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CHAPTER III.—THE WRONG HOUSE.

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Stagg followed quietly along behind the spacious lady. He was not in the least alarmed or in any way put out by this striking and unexpected development of what should have been quite a commonplace situation. He looked rather like a middle-age Cupid with that innocent face and grey hair of his, but behind that deceptive exterior was a fine driving force, and a set of nerves as resilient as steel. And, besides, Stagg was a man who was consumed with an amazing curiosity, the sort of man who would not have hesitated to pick up a live bomb just for the sake of examining its mechanism. In the course of a long and somewhat chequered career he had had a good many adventures; in fact, he was always looking for them, and here was one after his own heart.

That something was seriously wrong in that large and luxuriously furnished mansion he did not doubt for a moment. The mere fact that he had been mistaken for a doctor summoned there in a great hurry only added to the tension of the situation. Of course, he could have at once proclaimed the fact that a mistake had been made, but he preferred to do nothing of the kind. There was something wrong, almost sinister, here, and it occurred to Stagg that he might turn the knowledge to distinct advantage. If necessary, he was quite prepared to pose as a doctor, so long as he could do so without betraying his ignorance on medical matters or contributing towards what might eventually be construed into a charge of manslaughter. He would see the matter through, at any rate as far as possible.

He crossed a large hall, lighted by a lantern roof, a big cosy affair with a parquet flooring smothered with fine Oriental rugs, with pictures on the walls and masses of greenery here and there. Everything pointed to luxury and refinement, and, what was far more important in Stagg's eyes, to the possession of considerable wealth. He could judge that at any rate from the dress of the woman in front of him. He could see that Paris was written all over it, and though his fair guide wore no jewellery, the fact did not in the least detract from the opulence of her appearance.

She led the way presently into what was evidently the dining-room. She motioned Stagg to a chair and dropped into one opposite. She spoke calmly enough, but it was evident to Stagg that she was suffering under the stress of some overpowering emotion, fear probably.

"I think I had better explain, Dr. Gilbert," she said. "The case is very urgent, you can imagine, but you ought to know the facts of the case."

"Oh, certainly," Stags murmured. "It will help me materially."

Stagg spoke glibly enough, for he was beginning to see his way. He was quite prepared to pose as a doctor, and if things became too hot presently he could easily get out by saying that there was a mistake somewhere, and that evidently it was some other practitioner that the lady had been so anxiously expecting. The coincidence would be a bit thin, perhaps, but it would be good enough when played by a cool hand.

"You know our friends in New York?' the woman asked.

"Well, I can't say that I do," Stagg said truthfully enough. "My dear madam, it would be far better, I think, if you began at the beginning."

A cold smile of contempt lit up the handsome features of the woman opposite for a moment. And she really was a remarkably handsome woman, tall and slim, beautifully proportioned, and conveying a suggestion of strength both physical and mental. She looked at Stagg out of a pair of fine dark eyes that seemed to illuminate and give life to a singularly white face that was almost severe in its classic moulding.

"Oh, nothing like being cautious, Dr. Gilbert,", she said with a faint suggestion of satire.

"I always think so, madam," Stagg agreed. "You called me up on the telephone, at least, so my man tells me, with an urgent request that I should come here now. Pray correct me if I am at all wrong.",

"Certainly I did. And you must know that I should not have done so if the matter had not been very pressing. Our friends in New York—you know who I mean."

Stagg gave a vague and comprehensive gesture with his hands.

"Very well, then," the woman went on. "Before we came over here I was told that if we needed a really capable medical man who would be discreet and silent—silent, mind—we could not do better than calling in Dr. Gilbert, of 17 Wilbey-crescent."

Stagg smiled. So far, so good. He knew now that he was Dr. Gilbert, of Wilbey-crescent. This, at any rate, was something to go on with.

"Well, madam," he said. "Without undue egotism, I think the description fits the man you are speaking about. You will find me discreet enough."

"Oh, I am sure I shall. But in this particular case, Dr. Gilbert, we want someone who is a little more than discreet. We require a doctor who would be absolutely silent whatever happens. And if there are grave risks to be taken, he must prepare to take them. And I need not say that he will be well paid for his trouble; in fact, doctor, if you can see your way to take a few risks, then whatever you like to charge will cheerfully be paid."

"Ah, that's only fair. There are such things, you know, as Medical Councils. Before now doctors have been struck off the register for what are termed irregular practices. I need not point out, my dear madam, what that means to a man who has an established reputation in the neighbourhood of Wilbey Crescent."

The woman looked at Stagg narrowly.

"If you will do what we require," she said, "then I am prepared to pay you a thousand pounds."

Stagg bowed cooly enough, but at the same time he was just a little thrilled. For here was the sum of which he was in urgent need. He knew that a few feet from him—next door, as a matter of fact—was a cold-blooded, slightly humorous gentleman, who would infallibly not rest until he saw Montagu Stagg standing in the dock unless at an early date that volatile individual could produce the sum in question. And here, perhaps, with a bit of luck, was that desirable consummation ready to drop into the hollow of his hand. He was going to be asked to commit some crime, of course, not necessarily a criminal act, but something that assuredly would bring him in contact with the authorities if it were found out. At the very least he was going to pose as a doctor, and perhaps give a medical certificate.

And, being a thorough man of the world, he knew perfectly well that no one would dream of paying him so large a sum unless an equally large service were rendered in exchange. And Montagu Stagg, though he had sailed very near the wind on one or two occasions, was not in the habit of dabbling in crime or anything that savoured of violence. But, on the other hand, he wanted that thousand pounds more than he had ever wanted money in his life, and he was going to see this thing through if he did not get too hot to handle.

"Pray proceed," he said. "So far, I am entirely with you, my dear lady. And when your American friends sent you to Dr. Gilbert they—er—shall we say, knew something. Of that there can be no possible doubt. And now, what can I do for you? Pray command me."

"It entirely depends upon circumstances," the woman said. "He may get better. If he does, then I am afraid that you will have to content yourself with your ordinary professional charges. But suppose he dies? Are you prepared to give a medical certificate? I mean, if a man died of a knife thrust, say, would you be prepared to certify that he succumbed to the effects of pneumonia? I am merely putting a case. And please don't forget, Dr. Gilbert, that the fee in that case will be on the scale that we have been discussing."

The Leopard's Spots

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