She opened it in wonderment. Its contents were far simpler than its exterior: they ran as follows: “MADAM,--Your husband’s case noted as per enclosed cutting. I know what is wrong with him and I can cure him. My price is five hundred dollars ($500.00) one hundred pounds (£100). The operation is warranted not to take more than ten minutes of his valuable time. “Will call upon you when you are through tea and he is quite rested, somewheres round eight o’clock. “Yrs. etc., SCIPIO KNICKERBOCKER” Caught in the fold of this short note was a newspaper paragraph and a card printed in gold letters upon imitation ivory: DR. SCIPIO KNICKERBOCKER, M.D. 415 Tenth St. London, Ont. And the Savoy Hotel. Had she been alone she would have prayed for guidance. Eight o’clock, of all hours! And what was “Ont.”? Drowning women catch at straws. Under no other conceivable circumstances would Lady Repton have caught at such a wretched straw as this. But the faculty had deserted her, she had no remedy; she saw, she knew, everybody knew, that her husband was mad; she divined from twenty indications and especially from the suddenness of the pain, that the madness was some simple case of mechanical pressure. And suppose this man really knew how to cure him? She dared not ask her husband to put yet earlier the hour of his meal, at which he had already grumbled; beside which, it was too late. The incomprehensible Scipio would arrive. She was still in an agony of doubt when she accompanied her husband (who as he went down the stairs and entered the dining-room was chatting gaily upon the amours of a prominent member of the Opposition) and as their lonely meal proceeded in the presence of those great over-dressed mutes, their servants, to all her other anxieties was added her irresolution upon the prime question, whether she should or should not accept the desperate aid of an utterly unknown man, perhaps an adventurer. Just as Sir Charles had finished his soup, and with it his amusing little story about the Baronetcy which though it had been paid for by the son and heir (who was solvent) came out after all in the Birthday List as a Knighthood,--just as he had finished his soup I say, he gave a loud cry and put both hands to his head just behind the ears. “Crickey how it hurts, William!” he remarked to the butler. “Yes, Sir Charles,” said the butler in the tone of a hierarch at his devotions. “It’s gone now,” said the Baronet, with a sigh of relief, “but it _does_ hurt when it comes! What’s the fish?” and he continued his meal. He drank a great gulp of wine and was better.... “It’s dry,” he said doubtfully, “it’s too dry ... but there are advantages to _that_. You know why they make wine dry, William?” “Yes, Sir Charles.” “Oh! you do, do you? You’re getting too smart. You couldn’t tell me, I’ll bet brazils!” “No, Sir Charles.”