“Upjohn tells me you’ve been complaining to him because I’ve urged you to have a doctor,” he said.  “I want you to have a doctor, because you may die any day, and if you hadn’t been seen by anyone I shouldn’t be able to get a certificate.  There’d have to be an inquest and I should be blamed for not calling a doctor in.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.  I thought you wanted me to see a doctor for my sake and not for your own.  I’ll see a doctor whenever you like.”

Philip did not answer, but gave an almost imperceptible shrug of the shoulders.  Cronshaw, watching him, gave a little chuckle.

“Don’t look so angry, my dear.  I know very well you want to do everything you can for me.  Let’s see your doctor, perhaps he can do something for me, and at any rate it’ll comfort you.”  He turned his eyes to Upjohn.  “You’re a damned fool, Leonard.  Why d’you want to worry the boy?  He has quite enough to do to put up with me.  You’ll do nothing more for me than write a pretty article about me after my death.  I know you.”

Next day Philip went to Dr. Tyrell.  He felt that he was the sort of man to be interested by the story, and as soon as Tyrell was free of his day’s work he accompanied Philip to Kennington.  He could only agree with what Philip had told him.  The case was hopeless.

“I’ll take him into the hospital if you like,” he said.  “He can have a small ward.”

“Nothing would induce him to come.”

“You know, he may die any minute, or else he may get another attack of pneumonia.”

Philip nodded.  Dr. Tyrell made one or two suggestions, and promised to come again whenever Philip wanted him to.  He left his address.  When Philip went back to Cronshaw he found him quietly reading.  He did not trouble to inquire what the doctor had said.

“Are you satisfied now, dear boy?” he asked.

“I suppose nothing will induce you to do any of the things Tyrell advised?”

“Nothing,” smiled Cronshaw.

LXXXV

About a fortnight after this Philip, going home one evening after his day’s work at the hospital, knocked at the door of Cronshaw’s room.  He got no answer and walked in.  Cronshaw was lying huddled up on one side, and Philip went up to the bed.  He did not know whether Cronshaw was asleep or merely lay there in one of his uncontrollable fits of irritability.  He was surprised to see that his mouth was open.  He touched his shoulder.  Philip gave a cry of dismay.  He slipped his hand under Cronshaw’s shirt and felt his heart; he did not know what to do; helplessly, because he had heard of this being done, he held a looking-glass in front of his mouth.  It startled him to be alone with Cronshaw.  He had his hat and coat still on, and he ran down the stairs into the street; he hailed a cab and drove to Harley Street.  Dr. Tyrell was in.

“I say, would you mind coming at once?  I think Cronshaw’s dead.”