The Red Lodge: A Mystery of Campden Hill

A dark green Rolls-Royce limousine slid round the corner of Sydney Place and, proceeding a few hundred yards along the Fulham Road, drew up in front of St. Christopher's Hospital. It had scarcely stopped before the door opened and its solitary occupanta tall, well-dressed man of about fiftystepped out on to the pavement. "You can wait here, Simmons," he said, addressing the chauffeur. "I shan't be more than a few minutes." The porter on duty, who was talking to a friend in the hall, touched his cap respectfully as the newcomer hurried past him in the direction of the main staircase. "See that bloke, Fred?" he whispered, jerking his thumb after the retreating figure. "That's Sir George Onslow, that is. Some pore beggar's for it, you can take my word." "Well, thank Gawd 'e ain't a-goin' to 'ack me about," returned the other. "Pack o' butchers, all the lot of 'em, if they gets 'alf a chance." Unconscious of having been the cause of this somewhat drastic criticism of his profession, the famous surgeon mounted rapidly to the second landing, where a long, bare, distempered corridor stretched away in either direction. Choosing the one on the left, he came to a halt in front of a white door, on which the two words "House Surgeon" were neatly painted in black letters, and, without troubling to knock, turned the handle and walked in. A broad-shouldered, cheerful-looking young man, who was sitting at the table reading a medical book, glanced up carelessly at his entrance. On seeing who the visitor was his expression changed, and with a certain air of surprise he rose quickly to his feet.

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