Dr. Venables took off his coat and rolled up his sleeves. He never travelled without a small bottle of this serum in his waistcoat pocket--a serum which, as my readers know, is prepared from the earth-worm, in whose body (fortunately) large deposits of anthro-philomelitis are continually found. With help from a footman in holding down the patient, the injection was made. In less than a year Lord Lair was restored to health.
Dr. Gordon Venables' case came before the British Medical Council early in October. The counts in the indictment were two.
The first was that, "on the 17th of June last, Dr. Gordon Venables did feloniously and with malice aforethought commit the disgusting and infamous crime of attending professionally the client of another practitioner."
The second was that "in the course of rendering professional services to the said client, Dr. Venables did knowingly and wittingly employ the assistance of one who was not a properly registered medical man, to wit, Thomas Boiling, footman, thereby showing himself to be a scurvy fellow of infamous morals."
Dr. Venables decided to apologise. He also decided to send in an account to Lord Lair for two hundred and fifty guineas. He justified this to himself mainly on the ground that, according to a letter in that week's _Lancet_, the supply of anthro-philomelitis in earth-worms was suddenly giving out, and that it was necessary to recoup himself for the generous quantity he had injected into Lord Lair. Naturally, also, he felt that his lordship, as the author of the whole trouble, owed him something.
The Council, in consideration of his apology, dismissed the first count.
On the second count, however, they struck him off the register.
It was a terrible position for a young doctor to be in, but Gordon Venables faced it like a man. With Lord Lair's fee in his pocket he came to town and took a house in Harley Street. When he had paid the first quarter's rent and the first instalment on the hired furniture, he had fifty pounds left.
Ten pounds he spent on embossed stationery.
Forty pounds he spent on postage-stamps.
For the next three months no journal was complete without a letter from 999 Harley Street, signed "Gordon Venables," in which the iniquity of his treatment by the British Medical Council was dwelt upon with the fervour of a man who knew his subject thoroughly; no such letter was complete without a side-reference to anthro-philomelitis (as found, happily, in earth-worms) and the anthro-philomelitis treatment (as recommended by peers). Six months previously the name of Venables had been utterly unknown to the man in the street. In three months' time it was better known even than ----'s, the well-known ----.
One-half of London said he was an infamous quack.
The other half of London said he was a martyred genius.
Both halves agreed that, after all, one might as well _try_ this new what-you-may-call-it treatment, just to see if there was anything _in_ it, don't you know.
It was only last week that Mr. Venables made an excellent speech against the super-tax.
THE NEWSPAPER PROPRIETOR
The great Hector Strong, lord of journalism and swayer of empires, paced the floor of his luxurious apartment with bowed head, his corrugated countenance furrowed with lines of anxiety. He had just returned from a lunch with all his favourite advertisers ... but it was not this which troubled him. He was thinking out a new policy for _The Daily Vane_.
Suddenly he remembered something. Coming up to town in his third motor, he had glanced through the nineteen periodicals which his house had published that morning, and in one case had noted matter for serious criticism. This was obviously the first business he must deal with.
He seated himself at his desk and pushed the bell marked "38." Instantly a footman presented himself with a tray of sandwiches.
"What do you want?" said Strong coldly.
"You rang for me, sir," replied the trembling menial.
"Go away," said Strong. Recognizing magnanimously, however, that the mistake was his own, he pressed bell "28." In another moment the editor of _Sloppy Chunks_ was before him.
"In to-day's number," said Strong, as he toyed with a blue pencil, "you apologize for a mistake in last week's number." He waited sternly.
"It was a very bad mistake, sir, I'm afraid. We did a great injustice to----"
"You know my rule," said Strong. "The mistake of last week I could have overlooked. The apology of this week is a more serious matter. You will ask for a month's salary on your way out." He pressed a button and the editor disappeared through the trap-door.
Alone again, Hector Strong thought keenly for a moment. Then he pressed bell "38." Instantly a footman presented himself with a tray of sandwiches.
"What do you mean by this?" roared Strong, his iron self-control for a moment giving way.
"I b-beg your pardon, sir," stammered the man. "I th-thought----"
"Get out!" As the footman retired, Strong passed his hand across his forehead. "My memory is bad to-day," he murmured, and pushed bell "48."
A tall thin man entered.
"Ah, good afternoon, Mr. Brownlow," said the Proprietor. He toyed with his blue pencil. "Let me see, which of our papers are under your charge at the moment?"
Mr. Brownlow reflected.
"Just now," he said, "I am editing _Snippety Snips_, _The Whoop_, _The Girls' Own Aunt_, _Parings_, _Slosh_, _The Sunday Sermon_, and _Back Chat_."
"Ah! Well, I want you to take on _Sloppy Chunks_ too for a little while.
Mr. Symes has had to leave us."
"Yes, sir." Mr. Brownlow bowed and moved to the door.
"By the way," Strong said, "your last number of _Slosh_ was very good.
Very good indeed. I congratulate you. Good day."
Left alone, Hector Strong, lord of journalism and swayer of empires, resumed his pacings. His two mistakes with the bell told him that he was distinctly not himself this afternoon. Was it only the need of a new policy for _The Vane_ which troubled him? Or was it----
Could it be Lady Dorothy?
Lady Dorothy Neal was something of an enigma to Hector Strong. He was making more than a million pounds a year, and yet she did not want to marry him. Sometimes he wondered if the woman were quite sane. Yet, mad or sane, he loved her.
A secretary knocked and entered. He waited submissively for half an hour until the Proprietor looked up.
"Well?"
"Lady Dorothy Neal would like to see you for a moment, sir."
"Show her in."
Lady Dorothy came in brightly.
"What nice-looking men you have here," she said. "Who is the one in the blue waistcoat? He has curly hair."
"You didn't come to talk about _him_?" said Hector reproachfully.
"I didn't come to talk _to_ him really, but if you keep me waiting half an hour---- Why, what are you doing?"