y at his irrepressible junior, and, shaking
my hand cordially, turned into the entry.

From the Temple I wended northward, to the adjacent College of
Surgeons, where I spent a couple of profitable hours examining the
"pickles" and refreshing my memory on the subjects of pathology and
anatomy; marveling afresh (as every practical anatomist must marvel) at
the incredibly perfect technique of the dissections, and inwardly
paying tribute to the founder of the collection. At length the warning
of the clock, combined with an increasing craving for tea, drove me
forth and bore me toward the scene of my not very strenuous labors. My
mind was still occupied with the contents of the cases and the great
glass jars, so that I found myself at the corner of Fetter Lane without
a very clear idea of how I had got there. But at that point I was
aroused from my reflections rather abruptly by a raucous voice in my
ear.

"'Orrible discovery at Sidcup!"

I turned wrathfully--for a London street-boy's yell, let off at
point-blank range, is, in effect, like the smack of an open hand--but
the inscription on the staring yellow poster that was held up for my
inspection changed my anger to curiosity.

"Horrible discovery in a watercress-bed!"

Now, let prigs deny it if they will, but there is something very
attractive in a "horrible discovery." It hints at tragedy, at mystery,
at romance. It promises to bring into our gray and commonplace life
that element of the dramatic which is the salt that our existence is
savored withal. "In a watercress-bed," too! The rusticity of the
background seemed to emphasize the horror of the discovery, whatever it
might be.

I bought a copy of the paper, and, tucking it under my arm, hurried on
to the surgery, promising myself a mental feast of watercress; but as I
opened the door I found myself confronted by a corpulent woman of
piebald and pimply aspect who saluted me with a deep groan. It was the
lady from the coal shop in Fleur-de-Lys Court.

"Good evening, Mrs. Jablett," I said briskly; "not come about yourself,
I hope."

"Yes, I have," she answered, rising and following me gloomily into the
consulting-room; and then, when I had seated her in the patient's chair
and myself at the writing table, she continued: "It's my inside, you
know, doctor."

The statement lacked anatomical precision and merely excluded the
domain of the skin specialist. I accordingly waited for enlightenment
and specu