“I’ve got him here,” he whispered, jerking his thumb over his

shoulder; “he’s all right.”


“What is it, then?” I asked, for his manner suggested that it was

some strange creature which he had caged up in my room.


“It’s a new patient,” he whispered. “I thought

I’d bring him round myself; then he couldn’t slip away. There he

is, all safe and sound. I must go now, Doctor; I have my dooties, just the same

as you.” And off he went, this trusty tout, without even giving me time

to thank him.


I entered my consulting-room and found a gentleman seated by the table. He was

quietly dressed in a suit of heather tweed with a soft cloth cap which he had

laid down upon my books. Round one of his hands he had a handkerchief wrapped,

which was mottled all over with bloodstains. He was young, not more than

five-and-twenty, I should say, with a strong, masculine face; but he was

exceedingly pale and gave me the impression of a man who was suffering from

some strong agitation, which it took all his strength of mind to control.


“I am sorry to knock you up so early, Doctor,” said he, “but

I have had a very serious accident during the night. I came in by train this

morning, and on inquiring at Paddington as to where I might find a doctor, a

worthy fellow very kindly escorted me here. I gave the maid a card, but I see

that she has left it upon the side-table.”


I took it up and glanced at it. “Mr. Victor Hatherley, hydraulic

engineer, 16A, Victoria Street (3rd floor).” That was the name, style,

and abode of my morning visitor. “I regret that I have kept you

waiting,” said I, sitting down in my library-chair. “You are fresh

from a night journey, I understand, which is in itself a monotonous

occupation.”


“Oh, my night could not be called monotonous,” said he, and

laughed. He laughed very heartily, with a high, ringing note, leaning back in

his chair and shaking his sides. All my medical instincts rose up against that

laugh.