Isaacson lifted his hand from the book.
"I will call upon her," he said.
"Good!"
"But are you sure she wishes it?"
"Quite sure--for she told me so."
The simplicity of this answer made Isaacson's mind smile and something else in him sigh.
"I have to go into the country," Nigel said. "I've got to see Harwich and Zoe, my sister-in-law you know, and my married sister--"
A sudden look of distress came into his eyes. He got up. The look of distress persisted.
"Good-night, Isaacson, old fellow!"
He grasped the Doctor's hand firmly, and his hand was warm and strong.
"Good-night. I like to feel I know one man who thinks so entirely for himself as you do. For--I know you do. Good-bye."
The look of distress had vanished, and his sincere eyes seemed to shine again with courage and with strength.
"Good-bye."
When he was gone, Isaacson stood by the mantel-piece for nearly five minutes, thinking and motionless. The sound of the little clock striking roused him. He lifted his head, looked around him, and was just going to switch off the light, when he noticed the open book on his table. He went to shut it up.
"It must be ever remembered that digitalin is a cumulative poison, and that the same dose, harmless if taken once, yet frequently repeated becomes deadly; this peculiarity is shared by all poisons affecting the heart."
He stood looking at the page.
"This peculiarity is shared by all poisons affecting the heart."
He moved his head as if in assent. Then he closed the book slowly and switched off the light.
On the August Bank Holiday, one of the most dreadful days of London's year, he set out to call on Mrs. Chepstow.
A stagnant heat pervaded London. There were but few people walking. Few vehicles drove by. Here and there small groups of persons, oddly dressed, and looking vacant in their rapture, stared, round-eyed, on the town. Londoners were in the country, staring, round-eyed, on fields and woods. The policemen looked dull and heavy, as if never again would any one be criminal, and as if they had come to know it. Bits of paper blew aimlessly about, wafted by a little, feverish breeze, which rose in spasms and died away. An old man, with a head that was strangely bald, stared out from a club window, rubbed his enquiring nose, looked back into the room behind him and then stared out again. An organ played "The Manola," resuscitated from a silence of many years.
London was at its summer saddest.
Could Mrs. Chepstow be in it? Soon Isaacson knew. In the entrance hall of the Savoy, where large and lonely porters were dozing, he learnt that she was at home. So be it. He stepped into the lift, and presently followed a servant to her door. The servant tapped. There was no answer. He tapped again more loudly, while Isaacson waited behind him.