'Dr. Quain Short is at the Alhambra Theatre this evening with the family,' a middle-aged and formidable housekeeper announced in reply to Mr. Knight's query. 'In case of urgency he is to be fetched. His box is No. 3.' 'The Alhambra Theatre! Where is that?' gasped Mr. Knight. It should be explained that he held the stage in abhorrence, and, further, that the Alhambra had then only been opened for a very brief period. 'Two out, and the third at the theatre!' Mr. Knight mused grimly, hastening through Seven Dials. 'At the theatre, of all places!' A letter to the _Times_ about the medical profession was just shaping itself in his mind as he arrived at the Alhambra and saw that a piece entitled _King Carrot_ filled the bill. '_King Karrot!_' he muttered scornfully, emphasizing the dangerously explosive consonants in a manner which expressed with complete adequacy, not only his indignation against the entire medical profession, but his utter and profound contempt for the fatuities of the modern stage. The politeness of the officials and the prompt appearance of Dr. Quain Short did something to mollify the draper's manager of ten years' standing, though he was not pleased when the doctor insisted on going first to his surgery for certain requisites. It was half-past eleven when he returned home; Dr. Quain Short was supposed to be hard behind. 'How long you've been!' said a voice on the second flight of stairs, 'It's all over. A boy. And dear Susan is doing splendidly. Mrs. Puddiphatt says she never saw such a----' From the attic floor came the sound of a child crying shrilly and lustily: 'Aunt Annie! Aunt Annie! Aunt _Annie_!' 'Run up and quieten him!' Mr. Knight commanded. 'It's like him to begin making a noise just now. I'll take a look at Susan--and my firstborn.' CHAPTER II TOM In the attic a child of seven years was sitting up in a cot placed by the side of his dear Aunt Annie's bed. He had an extremely intelligent, inquisitorial, and agnostical face, and a fair, curled head of hair, which he scratched with one hand as Aunt Annie entered the room and held the candle on high in order to survey him. 'Well?' inquired Aunt Annie firmly. 'Well?' said Tom Knight, determined not to commit himself, and waiting wanly for a chance, like a duellist. 'What's all this noise for? I told you I specially wanted you to go to sleep at once to-night.' 'Yes,' said Tom, staring at the counterpane and picking imaginary bits off it. 'And you might have known I shouldn't go to sleep after _that_!' 'And here it's nearly midnight!' Aunt Annie proceeded. 'What do you want?' 'You--you've left the comb in my hair,' said Tom. He nearly cried. Every night Aunt Annie curled Tom's hair. 'Is it such a tiny boy that it couldn't take it out itself?' Aunt Annie said kindly, going to the cot and extracting the comb. 'Now try to sleep.' She kissed him. 'And I've heard burglars,' Tom continued, without moving.