My visitor evidently noticed my stupefaction. She must have done, or she would not have been a woman.

The reason of my sudden surprise was not because I recognized her, but on account of her perfect and amazing beauty. Every doctor sees some pretty faces in the course of practise, but having been asked to set down the chief details of this romance, I must here confess that never in all my life had I set eyes upon such a sweet and charming countenance.

I judged her to be about twenty, and the manner in which she entered the dingy consulting-room that reeked with the pungent odour of iodoform showed that, although not well dressed, she was nevertheless modest and well bred. She wore a plain, black tailor-made skirt, a trifle the worse for wear, a white cotton blouse, a small black hat, and black gloves. But her face held me fascinated; I could not take my eyes off it. It was oval, regular, with beautifully-moulded cheeks, a small, well-formed mouth, and fine arched brows, while the eyes, dark and sparkling, looked out at me half in wonder, half in fear. Hers was a kind of half-tragic beauty, a face intensely sweet in its expression, yet with a distinct touch of sadness in its composition, as though her heart were burdened by some secret.

This latter fact seemed patent to me from the very first instant of our meeting.

“Is Dr. Whitworth in?” she inquired, in a soft, rather musical voice, when I bowed and indicated a chair.

“No,” I responded, “he’s not. My name is Pickering, and I am acting for the doctor, who is away on a holiday.”

“Oh!” she ejaculated, and I thought I detected that her jaw dropped slightly, as though she were disappointed. “Will Dr. Whitworth be away long?”

“Another fortnight, I believe. He is not very well, and has gone to Cornwall. Are you one of his patients? If so, I shall be delighted to do what I can for you.”

“No,” she responded; “but my brother is, and, being taken worse, wanted to consult him.”

“I shall be very pleased to see him, if you think he would care for it,” I said rather eagerly, I believe, if the truth were told.

She seemed undecided. When a person is in the habit of being attended by one medical man, a fresh one is always at a disadvantage. People have such faith in their “own doctor,” a faith that is almost a religion, often misplaced, and sometimes fatal. The old-fashioned family doctor with his out-of-date methods, his white waistcoat, and his cultivated gravity still flourishes, even in these enlightened days of serums and light cures. And in order to impress their patients, they sometimes prescribe unheard of medicines that are not to be found even in “Squire.”

“Dr. Whitworth has attended my brother for several years, and has taken a great interest in his case,” she said reflectively.

“What is his ailment?” I inquired.

“An internal one. All the doctors he has seen appear to disagree as to its actual cause. He suffers great pain at times. It is because he is worse that I have come here.”

“Perhaps I can prescribe something to relieve it,” I suggested. “Would you like me to see him? I am entirely at your disposal.”

“You are extremely kind, doctor,” she replied. “But we live rather a long way off, and I am afraid at this time of night——”

“Oh, the hour is nothing, I assure you,” I laughed, interrupting her. “If I can do anything to make your brother more comfortable, I’ll do so.”

She was still undecided. Somehow I could not help thinking that she regarded me with a strange fixed look—a glance which indeed surprised me. Having regard to the strange dénouement of the interview, I now recollect every detail of it, and can follow accurately the working of her mind.

“Well,” she said at last, rather reluctantly it seemed, “if you are quite sure the distance is not too far, it would be most kind of you to come. I’m sure you could give Frank something to allay his pain. We live at Dartmouth Hill, Blackheath.”

“Oh, that’s not so very far,” I exclaimed, eager to be her companion. “A cab will soon take us there.”

“Dr. Whitworth usually comes over to visit my brother once a week—every Thursday. Did he tell you nothing of his case?”

“No. Probably he considers him a private patient, while I am left in charge of the poorer people who come to the dispensary.”

“Ah! I understand,” she said, drawing the black boa tighter around her throat, as though ready for departure.

I made some inquiries regarding the region where her brother’s pain was situated, and, placing a morphia case and bottles of various narcotics in my well-worn black bag, put on my hat and announced my readiness to accompany her.

As I turned again to her I could not fail to notice that the colour in her face a moment before had all gone out of it. She was ashen pale, almost to the lips. The change in her had been sudden, and I saw that as she stood she gripped the back of her chair, swaying to and fro as though every moment she might collapse in a faint.

“You are unwell,” I said quickly.

“A—a little faintness. That is all,” she gasped.

Without a moment’s delay I got her seated, and rushing into the dispensary obtained restoratives, which in a few minutes brought her back to her former self.

“How foolish!” she remarked, as though disgusted with herself. “Forgive me, doctor; I suppose it is because I have been up two nights with my brother and am tired out.”

“Of course; that accounts for it. You have over-taxed your strength. Have you no one who can take your place?”

“No,” she responded, with a strange sadness which seemed an index to her character; “I have, unfortunately, no one. Frank is rather irritable, and will have nobody about him except myself.”

Brother and sister appeared devoted to each other.

She spoke of him in a tone betraying that deep fraternal affection which nowadays is not common.

I waited while the boy Siddons closed the surgery and put out the lights, and then, having locked the outer door, we walked together to the cab-stand at the top of Beresford Street and entered a hansom, giving directions to drive to Blackheath.

The man seemed rather surprised at such an order at such an hour, but nevertheless, nothing loth to take a fare outside the radius, he whipped up, and drove straight down the Boyson Road, through into Albany Road, one of the decayed relics of bygone Camberwell when the suburb was fashionable in the days of George the Third, and on into that straight, never-ending thoroughfare, the Old Kent Road.

Seated side by side our conversation naturally turned upon conversational subjects, and presently she remarked upon the great heat of the day just closed, whereupon I told her how oppressed I had been by it, because of my recent voyage where the sea breeze was always fresh and the spray combined with the brilliant sunshine.

“Ah!” she sighed, “I would so much like to go abroad. I’ve never been farther than Paris, and, after all, that’s so much like London. I would dearly like a voyage up the Mediterranean. The ports you put into must have been a perfect panorama of the various phases of life.”

“Yes,” I said, “the............