Dr. Brighton-Pomfrey was a little round-faced man with defective eyesight and an unsuitable nose for the glasses he wore, and he flaunted—­God knows why—­enormous side-whiskers.

“Well,” he said, balancing the glasses skilfully by throwing back his head, “and how are you?  And what can I do for you?  There’s no external evidence of trouble.  You’re looking lean and a little pale, but thoroughly fit.”

“Yes,” said the late bishop, “I’m fairly fit—­”

“Only—?” said the doctor, smiling his teeth, with something of the manner of an old bathing woman who tells a child to jump.

“Well, I’m run down and—­worried.”

“We’d better sit down,” said the great doctor professionally, and looked hard at him.  Then he pulled at the arm of a chair.

The ex-bishop sat down, and the doctor placed himself between his patient and the light.

“This business of resigning my bishopric and so forth has involved very considerable strains,” Scrope began.  “That I think is the essence of the trouble.  One cuts so many associations....  I did not realize how much feeling there would be....  Difficulties too of readjusting one’s position.”

“Zactly.  Zactly.  Zactly,” said the doctor, snapping his face and making his glasses vibrate.  “Run down.  Want a tonic or a change?”

“Yes.  In fact—­I want a particular tonic.”

Dr. Brighton-Pomfrey made his eyes and mouth round and interrogative.

“While you were away last spring—­”

“Had to go,” said the doctor, “unavoidable.  Gas gangrene.  Certain enquiries.  These young investigators all very well in their way.  But we older reputations—­Experience.  Maturity of judgment.  Can’t do without us.  Yes?”

“Well, I came here last spring and saw, an assistant I suppose he was, or a supply,—­do you call them supplies in your profession?—­named, I think—­Let me see—­D—?”

“Dale!”

The doctor as he uttered this word set his face to the unaccustomed exercise of expressing malignity.  His round blue eyes sought to blaze, small cherubic muscles exerted themselves to pucker his brows.  His colour became a violent pink.  “Lunatic!” he said.  “Dangerous Lunatic!  He didn’t do anything—­anything bad in your case, did he?”

He was evidently highly charged with grievance in this matter.  “That man was sent to me from Cambridge with the highest testimonials.  The very highest.  I had to go at twenty-four hours’ notice.  Enquiry—­gas gangrene.  There was nothing for it but to leave things in his hands.”

Dr. Brighton-Pomfrey disavowed responsibility with an open, stumpy-fingered hand.

“He did me no particular harm,” said Scrope.

“You are the first he spared,” said Dr. Brighton-Pomfrey.

“Did he—?  Was he unskilful?”

“Unskilful is hardly the word.”

“Were his methods peculiar?”

The little doctor sprang to his feet and began to pace about the room. 
“Peculiar!” he said.  “It was abominable that they should send him to me. 
Abominable!”