himself so little welcome at the bedside. Never before had he put off
until to-morrow the prescription which ought to have been written,
the opinion which ought to have been given, to-day. He went home
earlier than usual--unutterably dissatisfied with himself.

The servant had returned. Dr. Wybrow was ashamed to question him.
The man reported the result of his errand, without waiting to
be asked.

'The lady's name is the Countess Narona. She lives at--'

Without waiting to hear where she lived, the Doctor acknowledged
the all-important discovery of her name by a silent bend of the head,
and entered his consulting-room. The fee that he had vainly refused
still lay in its little white paper covering on the table.
He sealed it up in an envelope; addressed it to the 'Poor-box'
of the nearest police-court; and, calling the servant in,
directed him to take it to the magistrate the next morning.
Faithful to his duties, the servant waited to ask the customary question,
'Do you dine at home to-day, sir?'

After a moment's hesitation he said, 'No: I shall dine at the club.'

The most easily deteriorated of all the moral qualities is
the quality called 'conscience.' In one state of a man's mind,
his conscience is the severest judge that can pass sentence on him.
In another state, he and his conscience are on the best possible
terms with each other in the comfortable capacity of accomplices.
When Doctor Wybrow left his house for the second time, he did
not even attempt to conceal from himself that his sole object,