"Your father is mad, Ruth!" he exclaimed; "absolutely stark mad! And I
refuse to hold any further communication with him."
"The present interview was not of his seeking," Miss Bellingham replied
coldly.
"No, it was not," was the wrathful rejoinder; "it was my mistaken
generosity. But there--what is the use of talking? I've done my best for
you and I'll do no more. Don't trouble to let me out; I can find my way.
Good morning." With a stiff bow and a quick glance at me, the speaker
strode out of the room, banging the door after him.
"I must apologise for this extraordinary reception," said Miss
Bellingham; "but I believe medical men are not easily astonished. I will
introduce you to your patient now." She opened the door and, as I
followed her into the adjoining room, she said: "Here is another visitor
for you, dear. Doctor--"
"Berkeley," said I. "I am acting for my friend Doctor Barnard."
The invalid, a fine-looking man of about fifty-five, who sat propped up
in bed with a pile of pillows, held out an excessively shaky hand, which
I grasped cordially, making a mental note of the tremor.
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