The servant had disappeared; it was too late to call him back.
But one refuge from his contempt for himself was now open to him--
the refuge of work. He got into his carriage and went his rounds among
his patients.
If the famous physician could have shaken his own reputation,
he would have done it that afternoon. Never before had he made
himself so little welcome at the bedside. Never before had he put off
until to-morrow the prescription which ought to have been written,
the opinion which ought to have been given, to-day. He went home
earlier than usual--unutterably dissatisfied with himself.
The servant had returned. Dr. Wybrow was ashamed to question him.
The man reported the result of his errand, without waiting to
be asked.
'The lady's name is the Countess Narona. She lives at--'
Without waiting to hear where she lived, the Doctor acknowledged
the all-important discovery of her name by a silent bend of the head,
and entered his consulting-room. The fee that he had vainly refused
still lay in its little white paper covering on the table.
He sealed it up in an envelope; addressed it to the 'Poor-box'
of the nearest police-court; and, calling the servant in,
directed him to take it to the magistrate the next morning.
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