diagnosing,” he said.
Naylor apologized. “I’ve a desperate instinct to fit all these young fellows up with mates as soon as possible. Isn’t it only fair?”
“And also extremely expedient. But it’s the sort of thing you can leave to them, can’t you?”
“As to Beaumaroy—I suppose you meant him, not Alec—I think you must have been talking to old Tom Punnit—or, rather, hearing him talk.”
“Punnit’s general view is sound enough, I think, as to the man’s characteristics; but he doesn’t appreciate his cunning.”
“Cunning?” Naylor was openly astonished. “He doesn’t strike me as a cunning man, not in the least.”
“Possibly, possibly, I say—not in his ends, but in his means and expedients. That’s my view. I just put it on record, Naylor. I never like talking too much about my cases.”
“Beaumaroy’s not your patient, is he?”
“His employer, I suppose he’s his employer, Saffron is. Well, I thought it advisable to see Saffron alone. I tried to. Saffron was reluctant, this man here openly against it. Next time I shall insist. Because I think, mind you, at present I no more than think, that there’s more in Saffron’s case than meets the eye.”
Naylor glanced at him, smiling. “You fellows are always starting hares,” he said.
“Game and set!” cried Captain Alec, and—to his partner—“Thank you very much for carrying a cripple.”
But Irechester’s attention remained fixed on Beaumaroy, and consequently on Doctor Mary, for the partners did not separate at the end of their game, but, after putting on their coats, began to walk up and down together on the other side of the court, in animated conversation, though Beaumaroy did most of the talking, Mary listening in her usual grave and composed manner. Now and then a word or two reached Irechester’s ears, old Naylor seemed to have fallen into a reverie over his cigar, and it must be confessed that he took no pains not to overhear. Once at least he plainly heard “Saffron” from Beaumaroy; he thought that the same lips spoke his own name, and he was sure that
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