time when, on returning to London, I could trump up a sufficient
ailment to call upon my double in Wigley Street and scrutinize
him with my own eyes. But last night my friend had something of a
set-back, which may possibly, by deflecting his conversation to other
topics, give me relief. I hope so.

It happened like this. We were sitting in the smoking-room as
usual, he and I, when another local acquaintance entered--one who,
I gathered, had been away for a few weeks and whom I had therefore
not yet seen, and who (for this was the really important thing to my
friend) consequently had not yet seen me.

In course of time the inevitable occurred. "Don't you think," my
friend asked, "that Mr. Blank is the very image of Dr. Sullivan of
Wigley Street, who was here last summer?"

"What Dr. Sullivan's that?" the newcomer inquired.

"Dr. Sullivan of Wigley Street, who was fishing here last summer.
Don't you remember him? The very image of Mr. Blank."

"The only Dr. Sullivan I know," replied the newcomer, "is Dr. Sullivan
of Newcastle. He's a very old man by now. A very learned man too. He
has a wonderful private museum. He--"

"No, no, the Dr. Sullivan I mean was From Wigley Street--a
specialist--who took the Manor fishing last summer and stayed in the
hotel."

"Dr. Sullivan of Newcastle is a very old man--much older than