atients. He had been under him for a number of years until they had become personal friends. One of his eccentricities was to insist on paying heavy fees to his medical adviser, believing, perhaps, that by so doing he would secure greater and more careful attention.
But, strangely enough, mention of the name suddenly gave me the clue so long wanting. It aroused within me a sense of impending evil regarding the very man of whom we were speaking. The sound of the name seemed to strike the sympathetic chord within my brain, and I at once became cognisant that the unaccountable presage of impending misfortune was connected with that rather incongruous household down at Kew.
Therefore, when Sir Bernard imparted to me his misgivings, I was quickly on the alert, and questioned him regarding the progress of old Mr. Courtenay's disease.
"The poor fellow is sinking, I'm afraid, Boyd," exclaimed my chief, confidentially. "He doesn't believe himself half so ill as he is. When did you see him last?"
One of the most preposterous mysteries it has ever been my displeasure to read. The premise is ridiculous, the plot excessively contorted, the dialog stilted, and the characters behave erratically and without proper motivation.
On the other hand, the text had few typos.
I couldn't put down this satisfying mystery, playing in 1900's London. It features a doctor whose love becomes suspect in a murder case, and even he loses faith at some time. Only after patient investigations by a friend and some more surprises is everything cleared up.