On two successive days the society of loafers that lounged outside the gates of Roxton station for the ostensible purpose of carrying hand-bags and parcels, had noticed Major Murray’s red-wheeled dog-cart meet the afternoon express from town. The society of luggage loafers boasted a membership of four. It was not an energetic brotherhood, and had put up a living protest against the unseemly scurry and bustle of twentieth-century methods. The society’s loafing ground ran along the white fence that closed in the “goods” yard, a fence that carried, from four distinct patches of discoloration, the marks left by the brothers’ bodies in their postures of dignified and independent ease.

All the comings and goings of Roxton seemed known to these four gentlemen, whose eyes were ever on the alert, though their hands remained in their trousers-pockets. A fly basking on the sidewalk within six feet would be seen and dislodged by a brisk discharge of saliva from between one of the member’s lips. Like Diogenes, they “had reduced impertinence to a fine art”; and the major portion of the society’s funds was patriotically disbursed to swell the state’s revenue on beer.

“Psst—’Ere ’e is ag’in.”

“’oo?”

A mouth was wiped by the back of a hand.

“Murray’s man.”

“Same un?”

“Yas. Little feller with the twirly mustache. What d’yer guess ’e be, Jack?”

“Looks as though ’e might have come t’ wind the clocks.”

“You bet! Ter do with the babies, I’ve ’eard.”

“Ah, ’ow was that?”

“Murray’s man, ’e told me, t’other evening. This little feller be what they call a ‘Lonnan Special.’ Dunno what edition.”

Three pairs of eyes, one member was absent on duty at the pub, followed Major Murray’s dog-cart with an all-engrossing stare as its red wheels whirled by in the June sunshine.

“Thought Steel ’ad the managin’ of all Murray’s badgers.”

“So ’e ’as. Didn’t yer see ’im come back by the 7.50 t’other day?”

“I did.”

“An’ the other feller who’s bin wearin’ Steel’s breeches all the month—went off by the 4.49.”

“’E did.”

“Saucy lookin’ chap.”

“Give me Jim Murchison and blow the liquor. ’E tells you what’s what, and no mistake. Said I sh’ld drink meself to death—and so I shall.”

“What, ’ad the roups again, Frank?”

“Yes, all along with my old liver. Chucks it out of me every marnin’, reg’lar as clock-work.”

The observations of the brotherhood were reliable as far as the identity of the gentleman in Major Murray’s dog-cart was concerned. He was named Dr. Peterson, and his caliber may be appreciated by the fact that he received a check for twenty-five guineas when he travelled forty miles to and fro from his house in Mayfair. Moreover, he had left his card the preceding day on Dr. Parker Steel, with a note urging that an interview between them was urgent and inevitable. Parker Steel’s face had betrayed exceeding discomfort and alarm on reading the name on the piece of paste-board that Dr. Peterson had left on the general practitioner’s hall table.

It was about four o’clock on the afternoon of Thursday when Major Murray’s dog-cart clattered over the cobbles of St. Antonia’s Square, and deposited a very spruce little man in a well-cut frock-coat, and a blemishless tall hat at Parker Steel’s door.

The imperturbable Symons recognized him as the caller of yesterday.

“Dr. Steel’s out, sir.”

“Out?”

“Very sorry, sir—”

“You gave him my card and note?”

“Certainly, sir. Will you wait? Dr. Steel should be back at any minute.”

Dr. Peterson glanced at his watch, and stepped like a dapper little bantam into the hall. His reddish hair was plastered from a broad pathway in the middle, so as to conceal the premature tendency to baldness that his pate betrayed. Dr. Peterson’s figure boasted a juvenile waist; his face, smooth and very sleek, almost suggested the craft of the beauty specialist. A red-and-green bandanna handkerchief protruded from his breast coat-pocket, an ?sthetic patch of color harmonizing with his sage-green tie. He wore black-and-white check trousers, patent-leather boots, and a tuberose in his button-hole. Moreover, his person smelled fragrantly of scent.

Dr. Peterson deposited his hat and gloves on the hall table.

“I can spare half an hour. My train goes at five. It is highly important that I should see Dr. Steel.”

“I will tell him, sir, the minute he returns,” and she showed Dr. Peterson into the drawing-room.

A bedroom bell rang as Symons was descending the stairs to the kitchen. She turned with a “Drat the thing!” and dawdled heavenward to her mistress’s room.

“Who has called, Symons?”

“Dr. Peterson, ma’am.”

“From Major Murray’s?”

“Yes, ma’am; wants to see the master, most particular.”

“Dr. Steel’s not in?”

“No, ma’am, but he left word that he would be at home about four.”

“Thanks, Symons, you can go.”

The servant’s ill-conditioned stare was bitterness to a woman of Betty’s pride and penetration. The finer touches of courtesy, the more delicate instincts, are rarely developed in the lower classes. Even the starched Symons was utterly cowlike in her manners. Betty felt her face sore under the servant’s eyes.

A big red book lay open upon the dressing-table amid Betty Steel’s crowd of silver knick-knacks. It was the Medical Directory, and lay open at the London list, and at the letter P. Dr. Peterson’s name headed the left-hand page, as staff-physician to sundry hospitals and charitable institutions, and as a holder of medals, diplomas, and degrees galore. A cursory glance at the titles of his contributions to medical literature would have marked him out as one of the leading authorities on diseases of the skin.

Betty Steel looked in her pier-glass, fluffed out her hair a little, and fastening the scarf of her green tea-gown, crossed the landing towards the stairs. She had that steady and almost staring expression of the eyes that betrays a purpose suddenly but seriously matured. She had not spoken with her husband since their meeting on the night of his return.

“Dr. Peterson, I believe?”

The specialist had been reviewing the photographs on the mantel-piece, and had displayed his good taste by electing a handsome cousin of Betty’s as his ideal for the moment. He set the silver frame down rather hurriedly, and turned at the sound of the door opening, a dapper, diplomatic, yet rather finicking figure, the figure more of a little man about town than............