wo millions sterling.

The Towers was his palatial seat, just outside the city. His wife had
been an invalid for some years, and was growing worse. So far the
whole thing seemed to be genuine enough. By some amazing chance these
people really had sent for him.

And then another doubt assailed him, and he turned back into the shop.

"I am your neighbour, Dr. Horace Wilkinson," said he. "Is there any
other medical man of that name in the town?"

No, the stationer was quite positive that there was not.

That was final, then. A great good fortune had come in his way, and he
must take prompt advantage of it. He called a cab and drove furiously
to the Towers, with his brain in a whirl, giddy with hope and delight
at one moment, and sickened with fears and doubts at the next lest the
case should in some way be beyond his powers, or lest he should find at
some critical moment that he was without the instrument or appliance
that was needed. Every strange and outre case of which he had ever
heard or read came back into his mind, and long before he reached the
Towers he had worked himself into a positive conviction that he would
be instantly required to do a trephining at the least.

The Towers was a very large house, standing back amid trees, at the
head of a winding drive. As he drove up the doctor sprang out, paid
away half his worldly assets as a fare, and followed a stately footman
who, having taken his name, led him through the oak-panelled,
stained-glass hall, gorgeous with deers' heads and ancient armour, and
ushered him into a large sitting-room beyond. A very
irritable-looking, acid-faced man was seated in an armchair by the
fireplace, while two young ladies in white were standing together in
the bow window at the further end.

"Hullo! hullo! hullo! What's this--heh?" cried the irritable man.
"Are you Dr. Wilkinson? Eh?"

"Yes, sir, I am Dr. Wilkinson."

"Really, now. You seem very young--much younger than I expected.
Well, well, well, Mason's old, and yet he don't seem to know much about
it. I suppose we must try the other end now. You're the Wilkinson who
wrote something about the lungs? Heh?"

Here was a light! The only two letters which the doctor had ever
written to The Lancet--modest little letters thrust away in a back
column among the wrangles about medical ethics and the inquiries as to
how much it took to keep a horse in the country--had been upon
pulmonary disease. They had not bee