ke your mind easy; I should be ashamed to mention it."

Further reflection decided Benjulia on writing. Even when he had a
favour to ask, he was unable to address Lemuel with common politeness.

"I hear that Morphew has written to you by the last mail. I want to see
the letter." So much he wrote, and no more. What was barely enough for
the purpose, was enough for the doctor, when he addressed his brother.

CHAPTER XXXI.

Between one and two o'clock, the next afternoon, Benjulia (at work in
his laboratory) heard the bell which announced the arrival of a visitor
at the house. No matter what the circumstances might be, the servants
were forbidden to disturb him at his studies in any other way.

Very unwillingly he obeyed the call, locking the door behind him. At
that hour it was luncheon-time in well-regulated households, and it was
in the last degree unlikely that Mrs. Gallilee could be the visitor.
Getting within view of the front of the house, he saw a man standing on
the doorstep. Advancing a little nearer, he recognised Lemuel.

"Hullo!" cried the elder brother.

"Hullo!" answered the younger, like an echo.

They stood looking at each other with the suspicious curiosity of two
strange cats. Between Nathan Benjulia, the famous doctor, and Lemuel
Benjulia, the publisher's clerk, there was just family resemblance
enough to suggest that they were relations. The younger brother was only
a little over the ordinary height; he was rather fat than thin; he
wore a moustache and whiskers; he dressed smartly--and his prevailing
expression announced that he was thoroughly well satisfied with himself.
But he inherited Benjulia's gipsy complexion; and, in form and colour,
he had Benjulia's eyes.

"How-d'ye-do, Nathan?" he said.

"What the devil brings you here?" was the answer.

Lemuel passed over his brother's rudeness without notice. His mouth
curled up at the corners with a mischievous smile.

"I thought you wished to see my letter," he said.

"Why couldn't you send it by post?"

"My wife wished me to take the opportunity of calling on you."

"That's a lie," said Benjulia quietly. "Try another excuse. Or do a new
thing. For once, speak the truth."

Without waiting to hear the truth, he led the way into the room in
which he had received Ovid. Lemuel followed, still showing no outward
appearance of resentment.

"How did you get away from your office?" Benjulia inquired.

"It's easy to get a holiday at thi