had bargained for. Day after day went by and still found me tramping the
dingy streets of Kennington or scrambling up and down narrow stairways;
turning in at night dead tired, or turning out half awake to the hideous
jangle of the night bell.

It was very provoking. For months I had resisted Thorndyke's persuasion
to give up general practice and join him. Not from lack of inclination,
but from a deep suspicion that he was thinking of my wants rather than
his own; that his was a charitable rather than a business proposal. Now
that I knew this not to be the case, I was impatient to join him; and,
as I trudged through the dreary thoroughfares of this superannuated
suburb, with its once rustic villas and its faded gardens, my thoughts
would turn enviously to the quiet dignity of the Temple and my friend's
chambers in King's Bench Walk.

The closed carriage appeared no more; nor did any whisper either of good
or evil reach me in connection with the mysterious house from which it
had come. Mr. Graves had apparently gone out of my life for ever.

But if he had gone out of my life, he had not gone out of my memory.
Often, as I walked my rounds, would the picture of that dimly-lit room
rise unbidden. Often would I find myself looking once more into that
ghastly face, so worn, so wasted and haggard, and yet so far from
repellent. All the incidents of that last night would reconstitute
themselves with a vividness that showed the intensity of the impression
that they had made at the time. I would have gladly forgotten the whole
affair, for every incident of it was fraught with discomfort. But it
clung to my memory; it haunted me; and ever as it returned it bore with
it the disquieting questions: Was Mr. Graves still alive? And, if he was
not, was there really nothing which could have been done to save him?