oor was speedily
opened in response to his peremptory summons.

"Is your master at home, Jenkins?" asked Lefevre of the well-dressed
serving-man, who looked distinguished enough to be master himself.

"No, doctor," answered Jenkins; "he is not."

"Gone out," said Lefevre, "to the club or to dinner, I suppose?"

"No, doctor," repeated Jenkins; "he is not. He went away four days ago."

"Went away!" exclaimed Lefevre.

"He do sometimes go away by himself, sir. He is so fond of the country,
and he likes to be by himself. It is the only thing that do him good."

"Becomes solitary, does he?" said Lefevre. "Yes; intelligent, impulsive
persons like him, that live at high pressure, often have black moods."
That was not quite what he meant, but it was enough for Jenkins.

"Yes, sir," said Jenkins; "he do sometimes have 'em black. He don't seem
to take no pride in himself, as he do usual--don't seem to care somehow
if he look a gentleman or a common man."

"But your master, Jenkins," said Lefevre, "can never look a common man."

"No, sir," said Jenkins; "he cannot, whatever he do."

"He is gone into the country, then?" asked Lefevre.

"Yes, sir; I packed his small port-mantew for him four days ago."

"And where is he gone? He told you, I suppose?"

"No, sir; he do not usual tell me when he is like that."

It did not seem possible to learn anything from Jenkins, in spite of the
apparent intimacy of his conversation, so Lefevre left him, and returned
to his own house. He had sat but a little while in his laboratory (where
he had been occupying his small intervals of leisure lately in
electrical studies and experiments) when, as chance would have it, the
last post brought him a note from Dr Rippon. Its purport was curious.

"_I think_," the letter ran, "_you were sufficiently interested in the
story I told you some week or two ago about one Hernando Courtney, not
to be bored by a note on the same subject. Last night I accompanied my
daughter and son-in-law to the Lyceum Theatre. On coming out we had to
walk down Wellington Street into the Strand to find our carriage, and in
the surging crowd about there I am almost sure I saw the Hernando
Courtney whom I believed to be dead_. Aut Courtney aut Diabolus. _I have
never heard satisfactory evidence of his death, and I should very much
like to know if he is really still alive and in London. It has occurred
to me that, considering the intimacy of yourself and your family wit