e"--and arrival in his mind meant far more than
it does in the minds of most men--and his acute pleasure in adding
perpetually to his fortune, drove him incessantly onward. In his few
free hours he was slowly and laboriously writing a work on poisons, the
work for which he had been preparing in Italy during his last holiday.
On this Sunday he meant to devote some hours to it. But first he would
"get through" his letters.

After a hasty breakfast, he shut himself up in his study. London seemed
strangely quiet. Even here within four walls, and without looking at the
outside world, one felt that it was Sunday; one felt also that almost
everybody was out of town. A pall of grey brooded over the city.
Isaacson turned on the electric light, stood for a moment in front of
the fire, then went over to his writing-table. The letters he intended
to answer were arranged in a pile on the right hand side of his
blotting-pad. Many of them--most of them--were from people who desired
to consult him, or from patients about their cases. These letters meant
money. Numbers of them he could answer with a printed card to which he
would only have to add a date and a name. Monotonous work, but swiftly
done, a filling up of many of the hours of his life which were near at
hand.

He sat down, took a packet of his printed engagement forms, and a pen,
put them before him, then opened one of the letters:

"4, Manton Street, Mayfair, Jan. 2.

"Dear Doctor Isaacson:

"My health," etc., etc.

He opened another:

"200, Park Lane, Jan. ----

"Dear Doctor Isaacson:

"I don't know what is the matter with me, but--" etc., etc.

He took up a third:

1x, Berkeley Square, Jan. ----

Dear Doctor Isaacson:

"That strange feeling in my head has returned, and I should like to
see you about it," etc., etc.

Usually he answered such letters with energy, and certainly without any
disgust. They were the letters he wanted. He could scarcely have too
many of them. But to-day a weariness overtook him; almost more than a
weariness, a sort of sick irritation against the life that he had chosen
and that he was making a marvellous success of. Illness, always illness!
Pale faces, disordered nerves, dyspepsia, melancholia, anaemia, all the
troop of ills that afflict humanity, marching for ever into his room!
What company for a man to keep! What company! Suddenly he pushed away
the printed forms, put down his