Part 10 (2/2)

Nevertheless when she herself admitted a new patient for d.i.c.k that afternoon, she had no premonition of trouble. She sent him into the waiting-room, a tall, robust and youngish man, perhaps in his late thirties, and went quietly on her way to her sitting-room, and to her weekly mending.

On the other hand, Louis Ba.s.sett was feeling more or less uncomfortable.

There was an air of peace and quiet respectability about the old house, a domestic odor of baking cake, a quietness and stability that somehow made his errand appear absurd. To connect it with Judson Clark and his tumultuous past seemed ridiculous.

His errand, on the surface, was a neuralgic headache.

When, hat in hand, he walked into d.i.c.k's consulting room, he had made up his mind that he would pay the price of an overactive imagination for a prescription, walk out again, and try to forget that he had let a chance resemblance carry him off his feet.

But, as he watched the man who sat across from him, tilted back in his swivel chair, he was not so sure. Here was the same tall figure, the heavy brown hair, the features and boyish smile of the photograph he had seen the night before. As Judson Clark might have looked at thirty-two this man looked.

He made his explanation easily. Was in town for the day. Subject to these headaches. Worse over the right eye. No, he didn't wear gla.s.ses; perhaps he should.

It wasn't Clark. It couldn't be. Jud Clark sitting there tilted back in an old chair and asking questions as to the nature of his fict.i.tious pain! Impossible. Nevertheless he was of a mind to clear the slate and get some sleep that night, and having taken his prescription and paid for it, he sat back and commenced an apparently casual interrogation.

”Two names on your sign, I see. Father and son, I suppose?”

”Doctor David Livingstone is my uncle.”

”I should think you'd be in the city. Limitations to this sort of thing, aren't there?”

”I like it,” said d.i.c.k, with an eye on the office clock.

”Patients are your friends, of course. Born and raised here, I suppose?”

”Not exactly. I was raised on a ranch in Wyoming. My father had a ranch out there.”

Ba.s.sett shot a glance at him, but d.i.c.k was calm and faintly smiling.

”Wyoming!” the reporter commented. ”That's a long way from here.

Anywhere near the new oil fields?”

”Not far from Norada. That's the oil center,” d.i.c.k offered, good-naturedly. He rose, and glanced again at the clock. ”If those headaches continue you'd better have your eyes examined.”

Ba.s.sett was puzzled. It seemed to him that there had been a shade of evasion in the other man's manner, slightly less frankness in his eyes.

But he showed no excitement, nothing furtive or alarmed. And the open and unsolicited statement as to Norada baffled him. He had to admit to himself either that a man strongly resembling Judson Clark had come from the same neighborhood, or--

”Norada?” he said. ”That's where the big Clark ranch was located, wasn't it? Ever happen to meet Judson Clark?”

”Our place was very isolated.”

Ba.s.sett found himself being politely ushered out, considerably more at sea than when he went in and slightly irritated. His annoyance was not decreased by the calm voice behind him which said:

”Better drink considerable water when you take that stuff. Some stomachs don't tolerate it very well.”

The door closed. The reporter stood in the waiting-room for a moment.

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