years, and I’m willing to stake my professional reputation on it.”
“I have reason to think you are mistaken.”
“And to what do you ascribe death, pray?” asked the doctor.
“I don’t know yet.”
“Upon my soul, I think you must be out of your senses. Really, sir, your behaviour is childish. You tell me that you are a surgeon of some eminence . . .”
“I surely told you nothing of the sort.”
“Anyhow, you read papers before learned bodies and have them printed. And you come with as silly a story as a Staffordshire peasant who thinks someone has been trying to poison him because he’s got a stomach-ache. You may be a very admirable surgeon, but I venture to think I am more capable than you of judging in a case which I attended and you know nothing about.”
“I mean to take the steps necessary to get an order for exhumation, Dr. Richardson, and I cannot help thinking it will be worth your while to assist me in every possible way.”
“I shall do nothing of the kind. I think you very impertinent, sir. There is no need for exhumation, and I shall do everything in my power to prevent it. And I tell you as chairman of the board of magistrates, my opinion will have as great value as any specialist’s in Harley Street.”
He flounced to the door and held it open. Susie and Dr. Porhoët walked out; and Arthur, looking down thoughtfully, followed on their heels. Dr. Richardson slammed the street-door angrily.
