinctly into the grey sky.
Presently steps approached, and his door opened. In came Dr Fagan, Sir Alastair Digby‑Vane‑Trumpington, and an elderly little man with a drooping red moustache, evidently much the worse for drink.
'Sorry we're late, said Sir Alastair, 'but I've had an awful day with this man trying to keep him sober. He gave me the slip just as we were starting. I was afraid at first that he was too tight to be moved, but I think he can just carry on. Have you got the papers made out?"
No one paid much attention to Paul.