e asked, putting off his severely
professional air and lolling back in his padded writing-chair as I
entered.

"No, nothing," I responded, throwing myself in the patient's chair
opposite him and tossing my gloves on the table. "A hard day down at
the hospital, that's all. You've been busy as usual, I suppose."

"Busy!" the old man echoed, "why, these confounded women never let me
alone for a single instant! Always the same story--excitement, late
hours, little worries over erring husbands, and all that sort of
thing. I always know what's coming as soon as they get seated and
settled. I really don't know what Society's coming to, Boyd," and he
blinked over at me through his heavy-framed spectacles.

About sixty, of middle height, he was slightly inclined to rotundity,
with hair almost white, a stubbly grey beard, and a pair of keen eyes
rather prominently set in a bony but not unpleasant countenance. He
had a peculiar habit of stroking his left ear when puzzled, and was
not without those little eccentricities which run hand in hand with
genius. One of them was his fondness for amateur theatricals, for he
was a leading member of the Dramatic Club at Hove and nearly always
took part in the performances. But he was a pronounced miser. Each day
when he arrived at Victoria Station from Hove, he purchased three ham
sandwiches at the refreshment bar and carried them in his black bag to
Harley Street. He there concealed them in a drawer in the
writing-table and stealthily ate them instead of taking half-an-hour
for luncheon. Sometimes he sent Ford out to the nearest greengrocer's
in the Marylebone Road for a penny apple, which he surreptitiously ate
as dessert.

Indeed, he was finishing his last sandwich when I entered, and his
mouth was full.

It may have been that small fact which caused me to hesitate. At any
rate, sitting there with those big round eyes peering forth upon me, I
felt the absurdity of the situation.

Presently, when he had finished his sandwich, carefully brushed the
crumbs from his blotting-pad and cast the bag into the waste-paper
basket, he raised his head and with his big eyes again blinking
through his spectacles, said:

"You've had no call to poor old Courtenay, I suppose?"

"No," I responded. "Why?"

"Because he's in a bad way."

"Worse?"

"Yes," he replied. "I'm rather anxious about him. He'll have to keep
to his bed, I fear."

I did not in the least doubt this. Old Mr. Henry Courtenay