“Yes, frequently. Sometimes it seems to stop beating for a second or two.”
“Yes yes—just so,” said Bolus, soothingly.
“And you find yourself getting out of breath more quickly than you used to do, especially when you walk a little faster than ordinary, or have to climb a number of stairs?”
“Yes, a little thing nowadays puts me out of puff.”
“Precisely so. We are none of us so young as we were twenty years ago. And you sometimes feel as if you wanted an extra pillow under your head at night?”
“How the deuce do you know that?” said Kester, with a puzzled look.
Bolus laughed his little dry laugh, and began to air his palms again.
“And you have a troublesome little cough, and now and then your head aches without your being able to assign a cause why it should do so; and frequently in the night you start up in your sleep from some feeling of agitation or alarm—causeless, of course, but very real just for the moment?”
“By Jove, doctor, you read me like a book!”
“Did you think of going down to Doncaster this year?” asked Bolus, as he wheeled suddenly round on Kester.
“I certainly did think of doing so. I’ve not missed a St. Leger for many years.”
St. George stared at him with a soft of sullen surprise. “And why would you not go if you were me?” he asked, sharply.
“Simply because what you want is not excitement, but rest. And in your case, St. George, I would live as quiet a life as possible for some time to come. Down in the country, you know—farming and that sort of thing.”
“I know nothing of farming, and I hate the country, except during the shooting season.”
“Ah, by-the-by, that’s another thing you must give up—tramping after the partridges—for this one season at least. As I said before, what you want is quietude. Half a guinea on the odd trick is the only form of excitement on which you may venture for some time to come. And harkye—a word in your ear: not quite so many club cigars, my dear friend.”
Two other men, known both to Bolus and St. George, came up at this moment, and the tête-à-tête was at an end.
It was late that night when St. George, got home. He let himself in with his latch-key. Groping his way into the sitting-room, he struck a match, and turned on the gas. He was in the act of blowing out the watch when suddenly a hand was laid on his shoulder, and a voice whispered in his ear: “_Come_.” Simply that one word, and nothing more. Kester shivered from head to foot, and glanced involuntarily round. He knew that he should see no one—that there was no one to be seen: but all the same he could not help looking. Twice before he had felt the same ghostly hand laid on his shoulder: twice before he had heard the same ghostly whisper in his ear. Was it a summons from the other world, or what was it? There was a looking-glass on the chimney-piece, and, as he staggered forward a step or two, his eyes, glancing into it, saw there the reflection of a white and haggard face strangely unlike his own—the brow moist with sweat, the eyes filled with a furtive horror. Mr. St. George sank into a chair and buried his face in his hands.