He spoke with a broad
Staffordshire accent. There was in him something of the farmer, something
of the well-to-do tradesman, and at the first glance his intelligence did
not impress one.
Arthur was shewn with his two friends into the consulting-room, and after
a short interval the doctor came in. He was dressed in flannels and had
an old-fashioned racket in his hand.
'I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, but Mrs Richardson has got a few
lady-friends to tea, and I was just in the middle of a set.'
His effusiveness jarred upon Arthur, whose manner by contrast became more
than usually abrupt.
'I have just learnt of the death of Mrs Haddo. I was her guardian and her
oldest friend. I came to you in the hope that you would be able to tell
me something about it.'
Dr Richardson gave him at once, the suspicious glance of a stupid man.
'I don't know why you come to me instead of to her husband. He will be
able to tell you all that you wish to know.'
'I came to you as a fellow-practitioner,' answered Arthur. 'I am at St
Luke's Hospital.
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