“That’s all right,” said the doctor. “Then she won’t have had any practice in looking for you. Patsy Devlin’s wife, as you heard, is likely to go straight to the police barrack when she misses him. But then she’s more or less accustomed to his not turning up regularly.” “I wouldn’t say,” said Patsy, “that the police would be paying too much attention to what she might tell them.” “What about your wife, and your aunt?” said the doctor to Mr. Sanders. “Are they accustomed to having to hunt you up?” “Do I gather from what you say,” said Mr. Sanders, “that you don’t want to be rescued?” “We certainly do not,” said the doctor. “Patsy and I are perfectly comfortable where we are. We know when we are well off.” “Good God!” said Mr. Sanders. “In the hands of a bloodthirsty anarchist!” “Don’t abuse the Emperor,” said the doctor, “for I won’t stand it. He may be an anarchist, but he’s a thoroughly good sort.” “I’m thankful to say,” said Mr. Sanders, “that my aunt is a woman of great vigour and determination. She will do everything that can be done to discover where we are and to rescue us. I place implicit confidence in her. Nothing will daunt her.” “If, as I gather from your description of her, she is any kind of Suffragette,” said the doctor, “I hope, for her own sake, that she’ll keep clear of the Emperor. He has the strongest possible prejudice against advanced women. I happened one day to mention the name of Jael to him in the course of conversation. You know the woman I mean, the one who hammered the nail into the man’s head. I naturally thought he’d admire her immensely, but he didn’t in the least. He flew into the most frightful rage. Didn’t he, Patsy?” “I heard you saying so,” said Patsy, “and of course I believed you. But I wasn’t here myself at the time. You know that, doctor.” Mr. Sanders brightened up suddenly. “Are you a doctor?” he said. “I am, or I was, the dispensary doctor of Clonmore Poor Law Union. By the way, Patsy, was there any talk of their electing a new man when they found out that I’d gone?” “I wouldn’t be telling you a lie. There was.” “If you’re a doctor,” said Mr. Sanders eagerly, “you’ll be able to certify that I have a weak heart, and that confinement will seriously injure my health. Then he’ll be bound to let me go.” “I haven’t a stethoscope with me,” said the doctor, “so I can’t. But even if I wrote you out quite a long certificate I don’t suppose that it would influence the Emperor in the least. He doesn’t care about your health. Why should he?” “But I’ve always understood---- Why, the Home Secretary only the other day----” “And I may as well tell you straight,” said the doctor, “that if I had a stethoscope, and if the Emperor would let you out on my certificate, I wouldn’t give it. In fact, if I certified at all, I’d certify that you are a particularly strong and enduring kind of man, and that a little imprisonment would do you good.” “But why----? Why should----?”