Yes, of course. I have heard a legal
friend of mine, a Mr. Marchmont, speak of him in reference to the case
of a man whom I knew slightly years ago--a certain Jeffrey Blackmore,
who also disappeared very mysteriously. I remember now that Dr.
Thorndyke unraveled that case with most remarkable ingenuity."

"I daresay he would be very much interested to hear about your case," I
suggested.

"I daresay he would," was the reply; "but one can't take up a
professional man's time for nothing, and I couldn't afford to pay him.
And that reminds me that I'm taking up your time by gossiping about
purely personal affairs."

"My morning round is finished," said I, "and, moreover, your personal
affairs are highly interesting. I suppose I mustn't ask what is the
nature of the legal entanglement?"

"Not unless you are prepared to stay here for the rest of the day and
go home a raving lunatic. But I'll tell you this much: the trouble is
about my poor brother's will. In the first place it can't be
administered because there is not sufficient evidence that my brother
is dead; and in the second place, if it could, all the property would
go to people who were never intended to benefit. The will itself is
the most diabolically exasperating document that was ever produced by
the perverted ingenuity of a wrongheaded man. That's all. Will you
have a look at my knee?"

As Mr. Bellingham's explanation (delivered in a rapid _crescendo_ and
ending almost in a shout) had left him purple-faced and trembling, I
thought it best to bring our talk to an end. Accordingly I proceeded
to inspect the injured knee, which was now nearly well, and to overhaul
my patient generally; and having given him detailed instructions as to
his general conduct, I rose and took my leave.

"And remember," I said as I shook his hand, "No tobacco, no coffee, no
excitement of any kind. Lead a quiet, bovine life."

"That's all very well," he grumbled, "but supposing people come here
and excite me?"

"Disregard them," said I, "and read _Whitaker's Almanack_." And with
this parting advice I passed out into the other room.

Miss Bellingham was seated at the table with a pile of blue-covered
notebooks before her, two of which were open, displaying pages closely
written in a small, neat handwriting. She rose as I entered and looked
at me inquiringly.

"I heard you advising my father to read _Whitaker's Almanack_," she
said. "Was that a curative measure?"