th outward respect. His father's eye
had become formidable; but in silence his own expressed his opinion of
this paltry defense. Presently he inquired--

"Would you like people to know who you're going to?"

Mr. Walkingshaw started.

"I'll trouble other folks to mind their own business," he said sharply;
yet he cast an uncomfortable glance at his son.

"Oh, I'm not anxious they should know my family's escapades," said
Andrew reassuringly.

But his gray eye had now a triumphant gleam, and his father realized he
had no case left to go before the court. If people were to know--well,
he would certainly be a less shining example. Mr. Walkingshaw of
Walkingshaw and Gilliflower in the hands of a quack doctor! It would
sound awful bad--awful bad. Little did he dream what people would be
saying of that reputable Writer to the Signet three months later.

* * * * *

Business happened to be slack that afternoon, and at the early hour of
four o'clock Mr. Walkingshaw resumed his overcoat and muffler. As Mr.
Thomieson, his confidential clerk, decorously tucked the scarf beneath
the velvet collar, he offered a word or two of respectful sympathy.

"Far the wisest thing to go home, sir. But will you not take a cab? It's
an awful like day to be out with a chill on ye."

Mr. Walkingshaw perceived his junior partner gazing on him in severe
silence, and defiantly decided to walk. Yet as he paced homewards he
could not but admit, in the unquiet recesses of his own mind, that it
certainly was an odd sort of chill. He felt--well, he found it hard to
tell exactly how he felt--rather as though he had swallowed some ounces
of quicksilver which kept flashing and running about inside him with
every step he took. Suppose Cyrus's wonderful new system were actually
to prove dangerous to the constitution, possibly even to the life, of
his august, confiding patron? You could not always know your luck,
however deserving you might be. The tower of Siloam fell both upon the
righteous and the unrighteous. What would people say if Professor Cyrus
metaphorically fell on him? Heriot Walkingshaw had more at stake than
mere existence. He had a character to lose.

The sight of his house, so dignified and so permanent, soothed him a
little. As he hung his coat upon the substantial rack in the dark and
spacious hall, he was soothed still further. Ascending to his
drawing-room, the thick carpet underfoot completed his tranqui