"Oh, no. I don't insinuate any thing at all, doctor," answered the
pale-looking man. "But I'd like to see this Mr. John Johnson, and
have a little talk with him."

"You can do that, if you'll take the trouble to call on him," said
the doctor, in an off-hand way.

"Where can I find him?" asked the man.

"He lives a little way out of town; about three miles on the
Fredrick turnpike."

"Ah, so far?"

"Yes. Go out until you come to the three-mile stone; then keep on to
the first road, turning off to the right, along which you will go
about a quarter of a mile, when you will see a brick house. Mr.
Johnson lives there."

The thin, sallow-faced man bowed and retired. As he left the store,
the doctor gave a low chuckle, and then said, half aloud--"I guess
he won't try to find this Mr. John Johnson."

But he was mistaken. Three hours afterwards, the sick man entered
the shop, and, sinking upon a chair with an expression of weariness,
said, in a fretful tone--

"Well, doctor, I've been out where you said, but no Mr. John Johnson
lives there."