Dr. Paull's Theory: A Romance

								

standing round the recumbent figure of a fine old man, who lay on his
narrow bed still as death, his pale features composed, his grey hair
tossed upon the pillow. It was a grand face—a model for a painter.
As Paull neared the group the two nurses moved away to bring forward and
unfold a screen.
“Take it away,” he said.
“I think he’s gone, or nearly so,” said the dresser, a fair young man,
his face flushing. He had asked for the screen, usually drawn around the
dying or dead.
“Nothing of the sort,” said Hugh. He felt the patient’s pulse, listened
at his heart, opened the closed eyelids, placed his hand lightly on his
brow, which was cold and clammy, then ordered him to be undressed,
himself assisting the nurses to rip up the coat-sleeves.
There were no injuries. It was a case of concussion of the brain. The
groom was having his slight wounds dressed in the out-patients’
department; and Hugh learned from him that his master, whom he appeared
to hold greatly in awe, was Sir Roderick Pym, one of the partners in the
well-known banking firm of Pym, Clithero and Pym. He had a town house in
a West-end square, and a country house in Surrey, where he mostly lived.
He was staying in town for a few days, and had insisted on driving
towards the City to-day, in spite of the warning issued by the police to
the public. Moreover, he insisted on driving a thoroughbred mare, who no
sooner got among quite a small assemblage of roughs than she kicked up
her heels and was off. The groom stuck to the tilbury till the final
crash, but his master fell out shortly before. That was all he knew (or
chose to tell). He was a town groom. He never went into the country. He
would return home and tell Sir Roderick’s housekeeper. She would come
round and see about their master.
Hugh went thoughtfully back to the ward, and standing at the foot of the
bed gazed at the solemn, set face of the unconscious man. He was
interested—unusually so. This old man’s aquiline, grave face was full of
expression. Peaceful and composed as it was now, it was the countenance
of one who had suffered, and suffered deeply.
“His eyelids quivered a little when the ice-bag was applied, sir,” said
the nurse who was watching the patient.
Hugh was once more gravely examining the case, when the stout, matronly
personage, in a high cap and huge white apron, who was called the
“sister” of the ward, came from the little room at its end, through the
square window of which she could see all that was going on in the long
room with the rows of beds.
“I thought I would give you these, Mr. Paull. I would rather not have
anything to do with them,” she said, handing Hugh a massive gold watch
and chain, a purse, and some letters and papers.
“I will see to them, sister,” he said.
Giving directions as to the immediate treatment of Sir Roderick, he
returned to his room to lock them away in a small iron safe, where