ascending the great, dim staircase of the
house in Nevill's Court preceded by Miss Oman, by whom I was ushered
into the room. Mr. Bellingham, who had just finished some sort of
meal, was sitting hunched up in his chair gazing gloomily into the
empty grate. He brightened up as I entered, but was evidently in very
low spirits.

"I didn't mean to drag you out after your day's work was finished," he
said, "though I am very glad to see you."

"You haven't dragged me out. I heard you were alone, so I just dropped
in for a few minutes' gossip."

"That is really kind of you," he said heartily. "But I'm afraid you'll
find me rather poor company. A man who is full of his own highly
disagreeable affairs is not a desirable companion."

"You mustn't let me disturb you if you'd rather be alone," said I, with
a sudden fear that I was intruding.

"Oh, you won't disturb me," he replied; adding, with a laugh: "It's
more likely to be the other way about. In fact, if I were not afraid
of boring you to death I would ask you to let me talk my difficulties
over with you."

"You won't bore me," I said. "It is generally interesting to share
another man's experiences without their inconveniences. 'The proper
study of mankind is--man,' you know, especially to a doctor."

Mr. Bellingham chuckled grimly. "You make me feel like a microbe," he
said. "However, if you would care to take a peep at me through your
microscope, I will crawl on to the stage for your inspection, though it
is not _my_ actions that furnish the materials for your psychological
studies. It is my poor brother who is the _Deus ex machina_, who, from
his unknown grave, as I fear, pulls the strings of this infernal
puppet-show."

He paused and for a space gazed thoughtfully into the grate as if he
had forgotten my presence. At length he looked up and resumed:

"It is a curious story, Doctor--a very curious story. Part of it you
know--the middle part. I will tell you it from the beginning, and then
you will know as much as I do; for, as to the end, that is known to no
one. It is written, no doubt, in the book of destiny, but the page has
yet to be turned.

"The mischief began with my father's death. He was a country clergyman
of very moderate means, a widower with two children, my brother John
and me. He managed to send us both to Oxford, after which John went
into the Foreign Office and I was to have gone into the Church. But I
suddenly discovered tha