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Updated: May 10, 2025
By a small caseful of medical treatises and a conspicuous stethoscope, the least experienced could see that it was labelled consulting-room. Dr Twiddel was enjoying one of those moments of repose that occur even in the youngest practitioner’s existence.
Quietly and gently I made my observations, addressed my questions, applied my stethoscope; and when I turned my face towards her mother's anxious, eager eyes, that face told my opinion; for her mother sprang forward, clasped my hand, and said, through her struggling tears, "You smile! You see nothing to fear?" "Fear! No, indeed! You will soon be again yourself, Miss Ashleigh, will you not?"
At any rate, he went silently from one to the other, betraying not even by his actions what he discovered with the stethoscope. The suspense was terrible. I felt Miss Bisbee's hand involuntarily grasp my arm convulsively. Without disturbing the silence, I reached a glass of water standing near me on Craig's lecture-table and handed it to her.
At the top was a bare passage, which had two rooms opposite to each other at one end, and a single one at the other. "This is my consulting room," said he, leading the way into one of these. It was a good-sized square chamber, perfectly empty save for two plain wooden chairs and an unpainted table with two books and a stethoscope upon it.
The gentleman who swaggered in and clapped the doctor on the back, who next threw himself into the easiest chair and his hat and coat over the table, was in fact Mr Robert Welsh. From the moment he entered he pervaded the room; the stethoscope seemed to grow less conspicuous, Dr Twiddel’s chin more diminutive, the apartment itself a mere background to this guest. Why?
About ten minutes from the commencement of artificial respiration we noticed a single weak spasmodic contraction of the diaphragm, the feeblest possible effort at natural respiration. Simultaneously, very distant weak reduplicated cardiac pulsations, numbering about 150 to the minute, became evident to the stethoscope.
Curtains had been removed, all evidences of luxury disposed of. Temporarily the apartment had been transformed into a bare, cheerless place. Seated on a high chair, with his back to the wall, was Sirdeller. At his right hand was a small table, on which stood a glass of milk, a phial, a stethoscope. Behind his doctor. At his left hand a smooth-faced, silent young man his secretary.
In the fierce determination to gain it, he threw the stethoscope away, and glued his avid ear to the man again. "Toch! but I wouldna' have missed this for a kittie o' Kruger sovereigns!" the Chief Medical Officer whispered to his colleague from Meath. And McFadyen whispered back: "Nor me, for your shoes. 'Ssh!"
That's quite right, isn't it?" "Ideal. But I warn you, Miss Winwood, you may be letting yourself in for a perfectly avoidable lot of trouble." "I like trouble," said Miss Winwood. "You're certainly looking for it," replied the doctor glancing at Paul and stuffing his stethoscope into his pocket. "And in this case, I can promise you worry beyond dreams of anxiety."
"I shouldn't call him very well," answered the physician rather grimly, placing his stethoscope upon Madison's breast. "Get his room ready for him." She gave him a piteous look, struck with fear; then obeyed a gesture and ran flutteringly up the stairs. "I'm all right now," panted Madison, drinking the water Hedrick brought him.
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