He grunted and opened his eyes. "How could eight dogs that size possibly spend the night in her bedroom?" he demanded.
I nodded. "That worried me too. If you figure an average of two square yards to a dog, and maybe more if -"
The doorbell rang, and I went. It was a man in a heavy brown tweed overcoat and a smooth dark blue narrow-rimmed hat, which was ridiculous, and I guessed it was one of the bozos Saul or Fred had flushed. But when I opened the door he said, "I am Dr. Gamm. Theodore Gamm, M.D. Are you the man who called on Mr. and Mrs. Fleming Monday afternoon?" I told him yes, and he said, "I insist on seeing Nero Wolfe," and would have walked right through me if I hadn't sidestepped.
Of course that isn't the way to do it. You merely say something first and
Wolfe nodded. "Seventy pounds. Perhaps eighty. Death will see to that. Does it concern you?"
"Yes, it does." He curled his pudgy hands over the ends of the chair arms. "Any conflict with natural health is an impertinence, and I resent it." His voice was bigger than he was. "It is my concern for health that brought me here – the health of one of my patients, Mrs. Barry Fleming. You sent a man – that man" – his eyes darted to me and back to Wolfe – "to torment her. She was already in a state of strain, and now she threatens to collapse. Can you justify it?"