The two came to an agreement rapidly, and Emile climbed the stairs
again, triumphant.
He began to feel anxious about the doctor. Two hours had passed and
there was no sight of him. He might be out, or he might be drunk.
Emile knew the little weakness of Michael Furness, and as Vardri had
not returned it meant that he was still searching.
At last the horse-doctor arrived, grunting and ruffling up his crest of
curly black hair. He had a large heart by way of counterbalance to his
many failings, and he was interested in Arithelli, for he had come
across her once or twice in the stables, and had heard various
picturesque stories of her exploits. He might have been a success in
his own profession, but for the two temptations that beset every
Irishman--whisky and horses.
He had left his practice in the city of Cork, as Emile had said,
somewhat under a cloud, and had given up whisky for the _absinthe_ of
the _cafes_, and had not regretted the exchange. He made his
examination quickly, handling the girl with a surprising skill and
deftness, in spite of his big clumsy-looking hands.
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