"I'll tell you what I propose, sir. There's a lawyer named McAdam who
does my aunt's business. He is a very honest fellow, and lives at
the other side of Poultry. We'll go over to him together and have his
opinion about the whole matter."
"How far is it to his place?"
"Oh, a mile at least. We can have a cab."
"A mile? Then we shall see if there is any truth in what that swab of
a doctor said. Come, my boy, and clap on all sail, and see who can stay
the longest."
Then the sober denizens of the heart of business London saw a singular
sight as they returned from their luncheons. Down the roadway, dodging
among cabs and carts, ran a weather-stained elderly man, with wide
flapping black hat, and homely suit of tweeds. With elbows braced back,
hands clenched near his armpits, and chest protruded, he scudded
along, while close at his heels lumbered a large-limbed, heavy, yellow
mustached young man, who seemed to feel the exercise a good deal more
than his senior. On they dashed, helter-skelter, until they pulled up
panting at the office where the lawyer of the Westmacotts was to be
found.
"There now!" cried the Admiral in triumph. "What d'ye think of that?
Nothing wrong in the engine-room, eh?"
"You seem fit enough, sir.
"Blessed if I believe the swab was a certificated doctor at all. He was
flying false colors, or I am mistaken."
"They keep the directories and registers in this eating-house," said
Westmacott. "We'll go and look him out."
They did so, but the medical rolls contained no such name as that of Dr.
Proudie, of Bread Street.
"Pretty villainy this!" cried the Admiral, thumping his chest. "A
dummy doctor and a vamped up disease. Well, we've tried the rogues,
Westmacott! Let us see what we can do with your honest man."