After an interval of time not mathematically to be computed, Tom heard a step on the stairs, and looked forth. A tall gentleman wearing a high hat and carrying a black bag was ascending. In a flash Tom recollected a talk with his dead father, in which that glorious and gay parent had explained to him that he, Tom, had been brought to his mother's room by the doctor in a black bag. Tom pulled open the door at the head of the stairs, went outside, and drew the door to behind him. 'Are you the doctor?' he demanded, staring intently at the bag to see whether anything wriggled within. 'Yes, my man,' said the doctor. It was Quain Short, wrenched from the Alhambra. 'Well, they don't want another one. They've got one,' Tom asserted, still observing the bag. 'You're sure?' 'Yes. Aunt Annie said particularly that they didn't want another one.' 'Who is it that has come? Do you know his name? Christopher--is that it?' 'I don't know his name. But he's come, and he's in the bedroom now, with Aunt Susan.' 'How annoying!' said Dr. Quain Short under his breath, and he went. Tom re-entered, and took up his old position behind the portiere. Presently he heard another step on the stair, and issued out again to reconnoitre. And, lo! another tall gentleman wearing another high hat and carrying another black bag was ascending. 'This makes three,' Tom said. 'What's that, my little man?' asked the gentleman, smiling. It was Dr. Christopher. 'This makes three. And they only want one. The first one came ever such a long time ago. And I can tell you Aunt Susan was very glad when he did come.' 'Dear, dear!' exclaimed Dr. Christopher. 'Then I'm too late, my little man. I was afraid I might be. Everything all right, eh?' Tom nodded, and Dr. Christopher departed. And then, after a further pause, up came another tall gentleman, high hat, and black bag. 'This is four,' said Tom. 'What's that, Tommy?' asked Mr. Henry Knight's regular physician and surgeon. 'What are you doing there?' 'One came hours since,' Tom said. 'And they don't want any more.' Then he gazed at the bag, which was larger and glossier than its predecessors. 'Have you brought a _very_ nice one?' he inquired. 'They don't really want another, but perhaps if it's _very_----' It was this momentary uncertainty on Tom's part that possibly saved my hero's life. For the parents were quite inexperienced, and Mrs. Puddiphatt was an accoucheuse of the sixties, and the newborn child was near to dying in the bedroom without anybody being aware of the fact. 'A very nice what?' the doctor questioned gruffly. 'Baby. In that bag,' Tom stammered. 'Out of the way, my bold buccaneer,' said the doctor, striding across the mat into the corridor.