When Mary rejoined him, she asked for pen and paper, wrote a
prescription, and requested that Beaumaroy's man should take it to the
chemist's. He went out, to give it to the Sergeant, and, when he came
back, found her seated in the big chair by the fire.
"The present little attack is nothing, Mr. Beaumaroy," she said.
"Stomachic--with a little fever; if he takes what I've prescribed, he
ought to be all right in the morning. But I suppose you know that there
is valvular disease--quite definite? Didn't Dr. Irechester tell you?"
"Yes; but he said there was no particular--no immediate danger."
"If he's kept quiet and free from worry. Didn't he advise that?"
"Yes," Beaumaroy admitted, "he did. That's the only thing you find wrong
with him, Doctor?"
Beaumaroy was standing on the far side of the table, his finger-tips
resting lightly on it. He looked across at Mary with eyes candidly
inquiring.
"I've found nothing else so far. I suppose he's got nothing to
worry him?"
"Not really, I think. He fusses a bit about his affairs." He smiled. "We
go to London every week to fuss about his affairs; he's always changing
his investments, taking his money out of one thing and putting it in
another, you know.
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