And carefully as I tended and dressed him, he died.
Among my patients was Admiral App-Smith, who lived on Campden Hill, and through him I made a nice little sum and found a staunch friend. If I should die before him (I am still treating him) he occasionally will wonder greatly at his sudden recovery from the bad chronic dyspepsia which has troubled him for the past eight years.
"Confound you, d'Escombe," he would often say, "just as you have cured me, on it comes again. You doctor-fellows aren't much good, after all."
"That's all very well, Admiral," I would reply. "You are nearly eighty; be thankful you're alive."
The Admiral had a daughter, who was married to an utter scamp, well-connected—but a drunkard. In those days, I spent my evenings in the houses of friends who had home ties, and as the App-Smiths' house was close to my residence, I put in many odd hours there.
One day, the daughter, Mrs. Crosswell, came to Cromwell Road to see me, and I noticed, that she looked ill.
