“I am going to advise you not to go back to work at all.”

“What!” cried Peter Reid, getting very red, for he was not accustomed to being patient when people gave him unpalatable advice.  Then something that he saw—­was it pity?—­in the doctor’s face made him white and faint.

“You—­you can’t mean that I’m really ill?”

“You may live for years—­with care.”

“I shall get another opinion,” said Peter Reid.

“Certainly—­here, sit down.”  The doctor felt very sorry for this hard little business man whose world had fallen about his ears.  Peter Reid sat down heavily on the chair the doctor gave him.

“I tell you, I don’t feel ill—­not to speak of.  And I’ve no time to be ill.  I have a deal on just now that I stand to make thousands out of—­thousands, I tell you.”

“I’m sorry,” James Lauder said.

“Of course, I’ll see another man, though it means throwing away more money.  But”—­his face fell—­“they told me you were the best man for the heart....  Leave my work!  The thing’s ridiculous Patch me up and I’ll go on till I drop.  How long do you give me?”

“As I said, you may live for years; on the other hand, you may go very suddenly.”

Peter Reid sat silent for a minute; then he broke out: 

“Who am I to leave my money to?  Tell me that.”

He spoke as if the doctor were to blame for the sentence he had pronounced.

“Haven’t you relations?”

“None.”

“The hospitals are always glad of funds.”

“I daresay, but they won’t get them from me.”

“Have you no great friends—­no one you are interested in?”

“I’ve hundreds of acquaintances,” said the rich man, “but no one has ever done anything for me for nothing—­no one.”

James Lauder looked at the hard-faced little man and allowed himself to wonder how far his patient had encouraged kindness.

A pause.

“I think I’ll go home,” said Peter Reid.

“The servant will call you a taxi.  Where do you live?”

Peter Reid looked at the doctor as if he hardly understood.

“Live?” he said.  “Oh, in Prince’s Gate.  But that isn’t home....  I’m going to Scotland.”

“Ah,” said James Lauder, “now you’re talking.  What part of Scotland is ‘home’ to you?”

“A place they call Priorsford.  I was born there.”

“I know it.  I’ve fished all round there.  A fine countryside.”

Interest lit for a moment the dull grey eyes of Peter Reid.

“I haven’t fished,” he said, “since I was a boy.  Did you ever try the Caddon Burn?  There are some fine pools in it.  I once lost a big fellow in it and came over the hills a disappointed laddie....  I remember what a fine tea my mother had for me.”  He reached for his hat and gave a half-ashamed laugh.

“How one remembers things!  Well, I’ll go.  What do you say the other man’s name is?  Yes—­yes.  Life’s a short drag; it’s hardly worth beginning.  I wish, though, I’d never come near you, and I would have gone on happily till I dropped.  But I won’t leave my money to any charity, mind that!”