caseful of medical treatises and a conspicuous stethoscope, the
least experienced could see that it was labelled consulting-room.

Dr Twiddel was enjoying one of those moments of repose that occur even in
the youngest practitioner's existence. For the purposes of this narrative
he may briefly be described as an amiable-looking young man, with a little
bit of fair moustache and still less chin, no practice to speak of, and a
considerable quantity of unpaid bills. A man of such features and in such
circumstances invites temptation. At the present moment, though his
waistcoat was unbuttoned and his feet rested on the mantelpiece, his mind
seemed not quite at ease. He looked back upon a number of fortunate events
that had not occurred, and forward to various unpleasant things that might
occur, and then he took a letter from his pocket and read it abstractedly.

"I can't afford to refuse," he reflected, lugubriously; "and yet, hang it!
I must say I don't fancy the job."

When metal is molten it can be poured into any vessel; and at that moment
a certain deep receptacle stood on the very doorstep.

The doctor heard the bell, sat up briskly, stuffed the letter back into
his pocket, and buttoned his waistcoat.

"A patient at last!" and instantly there arose a vision of a simple
operation, a fabulous fee, and twelve sickly millionaires an hour ever
after. The door opened, and a loud voice hailed him familiarly.

"Only Welsh," he sighed, and the vision went the way of all the others.

The gentleman who swaggered in and clapped the doctor on the back, who
next threw himself into the easiest chair and his hat and coat over the
table, was in fact Mr Robert Welsh. From the moment he entered he pervaded
the room; the stethoscope seemed to grow less conspicuous, Dr Twiddel's
chin more diminutive, the apartment itself a mere background to this
guest. Why? It would be hard to say precisely. He was a black-moustached,
full-faced man, with an air of the most consummate assurance, and a person
by some deemed handsome. Yet somehow or other he inevitably recalled the
uncles of history. Perhaps this assurance alone gave him his atmosphere.
You could have felt his egotism in the dark.

He talked in a loud voice and with a great air of mastery over all the
contingencies of a life about town. You felt that here sat one who had
seen the world and gave things their proper proportions, who had learned
how meretricious was orthodoxy, and which