nt Susan.'

'How annoying!' said Dr. Quain Short under his breath, and he went.

Tom re-entered, and took up his old position behind the portiere.

Presently he heard another step on the stair, and issued out again to
reconnoitre. And, lo! another tall gentleman wearing another high hat
and carrying another black bag was ascending.

'This makes three,' Tom said.

'What's that, my little man?' asked the gentleman, smiling. It was Dr.
Christopher.

'This makes three. And they only want one. The first one came ever such
a long time ago. And I can tell you Aunt Susan was very glad when he did
come.'

'Dear, dear!' exclaimed Dr. Christopher. 'Then I'm too late, my little
man. I was afraid I might be. Everything all right, eh?'

Tom nodded, and Dr. Christopher departed.

And then, after a further pause, up came another tall gentleman, high
hat, and black bag.

'This is four,' said Tom.

'What's that, Tommy?' asked Mr. Henry Knight's regular physician and
surgeon. 'What are you doing there?'

'One came hours since,' Tom said. 'And they don't want any more.' Then
he gazed at the bag, which was larger and glossier than its
predecessors. 'Have you brought a _very_ nice one?' he inquired. 'They
don't really want another, but perhaps if it's _very_----'

It was this momentary uncertainty on Tom's part that possibly saved my
hero's life. For the parents were quite inexperienced, and Mrs.
Puddiphatt was an accoucheuse of the sixties, and the newborn child was
near to dying in the bedroom without anybody being aware of the fact.

'A very nice what?' the doctor questioned gruffly.

'Baby. In that bag,' Tom stammered.

'Out of the way, my bold buccaneer,' said the doctor, striding across
the mat into the corridor.

At two o'clock the next morning, Tom being asleep, and all going well
with wife and child, Mr. Henry Knight returned at length to his
sitting-room, and resumed the composition of the letter to the editor of
the _Standard_. The work existed as an artistic whole in his head, and
he could not persuade himself to seek rest until he had got it down in
black-and-white; for, though he wrote letters instead of sonnets, he was
nevertheless a sort of a poet by temperament. You behold him calm now,
master once more of his emotions, and not that agitated, pompous, and
slightly ridiculous person who lately stamped over Oxford Street and
stormed the Alhambra Theatre. And in order to help the excellent father
of my her