There was no reason why the doctor
should know anything about it. He wiped the blood from the floor, put
the surgery in order, and went on with his interrupted task, hoping that
he had come scathless out of a very dangerous business.
Yet all day he was aware of a sense of vague uneasiness, which sharpened
into dismay when, late in the afternoon, he was informed that three
gentlemen had called and were waiting for him in the surgery.
A coroner's inquest, a descent of detectives, an invasion of angry
relatives--all sorts of possibilities rose to scare him. With tense
nerves and a rigid face he went to meet his visitors.
They were a very singular trio. Each was known to him by sight; but
what on earth the three could be doing together, and, above all, what
they could expect from _him_, was a most inexplicable problem.
The first was Sorley Wilson, the son of the owner of the Nonpareil
Coalpit. He was a young blood of twenty, heir to a fortune, a keen
sportsman, and down for the Easter Vacation from Magdalene College.
He sat now upon the edge of the surgery table, looking in thoughtful
silence at Montgomery and twisting the ends of his small, black, waxed
moustache. The second was Purvis, the publican, owner of the chief
beer-shop, and well known as the local bookmaker.
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