Such thoughts have often occurred to me in considering the character of Dr. Rodd and some others whom I have known; indeed the germ of them arose in my mind which, being wearied at the time and therefore somewhat vacant, was perhaps the more open to external impressions, as I looked upon the face of this stranger on the stoep.  Moreover, as I am proud to record, I did not judge him altogether wrongly.  He was a blackguard who, under other influences or with a few added grains of self-restraint and of the power of recovery, might have become a good or even a saintly man.  But by some malice of Fate or some evil inheritance from an unknown past, those grains were lacking, and therefore he went not up but down the hill.

“Case for you, Rodd,” called out Marnham.

“Indeed,” he answered, getting to his feet and speaking in a full voice, which, like his partner’s, was that of an educated Englishman.  “What’s the matter.  Horse accident?”

Then we were introduced, and Anscombe began to explain his injury.

“Um!” said the doctor, studying him with dark eyes.  “Kaffir bullet through the foot some days ago.  Ought to be attended to at once.  Also you look pretty done, so don’t tire yourself with the story, which I can get from Mr. Quatermain.  Come and lie down and I’ll have a look at you while they are cooking breakfast.”

Then he guided us to a room of which the double French windows opened on to the stoep, a very pretty room with two beds in it.  Making Anscombe lie down on one of these he turned up his trouser, undid my rough bandage and examined the wound.

“Painful?” he asked.

“Very,” answered Anscombe, “right up to the thigh.”

After this he drew off the nether garments and made a further examination.

“Um,” he said again, “I must syringe this out.  Stay still while I get some stuff.”

I followed him from the room, and when we were out of hearing on the stoep inquired what he thought.  I did not like the look of that leg.

“It is very bad,” he answered, “so bad that I am wondering if it wouldn’t be best to remove the limb below the knee and make it a job.  You can see for yourself that it is septic and the inflammation is spreading up rapidly.”

“Good Heavens!” I exclaimed, “do you fear mortification?”

He nodded.  “Can’t say what was on that slug or bit of old iron and he hasn’t had the best chance since.  Mortification, or tetanus, or both, are more than possible.  Is he a temperate man?”

“So far as I know,” I answered, and stared at him while he thought.  Then he said with decision,

“That makes a difference.  To lose a foot is a serious thing; some might think almost as bad as death.  I’ll give him a chance, but if those symptoms do not abate in twenty-four hours, I must operate.  You needn’t be afraid, I was house surgeon at a London Hospital—­once, and I keep my hand in.  Lucky you came straight here.”