our later Dr. Gilbert hurried to the links, where the others of his
regular week-end game awaited him. It was a rigid round, played as usual
at the trot, for the tension of the week lay as heavy on the two King's
Counsels and Sir John Chartres as on Gilbert. The lawyers were old
enemies of the Admiralty Court, and Sir John of the frosty eyebrows and
Abernethy manner was bracketed with, but before, Rutherford Gilbert
among nerve-specialists.

At the Club-house afterwards the lawyers renewed their squabble over a
tangled collision case, and the doctors as naturally compared
professional matters.

'Lies--all lies,' said Sir John, when Gilbert had told him Conroy's
trouble. '_Post hoc, propter hoc_. The man or woman who drugs is _ipso
facto_ a liar. You've no imagination.'

''Pity you haven't a little--occasionally.'

'I have believed a certain type of patient in my time. It's always the
same. For reasons not given in the consulting-room they take to the
drug. Certain symptoms follow. They will swear to you, and believe it,
that they took the drug to mask the symptoms. What does your man use?
Najdolene? I thought so. I had practically the duplicate of your case
last Thursday. Same old Najdolene--same old lie.'

'Tell me the symptoms, and I'll draw my own inferences, Johnnie.'

'Symptoms! The girl was rank poisoned with Najdolene. Ramping, stamping
possession. Gad, I thought she'd have the chandelier down.'

'Mine came unstuck too, and he has the physique of a bull,' said
Gilbert. 'What delusions had yours?'

'Faces--faces with mildew on them. In any other walk of life we'd call
it the Horrors. She told me, of course, she took the drugs to mask the
faces. _Post hoc, propter hoc_ again. All liars!'

'What's that?' said the senior K.C. quickly. 'Sounds professional.'

'Go away! Not for you, Sandy.' Sir John turned a shoulder against him
and walked with Gilbert in the chill evening.

To Conroy in his chambers came, one week later, this letter:

DEAR MR. CONROY--If your plan of a night's trip on the 17th
still holds good, and you have no particular destination in
view, you could do me a kindness. A Miss Henschil, in whom I
am interested, goes down to the West by the 10.8 from
Waterloo (Number 3 platform) on that night. She is not
exactly an invalid, but, like so many of us, a little shaken
in her nerves. Her maid, of course, accompanies her, but if I
knew you were in the same