“For a day or two I shall not be able to give permission for any one to see him, except Mrs. Armine and myself, and of course his servant, Hamza.”

Isaacson sent a sudden, piercing look, a look that was like something sharp that could cut deep into the soul, to the man who faced him.  Just for a moment a suspicion besieged him, a suspicion hateful and surely absurd, yet—­for are not all things possible in the cruel tangle of life?—­that might be grounded on truth.  Before that glance the young doctor moved, with a start of uneasiness, despite his self-possession.

“What—­what d’you mean?” he almost stammered.  “What d’you mean?” He felt mechanically at his tie.  “I don’t understand you,” he said.  Then, recovering himself, as the strangely fierce expression died away from the eyes which had learnt what they wanted to know, he added: 

“I certainly shall not give permission for you to see Mr. Armine.  You would disturb and upset him very much.  He needs the greatest quiet and repose.  The brain is a fearfully sensitive organ.”

Now, suddenly, Isaacson felt as if he was with an obstinate boy, and any anger he had felt against his companion evaporated.  Indeed, he was conscious of a strong sensation of pity, mingled with irony.  For a moment he had wronged the young doctor by a doubt, and for that moment he had a wish to make some amends.  The man’s unconsciousness of it did not concern him.  It was to himself really that the amends were due.

“Doctor Hartley,” he said almost cordially, “I think we don’t quite understand one another.  Perhaps that is my fault.  I oughtn’t to have repeated Mr. Armine’s words.  They were spoken and meant.  But a sick man speaks out of his sickness.  We doctors realize that and don’t take too much account of what he says.  You are here, I am sure, with no desire but to cure my poor friend.  I am here with the same desire.  Why should we quarrel?”

“I have no wish whatever to quarrel.  But I will not submit to a man butting in from outside and trying to oust me from a case of which I have been formally given the control.”

“I don’t wish to oust you.  I only wish to be allowed to co-operate with you.  I only wish to hear your exact opinion of the case and to be allowed to form and give you mine.  Come, Doctor Hartley, it isn’t as if I were a pushing, unknown man.  In London I’m offered far more work than I can touch.  It will do your medical reputation no harm to call me in, in consultation.  Without undue conceit, I hope I can say that.  And if—­if you have got hold of the idea that I’m on the Nile to make money, disabuse your mind of it.  This is a case in which a little bit of my own personal happiness is wrapped up.  I’ve—­I’ve a strong regard for this sick man.  That’s the truth of it.”

Doctor Hartley looked at him, looked away, and looked at him again.

“I don’t doubt your friendship for Mr. Armine,” he said, at last, laying a faint stress upon the penultimate word.