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THE drawing-room of Prospect House reminded Wolfe of the conventional idea of heaven, in that it was full of much gold and of things that glittered. The pictures were all in gold frames, and the mirrors vied with the pictures. Lustres glittered on the great central chandelier and on the candlesticks upon the marble mantelpiece. The clock was a monstrous creation in gold. The turkey-red curtains were edged with gold braid and looped back with gold tasselled cords. Purplish red tapestry covered the sofa, ottoman, and chairs, the upholstering being finished off with red gimp and brass-headed nails. On the wall-paper yellow roses rambled through festoons of orange ribbons. The antimacassars were in red and yellow wool, and the carpet was not unlike a glorified antimacassar.

Beside the fire sat a very regal little person in a huge crinoline, black bodice, and lace cap. Her round, puddy, exquisitely complacent face looked out from between clay-coloured ringlets and from under the lace, ribbons, and jet ornaments of the aforesaid cap. Her nose was a little beak, and her blue eyes protruded slightly and always retained the same hard, staring expression. Her mouth drooped at the corners over a dumpy and formless chin. As for her dress—it was of black silk, and rustled whenever she moved.

Dr. Threadgold jumped up from mending the fire.

“Ha—Mr. Wolfe. My dear, permit me to introduce Mr. Wolfe to you. Mr. John Wolfe—my wife, Mrs. Threadgold.”

Wolfe’s bow did not equal the sententious dignity of the doctor’s introduction. Mrs. Threadgold gave the new assistant a very slight inclination of the head and went on with her knitting. She felt it to be part of her business in life to counteract the effects of her husband’s intense affability.

“Draw up a chair, sir, and get warm. That’s right. Never mind the hearthrug.”

“My dear Montague, I—must put in a word for the hearthrug, especially when the edge is all crumpled up.”

Wolfe thrust the arm-chair a yard farther back. He caught Mrs. Threadgold’s eyes fixed upon the extreme length of his outstretched legs, and upon the muddy pair of boots that he had forgotten to change. A nervous man would have drawn up his legs and tucked his feet under the chair. Wolfe did not move.

“Well, sir, and how do you like Navestock?” Threadgold’s spectacles beamed—“not much opportunity to judge yet, eh? We are quiet, humdrum people, but I think you will find us quite alive after our fashion. In politics, though, I am a bit of a Liberal.”

“Montague, you know that you are nothing of the kind.”

“My dear——”

“Dr. Threadgold must have his facetiosities, Mr. Wolfe. The most eminent men are sometimes the most playful. I may inform you that Navestock is one of the most loyal and Conservative towns in the kingdom; as it should be, and as it will always be so long as Lord Blackwater is Lord of the Manor, the Brandons hold ‘Pardons,’ and the old families remain. I must say that the neighbourhood is a most aristocratic one, and that the gentry——”

A gong sounded downstairs. Mrs. Threadgold ignored it.

“That the gentry realise their responsibilities to the poor, without needing any impertinent, vulgar clamour on the part of low Radicals.”

Dr. Threadgold pulled out his watch.

“It is exactly one minute before the half hour, Montague.”

“So it is, my dear.”

“I think it right that a young man in Mr. Wolfe’s position should receive some instruction as to the character of the neighbourhood in which Dr. Threadgold is the leading physician and surgeon. I need not say that in a practice such as this——”

The gong sounded a second time.

“Good manners—and tact—are of great importance. Was that the gong, Montague?”

“My dear, it was.”

“Then we will go down to supper.”

Mrs. Threadgold possessed the power of making nervous people lose their appetite and refuse with a fluster of self-consciousness the second helping that they so much desired. John Wolfe was as hungry as a man could be, and not being troubled with shyness, he listened gravely to Mrs. Threadgold’s tittle-tattle and kept on good terms with the round of roast beef at the end of the table. Threadgold helped him generously, for his good humour was not a surface virtue, and the doctor and his dining-room harmonized admirably. Everything was solid, comfortable, and opulent. Old portraits in oils hung upon the brown-papered walls. The sideboard was a fine piece of Sheraton, the chairs Hepplewhite, and upholstered with red brocade. The Turkey carpet claimed part of the prosperity of the practice.

Mrs. Threadgold had an eye on Wolfe’s plate. She had been studying the new man, noticing the faded edges of his tie and the shiny buttons of his coat. Her observation dealt mainly with external details. She did not go below the surface, for to Mrs. Sophia Threadgold life was all surface, a matter of gilding, glass, fresh paint, pew cushions, silk, pasteboard, and fine linen. Wolfe impressed her as a raw gawk of a man who was inclined to be silent and sulky. He had come into her drawing-room with dirty boots, and eaten three helpings of cold beef, and these details were full of significance.

It was an understandable impulse that drove her to talk about Sir Joshua Kermody, the senior physician at Guy’s, a gentleman with a fashionable consulting practice and a decision in the dieting of dukes and yet more distinguished persons.

“Sir Joshua has often stayed a night with us here at Navestock. He and Dr. Threadgold were students together and great friends——”

“O yes—I knew Kermody pretty well.”

“One of the most perfect gentlemen I have ever met. I suppose you have often listened to Sir Joshua’s lectures, Mr. Wolfe?”

“Yes, for one whole year.”

“And you have followed him round the wards, too?”

“Miles.”

Mrs. Threadgold’s face showed some transient animation.

“What an opportunity for you young men. Quite an education—in manners. I have often heard that medical students are such vulgar young fellows. Sir Joshua is just the one to provide them with a little polish. The hospital should be very proud of Sir Joshua.”

Wolfe laid his knife and fork side by side and looked in his grave, penetrating way at Mrs. Threadgold. He knew old Kermody and his reputation, a man with the tastes and the manners of a Brummell, spruce, bland, and untrustworthy, obsolete in his knowledge, a man who had always refused to accept anything that was new. Kermody was one of the handsomest old snobs in London. He had grand manners and the heart of a cad.

“We have plenty of good men at Guy’s, madam.”

“I don’t doubt it, sir. Sir Joshua has often said that Dr. Threadgold would have been one of the leading physicians in London, if he had cared to stay there. I have no doubt that you will find Dr. Threadgold’s experience of infinite service to you. It is good for young men to sit at the feet of experience.”

Wolfe’s eye caught the doctor’s.

“That’s what I’ve come for, sir.”

Dr. Threadgold blinked, beamed, and moved uneasily in his chair.

“Ha—one lives and learns, lives and learns. Our responsibilities, Mr. Wolfe, thicken as we grow older. Now, you young men——”

“I think we have more to carry.”

“Oh!”

“We have our unmade reputations on our shoulders.”

“Ah, that’s true.”

“Quite a sensible remark, Mr. Wolfe. Montague, perhaps Mr. Wolfe will take—a third helping of that sponge custard.”

“Allow me, sir.”

“Thanks. I will.”

It had begun to rain again, and what with the wind blowing the rain full upon the windows and howling through the mulberry trees upon the Green, none of the three at Dr. Threadgold’s supper table heard the rattle of a horse’s hoofs over the cobbles. The stones gave place to gravel in front of the sententious, red-coated house on the north side of Mulberry Green, and a gig that came swinging round the white posts and chains drew up briskly outside Dr. Threadgold’s door. A loafer who had been following the gig at a run, gave a pull at the doctor’s door-bell, and set up a tremendous hammering with the lion-headed knocker.

Dr. Threadgold still had the spoon in the dish of sponge custard.

“Hallo, hallo, do they want to knock the house down!”

“Montague, if that is old Crabbe’s boy, I wish you would box the little wretch’s ears. He always makes noise enough for Lord Blackwater’s footman.”

They heard Sykes, the maid, cross the hall and open the front door. A gust of wind whirled in with the sound of men’s voices.

“Confound it, Ruston, don’t touch that side of me!”

The door closed again, shutting the voices into Dr. Threadgold’s hall.

“This way, sir, please.”

“What? Is he in? Deuce take——”

A second door closed on the snarling voice, cutting it off sharply. Sykes came whisking into the dining-room with a scared white face.

“Please, sir, it’s Sir George Griggs. He’s met with a haccident, sir, ’unting.”

Dr. Threadgold pushed his chair back, put his napkin on the table, and gave his waistcoat a tug, the unconscious gesture that betrayed the professional dignity putting itself in order. His prim little mouth straightened into a tighter and more emphatic line.

“Excuse me, my dear.”

“Most certainly, Montague.”

She turned to Wolfe, who was on the point of rising, and treated him as though he had asked her a question.

“Certainly, Mr. Wolfe. By all means accompany Dr. Threadgold. I know that a young man in your position——”

Wolfe was up, and had given her a slight, stiff bow.

“Go and watch Dr. Threadgold, sir. No doubt you will learn something.”

In Dr. Threadgold’s consulting room a huge, bullet-headed man in a red coat was striding to and fro from corner to corner, a splash of blood over his left temple, and his left cheek brown with mud. His riding breeches were ripped along one thigh and soaked with mud and slime. The man was like a great beast in pain. He swore—in gusts—as he stamped to and fro, holding his left arm folded across his chest, the right hand under the left elbow. A younger man stood leaning against the bookcase, looking on rather helplessly, and pulling the joints of his brown whiskers.

Dr. Threadgold bustled in with John Wolfe at his heels.

“Come, come, bless my soul! what’s all this about?”

The big man turned like an angry bull.

“Matter? Shut that door. I don’t want to have the whole house hear me swearing. Swear, confound it, I must.”

“My dear Sir George—swear.”

“The devil take that new hunter of mine. I’ll have the beast shot to-morrow. Played me a dirty trick. What!”

The young man by the bookcase emitted sympathetic language through a cloud of hair. His nose and eyes looked like the beak and eyes of a bird all puffed up with feathers.

“Ged, sir, never saw a beast refuse more scurvily. I nearly rode over you. Why——”

“Look here, Threadgold—man, something’s pretty well messed up. The beast refused at a big ditch, and banged me over his head into an oak stub. We were down Bordon way, ten devilish miles. Thought it would be quicker to drive straight here in Ruston’s gig. Confound it—this shoulder kicks like an old duck-gun!”

Threadgold took off his spectacles, wiped them with a silk handkerchief, and replaced them with an air of “now—for business.”

“Please sit down, Sir George. You say you fell on your shoulder. That’s right, Mr. Wolfe, you might light that other gas jet. Now, sir. I’m afraid we shall have to have your coat off.”

Threadgold made little, soothing gestures with his hands.

“Coat off? Of course. But how the——”

“I am afraid, Sir George, we shall have to sacrifice the coat.”

“Confound the coat, cut it into ribbons.”

“Mr. Wolfe, sir, you will find a pair of scissors in that drawer. What?”

He found Wolfe standing at his elbow with a sharp-bladed knife.

“Shall I slit the sleeve for you?”

“Please do so, sir.”

Wolfe went to work, and peeled the red coat from the injured man by slitting it along the seams. He was very dexterous and very gentle. Sir George watched Wolfe’s hands, keeping his jaw set for the moment when the surgeon should hurt him. But Wolfe had the coat off without causing him a pang.

“By jove, that was smart!”

Mr. Ruston of the hairy face chimed in with “Ged, it was, sir.”

Wolfe threw the coat aside, slit the baronet’s waistcoat across the shoulder, unbuttoned it, handed it to Mr. Ruston, saying, “There’s a watch there, I think.” Then he dissected away the sleeve of Sir George’s shirt, and laid bare the bruised and swollen shoulder.

Threadgold, who had grown rather fidgety, stepped forward, and reassumed his authority.

“Thank you, Mr. Wolfe. Now, sir, we will see what is the matter.”

Wolfe drew aside and watched Dr. Threadgold make his examination. His first impressions had tempted him to mistrust the little man’s ability, nor had he watched Dr. Threadgold’s chubby hands for half a minute before he knew him for a fumbler and no surgeon. A craftsman is very quick in judging a fellow craftsman, and Threadgold was fussy, ineffectual, and uncertain with his hands. He chattered half to himself and half to his patient, with the busy self-consciousness of a man of poor capacity.

His hands gave Wolfe the impression of not being quite sure of what they ought to do next. There was no decisive, diagnostic intelligence about them. Moreover, Threadgold caused the big man a great deal of unnecessary pain.

“Acromion process—hum—exactly. Clavicle a leetle bit up—perhaps. Swelling very pronounced, very pronounced——”

Sir George writhed.

“Confound it, Threadgold.”

“One moment, sir. I assure you——”

“How much longer do you want to mess me about?”

Threadgold patted the swollen joint, looked wise and sympathetic, and glanced at Wolfe.

“Support Sir George’s arm, Mr. Wolfe.”

He pursed up his lips, and frowned over the gold rims of his glasses. Wolfe had a shrewd suspicion that Dr. Threadgold was none the wiser than when he began.

“There is a great deal of swelling there, Sir George, a very great deal of swelling. I should prefer to have the injured part rested, ice applied, and a second examination made to-morrow.”

The big man stared.

“What! You don’t mean to say——”

“My dear sir, in a case such as this, when some hours have elapsed——”

“Oh, bosh, man, I want the thing settled. Do you mean to say I’ve driven ten miles—for nothing? You’ve pulled me about enough——”

Dr. Threadgold went very pink.

“My dear Sir George, let me assure you that a diagnosis can only be hypothetical under such conditions.”

The baronet looked ugly. He was one of those plethoric, short-tempered men who lose all self-restraint under the influence of pain or of much provocation. He stared hard at Threadgold, and then turned his bristling eyebrows towards Wolfe, who was supporting the arm.

“Look here—just take this on. I don’t want to be fooled about any longer.”

Wolfe glanced at Threadgold. The little man’s face looked pink and suffused. His eyes were big behind his glasses.

“If you care to let my assistant examine you, Sir George——”

“Yes, I do.”

“Very well, sir, very well. I have nothing more to say.”

Threadgold pivoted round on one check-patterned leg, strutted to the hearthrug, pulled the lapels of his coat forward, and stood with chest expanded.

In five minutes Wolfe had Sir George Griggs stretched upon the sofa. The surgeon had taken off his left boot and was sitting on the edge of the sofa with his heel in the baronet’s armpit.

“I shall have to hurt you badly—for about ten seconds, sir.”

“Go on. I’m not a baby.”

“Catch hold of Mr. Ruston’s hand. Nothing like something to grip. Now, hold on.”

There was a moment of writhing, of grim, clenched anguish as Wolfe pulled at the arm and worked at the dislocated shoulder.

“In. That’s good.”

“What—all over?”

“Yes.”

The big man lay on the sofa and panted, while Mr. Ruston flapped his hand.

“I say, that was a twister!”

“Ged—you gave me a squeezing!”

“Get me a ‘peg,’ someone; it’s made me feel pretty funny.”

He was sweating. Dr. Threadgold turned and rang the bell.

“Head of the bone was out, was it?”

“Yes. If you can sit up in a minute, sir, I’ll just see that everything is all right.”

Sir George sat up readily enough while Wolfe manipulated the left arm very gently and made sure that the head of the bone was back in its normal position.

“Yes, that’s all right, sir.”

“Sykes, a glass of brandy and water.”

Dr. Threadgold lingered at the door.

“I say, sir, I am confoundedly obliged to you.”

Wolfe smiled.

“Oh, that’s all part of the campaign. I shall have to tie you up to keep that shoulder quiet. What about your forehead?”

“A little gravelling, isn’t it?”

“Yes, nothing serious. I’ll wash it, and patch you up with a bit of plaster. By the way, though——”

He remembered suddenly that he was in Dr. Threadgold’s consulting-room, and that a hot and rather humiliated little man was fidgeting on the hearthrug.

“Dr. Threadgold will tell you what precautions you ought to take.”

“Oh, all right,” said the baronet, gulping brandy and water.

Half an hour later Mr. Ruston was driving Sir George Griggs homeward in his gig. It was still raining hard, and the wet streets of Navestock were deserted. The big man had so far recovered himself that he was able to see the humour of much that had passed.

“What a confounded old woman! I always knew Threadgold was a duffer. I wouldn’t have come within a mile of him only I knew Odgers of Hinkley was in London.”

“Well, that other chap——”

“Jove, that’s the sort of man for me. Plenty of grip there. I can’t stand these counter-bouncing little beasts like Threadgold. He’s only fit to slosh people with treacle and water.”

“Mrs. T. ought to run the practice.”

“Sophia Pudson—don’t, my dear chap, don’t! That woman’s face always acts on me like an emetic. You should hear old Johnson’s parrot next door shouting ‘Monte, Monte,’ all day in summer. A man like Threadgold ought to be shot for marrying such a woman.”

And the gig, with its lamps flaring through the rain, rolled out of South Street into the wet night.

At Prospect House Wolfe sat on the sofa in the consulting-room, smoking a clay pipe. There had been a slight scene after Sir George’s departure. Dr. Montague Threadgold had got upon his dignity and spoken with some heat.

“Mr. Wolfe, sir. I reproach myself with having allowed you to behave with such rashness. A swollen joint like that ought to be treated with the extremest caution.”

Wolfe had a big heart and no pettiness. He was rather sorry for Dr. Threadgold.

“Well, sir, I felt convinced——”

“When you are a little older, Mr. Wolfe, you will not be convinced so easily. Experience teaches a doctor to be cautious.”

Dr. Threadgold retired to the drawing-room, where his wife was sitting before the fire. The faint tinkle of a piano came from the next house, and the mellow piping of a flute. The Misses Johnson and the Rev. Charles Chipperton of St. Jude’s were playing old Johnson, the wine merchant, to sleep.

Mrs. Threadgold looked up with one of her expressionless smiles. If you could ascribe any colour to smiles, Mrs. Threadgold’s resembled the yellowish wool in her lap.

“Everything quite successful, Montague?”

“Most successful, my dear.”

“A serious accident?”

“Dislocated shoulder. Mr. Wolfe and I reduced it.”

Mrs. Threadgold looked gratified.

“I thought the young man ought to profit by your experience, Montague, so I sent him after you.”

“Exactly, my dear, exactly.”

“Rather a raw young man, and very ugly, but I have no doubt that you will polish him and improve his manners.”

Dr. Threadgold poked the fire rather testily.

“Mr. Wolfe,” he said, “seems to be a young man of some ability. But a little forward, a little inclined to be above himself. I shall have to modify that.”