Dr. Methuen's beautifully appointed consulting-room, with, all evidence about it of how successful his practice must be, was not infrequently the stage upon which poignant tragedies of life were set, and the curtain had just been rung up upon one more.
A patient had been told he was suffering from the rather rare disease of myeloid leukaemia, a persistent increase of the white corpuscles of the blood, and that there was no hope for him. Medical science knew of no cure or, indeed, of any way of retarding the approaching death.
