"Oh, I don’t mind real cases. But last night I was called out at two in the morning, when I’d just got back from a relapsed ’flu case. A small boy. ‘Dreadfully ill, doctor. Please come at once.’ When I got there, it was simply an acute case of over-stuffing. ‘It was his birthday, doctor, and of course we had to let him do as he liked on that day.’ By the time I’d got there, he’d dree’d his weird—quite empty and nothing whatever the matter with him. No apologies for dragging me out of bed, of course. A doctor isn’t supposed to have a bed at all. I expect the next thing will be a fatal case of ingrowing toe-nails. It’s a damned nuisance to have one’s time frittered away on that sort of thing when one’s at one’s wits end to do what one can for people at the last gasp with something really dangerous."
"Still got the notion that human life’s valuable? The war knocked that on the head," Markfield commented, rubbing his hands together to warm them: "Human life’s the cheapest thing there is. It’s a blessing I went over to the scientific side, instead of going in for physicking. I’d never have acquired a good sympathetic bedside manner."
Dr. Ringwood made a gesture towards the decanter on the table.
"Have a spot?" he invited. "It’s a miserable night."
Markfield accepted the offer at once, poured out half a tumblerful of whisky, splashed in a very little soda, and drank off his glass with evident satisfaction. Putting down the tumbler, he moved across and sat down by the fire.
"It’s an infernal night," he confirmed. "If I didn’t know this end of the town like the palm of my hand, I’d have lost my way coming here. It’s the thickest fog I’ve seen for long enough."
"I’m in a worse box, for I don’t know the town," Dr. Ringwood pointed out. "And we’re not near the peak of this ’flu epidemic yet, by a long way. You’re lucky to be on the scientific side. Croft-Thornton Research Institute, isn’t it?"
"Yes, I came here three years ago, in 1925. Silverdale beat me for the head post in the chemical department; they gave me the second place."
"Silverdale?" Dr. Ringwood mused. "The fellow who works on alkaloids? Turned out a new condensate lately as side-line? I seem to know the name."
"That’s him. He doesn’t worry me much. I dine at his house now and again; but beyond that we don’t see much of each other outside the Institute."
"I’ve a notion I ran across him once at a smoker in the old days. He played the banjo rather well. Clean-shaven, rather neatly turned out? He’ll be about thirty-five or so. By the way, he’s married, now, isn’t he?"
A faint expression of contempt crossed Markfield’s face.
"Oh, yes, he’s married. A French girl. I came across her in some amateur theatricals after they arrived here. Rather amusing at first, but a bit too exacting if one took her on as a permanency, I should think. I used to dance with her a lot at first, but the pace got a bit too hot for my taste. A man must have some evenings to himself, you know; and what she wanted was a permanent dancing-partner. She’s taken on a cub at the Institute—young Hassendean—for the business."
"Doesn’t Silverdale do anything in that line himself?"
"Not a damn. Hates dancing except occasionally. They’re a weird couple. Nothing whatever in common, that I can see; and they’ve apparently agreed that each takes a separate road. You never see ’em together. She’s always around with this Hassendean brat—a proper young squib; and Silverdale’s turned to fresh woods in the shape of Avice Deepcar, one of the girls at the Institute."
"Serious?" Dr. Ringwood inquired indifferently.
"I expect he’d be glad of a divorce, if that’s what you mean. But I doubt if he’ll get it, in spite of all the scandal about Yvonne. If I can read the signs, she’s just keeping the Hassendean cub on her string for her own amusement, though she certainly advertises her conquest all over the shop. He’s not much to boast about: one of these young pseudo-romantic live-your-own-lifer’s with about as much real backbone as a filleted sole."
"A bit rough on Silverdale," commented Dr. Ringwood apathetically.
Trevor Markfield’s short laugh betrayed his scorn.
"A man’s an ass to get tied up to a woman. Silverdale got caught by one side of her—oh, she’s very attractive on that side, undoubtedly. But it didn’t last, apparently, for either of them—and there you are! Outside their own line, women are no use to a man. They want too much of one’s time if one marries them, and they’re the very devil, generally. I’ve no sympathy with Silverdale’s troubles."
Dr. Ringwood, obviously bored, was seeking for a fresh subject.
"Comfortable place, the Institute?" he inquired.
Markfield nodded with obvious approval.
"First-rate. They’re prepared to spend money like water on equipment. I’ve just come in from the new Research Station they’ve put up for agricultural experiments. It’s a few miles out of town. I’ve got a room or two in it for some work I’m doing in that line."
