make. But he appeared to find it a great nuisance. However, since he had
made the promise! And, resolutely:

"68 Rue Saint-Ferdinand, at the Ternes," he said, as he sprang into his
carriage.

The address required to be repeated twice to the coachman, Joey, who
was scandalized; the very horse showed a momentary hesitation, as if the
valuable beast and the impeccably clad servant had felt revolt at the
idea of driving out to such a distant suburb, beyond the limited but
so brilliant circle wherein their master's clients were scattered.
The carriage arrived, all the same, without accident, at the end of a
provincial-looking, unfinished street, and at the last of its buildings,
a house of unfurnished apartments with five stories, which the street
seemed to have despatched forward as a reconnoitring party to discover
whether it might continue on that side isolated as it stood between
vaguely marked-out sites waiting to be built upon or heaped with the
debris of houses broken down, with blocks of freestone, old shutters
lying amid the desolation, mouldy butchers' blocks with broken hinges
hanging, an immense ossuary of a whole demolished region of the town.

Innumerable placards were stuck above the door, the latter being
decorated by a great frame of photographs white with dust before which
Jenkins paused for a moment as he passed. Had the famous doctor come so
far, then, simply for the purpose of having a photograph taken? It might
have been thought so, judging by the attention with which he stayed
to examine this display, the fifteen or twenty photographs which
represented the same family in different poses and actions and with
varying expressions; an old gentleman, with chin supported by a high
white neckcloth, and a leathern portfolio under his arm, surrounded by