The Argosy — page 319: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Featherston’s Story. 305 ‘¢ Well, it appears strange.” ** It could not have been a chill. The symptoms——” “A chill?—-bah!” interrupted M. Podevin. ‘We shall know more after the post-mortem,” he added, taking up his hat. “Of course there must be one.” Wishing his brother practitioner good-night, he left. M. Dupuis went looking about for Captain Fennel, and found him in the kitchen, standing by the hot stove, and drinking a glass of hot brandy and water. The rest were upstairs. “This event has shaken my nerves, Doctor,” apologised the Captain, in reference to the glass. ‘*I was never so upset. Shall I mix you one?” M. Dupuis shook his head. He never took anything so strong. The most calming thing, in his opinion, was a glass of eau sucrée, with a teaspoonful of orange-flower water in it. ‘* Sir,” he went on, “I have been conversing with my esteemed confrére. We cannot, either of us, decide what mademoiselle has died of, being unable to see any adequate cause for it ; and we wish to hold a post-mortem examination. I presume you will not object to it?” “Certainly not; I think there should be one,” briskly spoke Captain Fennel after a moment’s pause. “For our satisfaction, if for nothing else, Doctor.” ‘Very well. Will nine o’clock in the morning suit you, as to time? It should be made early.” ‘‘ I—expect it will,” answered the Captain, reflecting. ‘‘ Do you hold it here ?” * Undoubtedly. In her own room.” ‘Then wait just one minute, will you, Doctor, whilst I speak to my wife. Nine o’clock seems a little early, but I daresay it will suit.” M. Dupuis went back into the salon. He had waited there a short interval, when Mrs. Fennel burst in, wild with excitement. Her hair still hung down her back, her eyes were swollen with weeping, her face was one of piteous distress. She advanced to M. Dupuis, and held up her trembling hands. The old Doctor understood English fairly well when it was quietly spoken; but he did not in the least understand it in a storm. Sobbing, trembling, Mrs. Fennel was beseeching him not to hold a post-mortem on her poor dead sister for the love of mercy. Surprised and distressed, he placed her on the sofa, soothed her into calmness, and then bade her tell him quietly what her petition was. She repeated it—begging, praying, imploring him not to disturb her sister now she was at rest; but to let her be put into her grave in peace. Well, well, said the compassionate old man; if it would pain the relatives so greatly to have it done, he and M. Podevin would, of course, abandon the idea. It would be a satis- EOMRRIC OOO SS (GO) i