His turn had come!
CHAPTER II
The doctor was a man about forty years of age, robust, with every
appearance of a strong character. In the buttonhole of the frock
coat he wore was a red rosette, the decoration of some order.
Confused and nervous as George was, he got a vague impression of
the physician's richly furnished office, with its bronzes,
marbles and tapestries.
The doctor signaled to the young man to be seated in the chair
before his desk. George complied, and then, as he wiped away the
perspiration from his forehead, stammered out a few words,
explaining his errand. Of course, he said, it could not be true,
but it was a man's duty not to take any chances in such a matter.
"I have not been a man of loose life," he added; "I have not
taken so many chances as other men."
The doctor cut him short with the brief remark that one chance
was all that was necessary. Instead of discussing such
questions, he would make an examination. "We do not say
positively in these cases until we have made a blood test. That
is the one way to avoid the possibility of mistake."
A drop of blood was squeezed out of George's finger on to a
little glass plate. The doctor retired to an adjoining room, and
the victim sat alone in the office, deriving no enjoyment from
the works of art which surrounded him, but feeling like a
prisoner who sits in the dock with his life at stake while the
jury deliberates.
The doctor returned, calm and impassive, and seated himself in
his office-chair.
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