“How do you mean?  D’you mean he couldn’t open his mouth?”

“Well, sir, it was something like that.”

The doctor began to make comments in a rapid undertone, as if talking to himself; he pressed his hand once or twice against Frank’s stomach; he took up the filthy bandage and examined it.  Then he looked at the boot.

“Where’s the sock?” he asked sharply.

Gertie produced it from a bundle.  He looked at it closely, and began to mumble again.  Then he rose to his feet.

“What’s the matter with him, doctor?” asked the Major, trying to look perturbed.

“We call it tetanus,” said the doctor.

“Who are you, my man?” he said.  “Any relation?”

The Major looked at him loftily.

“No, sir....  I am his friend.”

“Ha!  Then you must leave your friend in my charge.  He shall be well in a week at the latest.”

The Major was silent.

“Well?” snapped the doctor.

“I understood from your servant, sir—­”

“You speak like an educated man.”

“I am an educated man.”

“Ha—­well—­no business of mine.  What were you about to say?”

“I understood from your servant, sir, that this was not quite in your line; and since—­”

The specialist smiled grimly.  He snatched up a book from a pile on the table, thrust open the title-page and held it out.

“Read that, sir....  As it happens, it’s my hobby.  Go and ask Dr. Foster, if you like....  No, sir; I must have your friend; it’s a good sound case.”

The Major read the title-page in a superior manner.  It purported to be by a James Whitty, and the name was followed by a series of distinctions and of the initials, which I have forgotten.  F.R.S. were the first.

“My name,” said the doctor.

The Major handed the book back with a bow.

“I am proud to make your acquaintance, Dr. Whitty.  I have heard of you.  May I present Mrs. Trustcott?”

Gertie looked confused.  The doctor made a stiff obeisance.  Then his face became animated again.

“We must move your friend upstairs,” he said.  “If you will help, Mr. Trustcott, I will call my servant.”

(III)

It was about half-past nine that night that the doctor, having rung the bell in the spare bedroom, met his man at the threshold.

“I’ll sleep in this room to-night,” he said; “you can go to bed.  Bring in a mattress, will you?”

The man looked at his master’s face. (He looked queer-like, reported Thomas later to his wife.)

“Hope the young man’s doing well, sir?”

A spasm went over the doctor’s face.

“Most extraordinary young man in the world,” he said....  Then he broke off.  “Bring the mattress at once, Thomas.  Then you can go to bed.”

He went back and closed the door.