In such a case as this no doctor in his senses would give
his certificate without a post-mortem, and though I am an enthusiast, I
am in my senses, Mr. Hugo.'
'An enthusiast?'
'Let me explain. My friend Tudor was suffering from one of the rarest of
all maladies--malignant disease of the heart. The text-books will tell
you that malignant disease of the heart has probably never been
diagnosed. It is a disease of which there are no symptoms, in which the
patient generally suffers no pain, and for which there is no treatment.
Nevertheless, in my enthusiasm, I have diagnosed in this case that a
very considerable extent of the cardiac wall was affected by
epithelioma. We shall see. Not long since I condemned Tudor to an early
and sudden death--a death which might be hastened by circumstances.'
'Poor chap!' Hugo murmured.
The dead man looked so young, artless, and content.
'Why "poor"?' Darcy turned on him sharply but coldly. 'Is not a sudden
death the best? Would you not wish it for yourself, for your friends?'
'Yes,' said Hugo; 'but when one is dead one is dead. That's all I
meant.'
'I have heard much of you, Mr. Hugo,' said the other. 'And, if I may be
excused a certain bluntness, it is very obvious that, though you say
little, you are no ordinary man.
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