"Not unless you are prepared to stay here for the rest of the day and go
home a raving lunatic. But I'll tell you this much: the trouble is about
my poor brother's will. In the first place, it can't be administered
because there is no sufficient evidence that my brother is dead; and in
the second place, if it could, all the property would go to people who
were never intended to benefit. The will itself is the most diabolically
exasperating document that was ever produced by the perverted ingenuity
of a wrong-headed man. That's all. Will you have a look at my knee?"

As Mr. Bellingham's explanation (delivered in a rapid _crescendo_ and
ending almost in a shout) had left him purple-faced and trembling, I
thought it best to bring our talk to an end. Accordingly I proceeded to
inspect the injured knee, which was now nearly well, and to overhaul my
patient generally; and having given him detailed instructions as to his
general conduct, I rose to take my leave.

"And remember," I said as I shook his hand, "no tobacco, no coffee, no
excitement of any kind. Lead a quiet, bovine life."

"That's all very well," he grumbled, "but supposing people come here and
excite me?"

"Disregard them," said I, "and read _Whitaker's Almanack_." And with
this parting advice I passed out into the other room.

Miss Bellingham was seated at the table with a pile of blue-covered
note-books before her, two of which were open, displaying pages closely
written in a small, neat handwriting. She rose as I entered and looked
at me inquiringly.