Helen was very late in coming down.  She looked like a person who has been sitting for a long time in the dark.  She was pale and thinner, and the expression of her eyes was harassed but determined.  She ate her luncheon quickly, and seemed indifferent to what she was doing.  She brushed aside Terence’s enquiries, and at last, as if he had not spoken, she looked at him with a slight frown and said: 

“We can’t go on like this, Terence.  Either you’ve got to find another doctor, or you must tell Rodriguez to stop coming, and I’ll manage for myself.  It’s no use for him to say that Rachel’s better; she’s not better; she’s worse.”

Terence suffered a terrific shock, like that which he had suffered when Rachel said, “My head aches.”  He stilled it by reflecting that Helen was overwrought, and he was upheld in this opinion by his obstinate sense that she was opposed to him in the argument.

“Do you think she’s in danger?” he asked.

“No one can go on being as ill as that day after day—­” Helen replied.  She looked at him, and spoke as if she felt some indignation with somebody.

“Very well, I’ll talk to Rodriguez this afternoon,” he replied.

Helen went upstairs at once.

Nothing now could assuage Terence’s anxiety.  He could not read, nor could he sit still, and his sense of security was shaken, in spite of the fact that he was determined that Helen was exaggerating, and that Rachel was not very ill.  But he wanted a third person to confirm him in his belief.

Directly Rodriguez came down he demanded, “Well, how is she?  Do you think her worse?”

“There is no reason for anxiety, I tell you—­none,” Rodriguez replied in his execrable French, smiling uneasily, and making little movements all the time as if to get away.

Hewet stood firmly between him and the door.  He was determined to see for himself what kind of man he was.  His confidence in the man vanished as he looked at him and saw his insignificance, his dirty appearance, his shiftiness, and his unintelligent, hairy face.  It was strange that he had never seen this before.

“You won’t object, of course, if we ask you to consult another doctor?” he continued.

At this the little man became openly incensed.

“Ah!” he cried.  “You have not confidence in me?  You object to my treatment?  You wish me to give up the case?”

“Not at all,” Terence replied, “but in serious illness of this kind—­”

Rodriguez shrugged his shoulders.

“It is not serious, I assure you.  You are overanxious.  The young lady is not seriously ill, and I am a doctor.  The lady of course is frightened,” he sneered.  “I understand that perfectly.”

“The name and address of the doctor is—?” Terence continued.

“There is no other doctor,” Rodriguez replied sullenly.  “Every one has confidence in me.  Look!  I will show you.”

He took out a packet of old letters and began turning them over as if in search of one that would confute Terence’s suspicions.  As he searched, he began to tell a story about an English lord who had trusted him—­a great English lord, whose name he had, unfortunately, forgotten.