“I have come to inquire about Mr. Krebs, who was brought here last night, I believe.”
I was aware for an instant of his penetrating, professional glance, the only indication of the surprise he must have felt that Hermann Krebs, of all men, should be the object of my solicitude.
“Why, we sent him home this morning. Nineteen twenty six Fowler Street. He wanted to go, and there was no use in his staying.”
“He will recover?” I asked.
The physician shook his head, gazing at me through his glasses.
“He may live a month, Mr. Paret, he may die to-morrow. He ought never to have gone into this campaign, he knew he had this trouble. Hepburn warned him three months ago, and there's no man who knows more about the heart than Hepburn.”
“Then there's no hope?” I asked.
“Absolutely none. It's a great pity.” He added, after a moment, “Mr. Krebs was a remarkable man.”
“Nineteen twenty-six Fowler Street?” I repeated.
“Yes.”