SORRELL wrote two or three very cheerful letters to the two in Switzerland, and since the increasing pain had begun to sap the strength of his charmed silence, he called in the man from Winstonbury. On this occasion there was no reticence and no reference to the bottle of physic. Sorrell, with that deepening tinge of yellow in his skin, advanced a frank fatalism.
"You might examine me. I think I have a lump here."
He became aware of the little doctor looking very grave and rather grieved. He had been observing, palpating and percussing, and asking pertinent questions.
"How long is it since I last saw you?"
"Five or six weeks."
"But—why—on—earth?"
Sorrell was lying on his bed; he raised his head from the pillow and smiled.
"I had reasons. I have a pretty shrewd notion that my number is up. If you can help me with the pain."
"My dear sir, it is not a certainty. I should like you to see someone in town. Meanwhile, I'll have you X-rayed. I am inclined to think that the mischief lies round your gallbladder."
Sorrell was X-rayed, and the photo proved inexorably cheerless, for it did not contain the details that the little doctor had hoped to find. He closed a prim and grave mouth over the inevitable conclusion.
"I should like you to see somebody"
Sorrell had not expected to escape his doom.
"I am waiting till my son returns. He is away in Switzerland"
"But, my dear sir, if the thing is operable"
"No, thank you. Besides, it is only a question of a few days. If you can help me to fight the pain."
