y little clock on the mantelpiece
announced the fact, and, by its frantic ticking, seemed as anxious as I
to get the consultation hours over. I glanced wistfully at my
mud-splashed boots and wondered if I might yet venture to assume the
slippers that peeped coyly from under the shabby sofa. I even allowed my
thoughts to wander to the pipe that reposed in my coat pocket. Another
minute and I could turn down the surgery gas and shut the outer door.
The fussy little clock gave a sort of preliminary cough or hiccup, as if
it should say: "Ahem! ladies and gentlemen, I am about to strike." And
at that moment, the bottle-boy opened the door and, thrusting in his
head, uttered the one word: "Gentleman."

Extreme economy of words is apt to result in ambiguity. But I
understood. In Kennington Lane, the race of mere men and women appeared
to be extinct. They were all gentlemen--unless they were ladies or
children--even as the Liberian army was said to consist entirely of
generals. Sweeps, labourers, milkmen, costermongers--all were
impartially invested by the democratic bottle-boy with the rank and
title of <i>armigeri</i>. The present nobleman appeared to favour the
aristocratic recreation of driving a cab or job-master's carriage, and,
as he entered the room, he touched his hat, closed the door somewhat
carefully, and then, without remark, handed me a note which bore the
superscription "Dr. Stillbury."

"You understand," I said, as I prepared to open the envelope, "that I
am not Dr. Stillbury. He is away at present and I am looking after his
patients."

"It doesn't signify," the man replied. "You'll do as well."

On this, I opened the envelope and read the note, which was quite brief,
and, at first sight, in no way remarkable.

"DEAR SIR," it ran, "Would you kindly come and see a friend of mine who
is staying with me? The bearer of this will give you further particulars
and convey you to the house. Yours truly, H. WEISS."

There was no address on the paper and no date, and the writer was
unknown to me.

"This note," I said, "refers to some further particulars. What are
they?"

The messenger passed his hand over his hair with a gesture of
embarrassment. "It's a ridicklus affair," he said, with a contemptuous
laugh. "If I had been Mr. Weiss, I wouldn't have had nothing to do with
it. The sick gentleman, Mr. Graves, is one of them people what can't
abear doctors. He's been ailing now for a week or two, but nothing would