When the examination of the child was over, Reardon
requested a few words with the doctor in the room downstairs.
'I'll come back to you,' he whispered to Amy.
The two descended together, and entered the drawing-room.
'Is there any hope for the little fellow?' Reardon asked.
Yes, there was hope; a favourable turn might be expected.
'Now I wish to trouble you for a moment on my own account. I
shouldn't be surprised if you tell me that I have congestion of
the lungs.'
The doctor, a suave man of fifty, had been inspecting his
interlocutor with curiosity. He now asked the necessary
questions, and made an examination.
'Have you had any lung trouble before this?' he inquired gravely.
'Slight congestion of the right lung not many weeks ago.'
'I must order you to bed immediately. Why have you allowed your
symptoms to go so far without--'
'I have just come down from London,' interrupted Reardon.
'Tut, tut, tut! To bed this moment, my dear sir! There is
inflammation, and--'
'I can't have a bed in this house; there is no spare room. I must
go to the nearest hotel.
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