d his toilet, to
write an account of the dream for the Psychical Research Society, in
whose work he was interested. Half an hour later, as the movements of
an awakened household began to proclaim themselves, he sat down at
his writing-table and commenced to write.

Keppel Stuart was a dark, good-looking man of about thirty-two, an
easy-going bachelor who, whilst not over ambitious, was nevertheless
a brilliant physician. He had worked for the Liverpool School of
Tropical Medicine and had spent several years in India studying snake
poisons. His purchase of this humdrum suburban practice had been
dictated by a desire to make a home for a girl who at the eleventh
hour had declined to share it. Two years had elapsed since then, but
the shadow still lay upon Stuart's life, its influence being revealed
in a certain apathy, almost indifference, which characterised his
professional conduct.

His account of the dream completed, he put the paper into a
pigeon-hole and forgot all about the matter. That day seemed to be
more than usually dull and the hours to drag wearily on. He was
conscious of a sort of suspense. He was waiting for something, or for
someone. He did not choose to analyse this mental condition. Had he
done so, the explanation was simple--and one that he dared not face.

At about ten o'clock that night, having been called out to a case, he
returned to his house, walking straight into the study as was his
custom and casting a light Burberry with a soft hat upon the sofa
beside his stick and bag. The lamps were lighted, and the book-lined
room, indicative of a studious and not over-wealthy bachelor, looked
cheerful enough with the firelight dancing on the furniture.

Mrs. M'Gregor, a grey-haired Scotch lady, attired with scrupulous
neatness, was tending the fire at the moment, and hearing Stuart come
in she turned and glanced at him.

"A fire is rather superfluous to-night, Mrs. M'Gregor," he said. "I
found it unpleasantly warm walking."

"May is a fearsome treacherous month, Mr. Keppel," replied the old
housekeeper, who from long association with the struggling
practitioner had come to regard him as a son. "An' a wheen o' dry
logs is worth a barrel o' pheesic. To which I would add that if ye're
hintin' it's time ye shed ye're woolsies for ye're summer wear, all I
have to reply is that I hope sincerely ye're patients are more
prudent than yoursel'."

She placed his slippers in the fender and took up the hat,