“Upjohn tells me you’ve been complaining
to him because I’ve urged you to have a doctor,”
he said. “I want you to have a doctor, because
you may die any day, and if you hadn’t been
seen by anyone I shouldn’t be able to get a
certificate. There’d have to be an inquest
and I should be blamed for not calling a doctor in.”
“I hadn’t thought of that. I thought
you wanted me to see a doctor for my sake and not
for your own. I’ll see a doctor whenever
you like.”
Philip did not answer, but gave an almost imperceptible
shrug of the shoulders. Cronshaw, watching him,
gave a little chuckle.
“Don’t look so angry, my dear. I
know very well you want to do everything you can for
me. Let’s see your doctor, perhaps he can
do something for me, and at any rate it’ll comfort
you.” He turned his eyes to Upjohn.
“You’re a damned fool, Leonard. Why
d’you want to worry the boy? He has quite
enough to do to put up with me. You’ll do
nothing more for me than write a pretty article about
me after my death. I know you.”
Next day Philip went to Dr. Tyrell. He felt that
he was the sort of man to be interested by the story,
and as soon as Tyrell was free of his day’s
work he accompanied Philip to Kennington. He could
only agree with what Philip had told him. The
case was hopeless.
“I’ll take him into the hospital if you
like,” he said. “He can have a small
ward.”
“Nothing would induce him to come.”
“You know, he may die any minute, or else he
may get another attack of pneumonia.”
Philip nodded. Dr. Tyrell made one or two suggestions,
and promised to come again whenever Philip wanted
him to. He left his address. When Philip
went back to Cronshaw he found him quietly reading.
He did not trouble to inquire what the doctor had
said.
“Are you satisfied now, dear boy?” he
asked.
“I suppose nothing will induce you to do any
of the things Tyrell advised?”
“Nothing,” smiled Cronshaw.
About a fortnight after this Philip, going home one
evening after his day’s work at the hospital,
knocked at the door of Cronshaw’s room.
He got no answer and walked in. Cronshaw was
lying huddled up on one side, and Philip went up to
the bed. He did not know whether Cronshaw was
asleep or merely lay there in one of his uncontrollable
fits of irritability. He was surprised to see
that his mouth was open. He touched his shoulder.
Philip gave a cry of dismay. He slipped his hand
under Cronshaw’s shirt and felt his heart; he
did not know what to do; helplessly, because he had
heard of this being done, he held a looking-glass
in front of his mouth. It startled him to be
alone with Cronshaw. He had his hat and coat still
on, and he ran down the stairs into the street; he
hailed a cab and drove to Harley Street. Dr.
Tyrell was in.
“I say, would you mind coming at once?
I think Cronshaw’s dead.”
