"I am extremely puzzled," said Dr. Jerce, scratching his plump chin with his right fore-finger--a favourite gesture of his.  
"Oh!--a clever man like you."
 
"Ah-a,--what pleasant feminine flattery."
 
"The truth. You are celebrated¹."
 
"Humph! So is a charlatan², if he advertises himself sufficiently³."
 
"Charlatans⁴ don't cure people as you do, doctor,--nor can they ever hope to be knighted, like someone I know."
 
"Well," answered the stout⁵ man, again tickling⁶ his chin. "I am not so sure of that. Humbug⁷ often succeeds, where merit fails. Perhaps," his little black eyes twinkled, "perhaps that is why I can look forward to being Sir Daniel Jerce."
 
The girl looked closely into his bland⁸ face. "A charlatan would never confess to being puzzled."
 
"In this case," Jerce shrugged⁹, and resumed a quarter-deck walk in the long drawing-room, "the Archangel Gabriel would be puzzled."
 
"What can be the matter with Uncle Henry?" observed his listener, pensively¹¹.
 
"Ask the Archangel Gabriel, Miss Baird."
 
"Miss Baird?" Like a woman her train of thought switched up a siding.
 
Jerce coloured all over his large waxen face, and he gulped¹² with embarrassment¹³. "Of course, I have known you since you were a little girl," he began, awkwardly, "but----"
 
She cut him short. "Then why not call me Clarice?"
 
"Only too delighted," he stuttered. "Clarice, then."
 
"Clarice now, I rather think," she laughed, and, wondering at the confusion of this usually self-contained physician, returned forthwith to the topic which had created this conversation. "What can be the matter with Uncle Henry?" she said again.
 
Jerce became the medical man at once, and shook his head. "Ten years of attendance on Horran have left me where I was at the beginning."
 
"How strange."
 
"Everything connected with medicine is strange. The human body is a box of tricks, with which we play, in the dark."
 
"A box of bricks, you mean."
 
"As you please. We doctors build up the bodies of the sick, so I suppose flesh and bones, muscles and nerves, are the bricks. But this case--Horran's case--humph!" he resumed his walk with knitted brows, "yes, quite so. I confess that a post-mortem would settle the matter."
 
Clarice rose with a horrified¹⁴ look. "What a cold-blooded speech. He is your oldest friend."
 
"Forgive me. Science is not quite human at times. Of course, I am here to cure Horran, not to kill him. I should indeed regret losing my best, and, as you say, my oldest friend. But how can I cure a man, when I don't know what is the matter with him?"
 
"What does Dr. Wentworth say?"
 
Jerce looked at the girl's pretty face and fairly laughed. "Wentworth is not a prospective¹⁵ knight," said he, dryly.
 
"Which means--?"
 
"That I don't wish to boast."
 
This time Clarice coloured. "I beg your pardon, doctor. I know that you are everybody and that Dr. Wentworth is nobody. You live in Harley Street and attend to titled people, while he works in a quiet Essex town amongst the middle-class and the poor. All the same," she was determined¹⁶ to have the last word, "the mouse may be able to assist the lion."
 
"I prefer a feminine mouse," said the doctor, smiling. "Suppose you assist me by detailing exactly what has happened."
 
Clarice leaned an elbow on the mantelpiece, and absently ruffled¹⁷ her brown hair before replying. "Mr. Horran has been complaining of headaches," she said at length, "and once or twice he has been sick. Also on rising suddenly from a chair, he has always felt giddy."
 
"You tell me nothing new, Miss--I mean Clarice. For ten years Horran has suffered in this way. Humph! The attacks of giddiness have not been so frequent, Wentworth tells me."
 
"No. Only every now and then."
 
"Humph! And his behaviour?"
 
"Well," Clarice hesitated, "he has been a trifle excited at times, and by Dr. Wentworth's advice he gave up his one glass of whisky at night."
 
"I see," Jerce once more scratched his chin. "Alcohol excites him."
 
"Anything unusual seems to excite him, doctor. Mr. Horran gets quite hysterical¹⁸ at times, and is always thinking of his health."
 
"Hypochondria!" muttered Jerce, with his eyes on the ground. "And on this particular occasion?"
 
"Didn't Dr. Wentworth tell you? Mr. Horran fell down in an epileptic fit and bit his tongue. We got him to bed, and sent for Dr. Wentworth, who insisted upon wiring for you."
 
"Quite so--quite so. Wentworth knows that I am deeply interested in this most mysterious case. What do these symptoms mean? Whence do they arise? I wish--" he cast a look on the girl, "no, I won't suggest a post-mortem again. All the same only a post-mortem can explain these things."
 
"Oh, doctor, do you think he will die?"
 
"No! no! There, there," the doctor patted her hand, "don't cry. Horran may go on living for the next twenty years--as he is only fifty-four, I don't see why he shouldn't."
 
"Then you can't see death?"
 
"I can't see death, or life, or anything, but a series of most puzzling symptoms, which neither I, nor Wentworth, nor the whole College of Surgeons can understand. However, we'll drop the subject just now, and think of tea."
 
"Oh, doctor, how can you think of food when--"
 
"When my patient is sleeping quietly. Why shouldn't I? There's nothing to be done until he awakes. Then I'll make another examination, although I don't expect I'll learn anything. I return to town," Jerce consulted a handsome gold watch, "by the seven train."
 
"It is very good of you to have come down so promptly¹⁹."
 
"Not at all. I would go to the ends of the earth at a moment's notice, to attend to so interesting a case. Ha! ha! Cold-blooded science again, Clarice, you see. Come, come, let us say that I came willingly to see my old and valued friend, Henry Horran."
 
"Doctor, you are a great man."
 
"Flattering--very flattering. And why?"
 
"Great men, I have always read and heard, will never spare anyone in their aim to attain²⁰ their ends."
 
"Humph. That is not quite so flattering. And my ends?"
 
"You want to find out the cause of this trouble."
 
"Naturally. I can't cure Horran unless I do."
 
"Yes. But you are more curious to learn the reason for the disease than to cure him."
 
"You wrong me," said the doctor quickly, "and to prove that you wrong me, I shall assuredly cure Horran, if it be in the power of man to set him on his legs again. Now you had better go and have some tea and toast. I'll return to Horran's room, and see Wentworth when he comes in."
 
"I can't eat, doctor," said Clarice, making no motion to obey. "That is foolish. Starving yourself will not cure your guardian²¹. I dare say you are fond of him. Eh?"
 
"Have you known me more than twenty years to ask such a question? Of course, I am very fond of uncle Henry. He is the best of men."
 
"I agree with you there," said Jerce, earnestly, "but I don't think your brother agrees with you. That is strange."
 
"Why so, doctor?"
 
"You and Ferdy are twins,--twins may have the same likes and dislikes."
 
Clarice laughed. "For a clever medical man that is certainly not a clever speech. Twins are often alike in looks, and entirely²² different in disposition²³."
 
"I am aware of that," responded Jerce, calmly, "but I have always noted²⁴ that you and Ferdy think alike, or did, until lately."
 
"That is because Ferdy is removed from my influence," said Clarice, sadly. "He always followed my lead. But since he has gone to town to stop with you and become a student of medicine, he thinks very differently from what I do. Naturally, perhaps, since he is seeing more of the world than I, and is a man."
 
"You should have been the man, Clarice, and Ferdy, the woman. I wish to do my best for your brother, because he is your brother, but----" Jerce made a gesture of annoyance²⁵, "Ferdy is so terribly weak."
 
"Don't be hard on him, doctor," she pleaded. "Ferdy never got on well with uncle Henry."
 
"He gets on with no one, my dear, save with those people who pander²⁶ to his weaknesses." Clarice clasped her hands and looked anxious. "Doctor, there is nothing very wrong with Ferdy?" she asked, faltering²⁷. "No! no!" Jerce stopped in his walk to pat her shoulder. "I look after him as much as I can. Yet I must not disguise from you, Clarice, that Ferdy is--well, rather wild."
 
"Rather wild," echoed the girl. "He frequents music-halls, and goes with people who make pleasure their aim in life. Also he has sometimes been the worse for alcohol. These things, Clarice, do not lead to peace, or to greatness."
 
The girl sat down and covered her face. "When Ferdy came down yesterday, I noticed that he was not himself. He seems to have something on his mind."
 
Jerce shrugged his shoulders. "I dare say he is ashamed of himself."
 
"Can't something be done? If I spoke--"
 
"No, my dear," said the doctor, very decidedly, "you will only make matters worse. Ferdy, for the last twelve months, has been out of leading strings²⁸, and if you try, however delicately, to lecture him, he will only become obstreperous²⁹. But you need not be alarmed. I'll do what I can. I would do much for you, Clarice."
 
There was a note in his voice which made the girl look up. The usually pale face of the doctor was red, and his eyes had a look in them, which she was woman enough to understand. Rising with a nervous laugh, Clarice grappled with the situation at once. She did not wish to lose her amiable³⁰ companion in a disappointed suitor. "Do what you can for Ferdy, doctor, and I'll ever be your--friend."
 
"But suppose I--"
 
"Friend, doctor," reiterated³¹ Clarice, steadily³², and withdrew the hand he had clasped too warmly. "I wonder," stammered³³ the medical man, nervously³⁵, "if you understand exactly what I mean." Clarice smiled. "I should not be a woman else. I understand, and so I say--friend."
 
"There is someone else?" asked Jerce, chagrined³⁶. Clarice turned the leading question with an embarrassing laugh. "There is always someone else, and in this instance the someone else, is my brother Ferdinand. I rely on you to bring him to his senses."
 
"Well," said Jerce, struggling back to calmness, "that may be difficult. You see, Miss Baird--"
 
"Clarice."
 
"No," said Jerce, steadily, "never again, until I have the right to call you Clarice."
 
"What right? No, no! that's a foolish question," she added hurriedly. "Doctor, doctor, do not put your feelings into words. Let things remain as they are. Help Ferdy and cure Uncle Henry, and then--"
 
"And then?" he bent³⁷ forward eagerly.
 
"Then I shall ask you to dance at my wedding," replied the girl, and fairly ran out of the room. Jerce was so determined that she could scarcely avoid hearing him speak plainer than she wished. And if he did speak out, the answer her emotion would force her to give him, would inevitably³⁸ create a disagreeable feeling, if not a positive breach³⁹ of friendship. This was not to be thought of, as Jerce was necessary both to help poor weak Ferdy Baird, and to cure Henry Horran of his mysterious disease. Discretion⁴⁰, as Clarice rightly thought, was the better part of valour in this especial instance, and therefore she deliberately⁴¹ ran away. Jerce was left alone.
 
Naturally, he thought that he was unobserved, and the watcher at the window could see the various expressions which chased each other across his usually calm face. Judging from these, Jerce was annoyed that he had spoken so inopportunely. The fruit was not yet ripe, as he reflected, after recalling the few words he and Clarice had exchanged. First, he would have to bring Ferdy back to the paths of virtue⁴²; well, what then? Clarice might--on the other hand she might not. Certainly, she had laughed away his leading question, but also she had invited him to dance at her wedding--also laughingly. No! there could be no one else, and if Jerce saved the two men in which she was most interested, she might reward him by loving him, as he wished to be loved. Thanks to the gossip of Mrs. Dumps, the watcher at the window knew well that Jerce was dwelling⁴³ in a fool's paradise, but it was not his intention, or will, to inform Jerce of the gunner officer at Gattlinsands, five miles away by the seashore.
 
Jerce, even though presumably alone, did not allow all his feelings to be seen on his face. But he felt that the room was stifling⁴⁴ in spite of its being a cold winter's evening, and opened the window to gain a breath of sharp air. As he stepped out, he was suddenly grasped from behind, and the skilful⁴⁵ exercise of a Ju-Jitsu motion placed him prostrate⁴⁶ at the mercy of his assailant. In the light of the drawing-room lamps streaming through the open window, Jerce could see that the man wore grey clothes. He would have spoken, or would have called for assistance, but the grey man placed his hand on what is called Adam's apple, and paralyzed by pressure the vocal⁴⁷ chords. Jerce lay voiceless and motionless, as though in a state of catalepsy, while the man went systematically⁴⁸ through his pockets with the dexterity⁴⁹ of a thief. In less time than it takes to tell, the assailant had failed to find what he sought, and, rising quickly, disappeared like a shadow, or a ghost. All the time he had spoken no word, and had not allowed his face to be seen. As his retreating feet scrunched⁵⁰ the snow, Jerce, too shaken to rise immediately, lay where he was, wondering what had taken place, and wondering, most of all, why this very dexterous⁵¹ thief had gone through his pockets so thoroughly⁵². Then he rose to his feet and found that his gold watch, his not inconsiderable sum of money, his rings and his silver match-box were all safe. Evidently, the assailant was no common thief. He had desired to find something, and had failed to find it, but what that something might be, Jerce could not think.
 
When he came quite to himself--for the shock of the assault had somewhat stunned⁵³ him--he rushed along the terrace, and into the garden, which was parted by a single iron railing from the lane. But there was no one to be seen. The man in grey had vanished swiftly into the night, and Jerce could no more guess in which direction he had gone, than he could surmise⁵⁴ why the man had assaulted him. He stared from the elevation⁵⁵ upon which he stood, over the spectral⁵⁶ wastes of snow, and then turned to re-enter. For the moment it was in his mind to send for the police; but he could give so scanty⁵⁷ a description of his daring opponent, that it hardly seemed worth while. Not even the cleverest detective could recognise the man, from the mere³⁴ fact that he wore grey clothes.
 
However, just as Jerce turned the corner of the terrace to re-enter by the still open French window, he heard the click of the iron gate as it swung to. A tall figure walked briskly up the snowy path, and, seeing him at the corner of the terrace, advanced towards him with an ejaculation of astonishment⁵⁸.
 
"Doctor," exclaimed the new-comer, bending forward to examine the features of the outraged⁵⁹ man in the uncertain light. "I knew you were coming down, but I did not expect to find you out of doors on this freezing night."
 
"Ferdinand!" gasped⁶⁰ Jerce, and stretching out his hand, he gripped the young man by his overcoat collar. Before Baird could expostulate, he was drawn⁶¹ unresistingly along towards the light streaming from the open window, and Jerce was looking fiercely at his tall form and grey clothes. "Tell me why you knocked me down just now?" demanded the doctor, much ruffled, and short of breath.
 
Ferdinand started back in genuine surprise. "I knock you down?" he repeated. "Why, doctor, you must be out of your senses. Why on earth should I knock you down?"
 
"To search my pockets for some reason."
 
Baird laughed at the monstrous⁶² charge. "Do you accuse me of robbery?"
 
"Oh, no! You took nothing, but you searched me. Why?" and Jerce looked closely at the handsome, weak face of the spruce young gentleman.
 
"But that you are a rabid teetotaler, doctor," said Ferdinand, with a shrug¹⁰, "I should think you had been drinking. I have been for the last hour at the vicarage seeing Prudence⁶³, and before that I visited Mrs. Dumps' Savoy Hotel to look up the last train to town to-night. I have just returned, and you accuse me of assaulting you. It's too ridiculous!" And Baird, annoyed at being kept standing⁶⁴ in the cold, began to fume⁶⁵ like a spoilt child.
 
"I tell you, Ferdinand, that you knocked me down, here--where we are standing, and searched my pockets thoroughly. I recognise you by the grey overcoat you are wearing, although you were clever enough to hide your face."
 
"Grey clothes, eh?" mused⁶⁶ Ferdinand, slowly. "There may be something in what you say, after all. A tall man in grey clothes, hat and all, passed me in the High Street, near Grinder's shop."
 
"Did you see his face?" asked Jerce, doubtfully.
 
"Yes. I don't usually take notice of a man's face, but this chap was a stranger here, and looked like a Londoner. He had a lean face, so far as I could see--yes, and a small black moustache. And--and,--oh, yes, doctor, there was a criss-cross scar on his cheek, I fancy. But, of course, he passed too quickly for me to observe him closely."
 
"A scar on his cheek," said the doctor, loosening his grip. "Humph! I congratulate you on your rapid powers of observation. Only a woman could have gathered so much in one moment. I ask your pardon, Ferdinand. Doubtless, it was this fellow who knocked me down."
 
"And here," Ferdinand looked round, "in our grounds. What cheek. I expected he wished to rob you."
 
"If so, he certainly did not fulfil his intention, even though he had me at his mercy," said Jerce, dryly, and stepped into the room.
 
"Shall I go for the police, doctor?"
 
"No. We'll say no more about it, my boy."
 
"Do you know this man?" asked Baird, puzzled.
 
"I fancy I do, if you describe the scar accurately⁶⁷."
 
"Oh, it was a criss-cross scar, right enough. But if he did not rob you, or wish to rob you, why did he go through your pockets."
 
"That," said Jerce, with emphasis, "is as much a mystery to me, as it is to you."