Just before turning in my man brought me a telegram from Sir Bernard, dispatched from Brighton, regarding a case to be seen on the following day. He was very erratic about telegrams and sent them to me at all hours, therefore it was no extraordinary circumstance. He always preferred telegraphing to writing letters. I read the message, tossed it with its envelope upon the fire, and then retired with a fervent hope that I should at least be allowed to have a complete night’s rest. Sir Bernard’s patients were, however, of that class who call the doctor at any hour for the slightest attack of indigestion, and summonses at night were consequently very frequent.
I suppose I had been in bed a couple of hours when I was awakened by the electric bell sounding in my man’s room, and a few minutes later he entered, saying:—
“There’s a man who wants to see you immediately, sir. He says he’s from Mr. Courtenay’s, down at Kew.”
“Mr. Courtenay’s!” I echoed, sitting up in bed. “Bring him in here.”
A few moments later the caller was shown in.
“Why, Short!” I exclaimed. “What’s the matter?”
“Matter, doctor,” the man stammered. “It’s awful, sir!”
“What’s awful?”
“My poor master, sir. He’s dead—he’s been murdered!”