as possible to No. 19 Bellringer Street. I did not know
the street, or what sort of a locality it was in.

"What kind of a person called?" I asked.

"A woman, sir; not a lady. On foot--poorly dressed. She's been here
before, and Dr. Lowry has visited the case twice. No. 19 Bellringer
Street. Perhaps you will find him in the case-book, sir."

I went in to consult the case-book. Half a dozen words contained the
diagnosis. It was the same disease, in an incipient form, of which my
poor mother died. I resolved to go and see this sufferer at once, late
as the hour was.

"Did the person expect some one to go to-night?" I asked, as I passed
through the hall.

"I couldn't promise her that, sir," was the answer. "I did say I'd send
on the message to you, and I was just coming with it, sir. She said
she'd sit up till twelve o'clock."

"Very good," I said.

Upon inquiry I found that the place was two miles away; and, as our old
friend Simmons was still on the cab-stand, I jumped into his cab, and
bade him drive me as fast as he could to No. 19 Bellringer Street. I
wanted a sense of motion, and a chance of scene. If I had been in
Guernsey, I should have mounted Madam, and had another midnight ride
round the island. This was a poor substitute for that; but the visit
would serve to turn my thoughts from Julia. If any one in London could
do the man good. I believed it was I; for I had studied that one malady
with my soul thrown into it.

"We turned at last into a shabby street, recognizable even in the
twilight of the scattered lamps as being a place for cheap
lodging-houses. There was a light burning in the second-floor windows of
No. 19; but all the rest of the front was in darkness. I paid Simmons
and dismissed him, saying I would walk home. By the time I turned to
knock at the door, it was opened quietly from within. A woman stood in
the doorway; I could not see her face, for the candle she had brought
with her was on the table behind her; neither was there light enough for
her to distinguish mine.

"Are you come from Dr. Lowry's?" she asked.

The voice sounded a familiar one, but I could not for the life of me
recall whose it was.

"Yes," I answered, "but I do not know the name of my patient here."

"Dr. Martin Dobree!" she exclaimed, in an accent almost of terror.

I recollected her then as the person who had been in search of Olivia.
She had fallen back a few paces, and I could now see her face. It was
startled