The room was a large bare one, at the end of a long
corridor. Near the door was seated a footman, placed
there to fill up the gap between two doctors, and looking
considerably relieved at my advent. Over by the window
(which was furnished with a wooden guard, like that of a
nursery) sat a tall, yellow-haired, yellow-bearded, young
man, who raised a pair of startled blue eyes as we
entered. He was turning over the pages of a bound copy
of the Illustrated London News.
"James," said Lord Saltire, "this is Dr. Stark Munro,
who has come to look after you."
My patient mumbled something in his beard, which
seemed to me suspiciously like "Damn Dr. Stark Munro!"
The peer evidently thought the same, for he led me aside
by the elbow.
"I don't know whether you have been told that James
is a little rough in his ways at present," said he; "his
whole nature has deteriorated very much since this
calamity came upon him. You must not be offended by
anything he may say or do."
"Not in the least," said I.
"There is a taint of this sort upon my wife's
side," I whispered the little lord; "her uncle's
symptoms were identical. Dr. Peterson says that the
sunstroke was only the determining cause. The
predisposition was already there. I may tell you that
the footman will always be in the next room, so that you
can call him if you need his assistance."
Well, it ended by lord and lacquey moving off, and
leaving me with my patient.
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