"I am no spy," I answered mildly. "I heard that you had met with
an accident, and have come to cure you. I am Dr. Luxor, and here
is my card."
The old man took the card, and scanned it eagerly. "You are a
physician?" he inquired distrustfully.
"And surgeon also."
"You are bound by oath not to reveal the secrets of your patients."
"Undoubtedly."
"I am afraid that I am hurt," he continued faintly, half sinking
back in the bed.
I seized the opportunity to make a brief examination of his body.
I found that the arms, a part of the chest, and a part of the face
were terribly scorched; but it seemed to me that there was nothing
to be apprehended but pain.
"You will not reveal anything that you may learn here?" said the
old man, feebly fixing his eyes on my face while I was applying a
soothing ointment to the burns. "You will promise me."
I nodded assent.
"Then I will trust you. Cure me--I will pay you well."
I could scarce help smiling. If Lorenzo de' Medici, conscious of
millions of ducats in his coffers, had been addressing some leech
of the period, he could not have spoken with a loftier air than
this inhabitant of the fourth story of a tenement house in the
Seventh Avenue.
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