vanished man had issued forth to bear us company.

But still it was a delightful walk, and I was sorry when at last we
arrived at the entrance to Nevill's Court, and Miss Bellingham halted
and held out her hand.

"Good-bye," she said; "and many, many thanks for your invaluable help.
Shall I take the bag?"

"If you want it. But I must take out the note-books."

"Why must you take them?" she asked.

"Why, haven't I got to copy the notes out into longhand?"

An expression of utter consternation spread over her face; in fact, she
was so completely taken aback that she forgot to release my hand.

"Heavens!" she exclaimed. "How idiotic of me! But it is impossible,
Doctor Berkeley! It will take you hours!"

"It is perfectly possible, and it is going to be done; otherwise the
notes would be useless. Do you want the bag?"

"No, of course not. But I am positively appalled. Hadn't you better give
up the idea?"

"And is this the end of our collaboration?" I exclaimed tragically,
giving her hand a final squeeze (whereby she became suddenly aware of
its position, and withdrew it rather hastily). "Would you throw away a
whole afternoon's work? I won't, certainly; so, good-bye until
to-morrow. I shall turn up in the reading-room as early as I can. You
had better take the tickets. Oh, and you won't forget about the copy of
the will for Doctor Thorndyke, will you?"

"No; if my father agrees, you shall have it this evening."

She took the tickets from me, and, thanking me yet again, retired into
the court.

CHAPTER VII

JOHN BELLINGHAM'S WILL

The task upon which I had embarked so lightheartedly, when considered in
cold blood, did certainly appear, as Miss Bellingham had said, rather
appalling. The result of two and a half hours' pretty steady work at an
average speed of nearly a hundred words a minute, would take some time
to transcribe into longhand; and if the notes were to be delivered
punctually on the morrow, the sooner I got to work the better.

Recognising this truth, I lost no time, but, within five minutes of my
arrival at the surgery, was seated at the writing-table with my copy
before me busily converting the sprawling, inexpressive characters into
good, legible round-hand.

The occupation was by no means unpleasant, apart from the fact that it
was a labour of love; for the sentences, as I picked them up, were
fragrant with reminiscences of the gracious whisper in which they had
first come to me.