The doctor laughed. "You make a good bid, sir," he said, in his slow American way, emphasising all the most unimportant words: "_But_ you overlook one element. I _am_ a man of science, not a speculator. I _have_ trained myself for medical work, _at_ considerable cost, _in_ the best schools of Europe, _and_ I do not propose _to_ fling away the results _of_ much arduous labour _by_ throwing myself out elastically _into_ a new line of work _for_ which my faculties _may_ not perhaps equally adapt me." ("How thoroughly American!" I murmured, in the background.) Charles insisted; all in vain. Mrs. Quackenboss was impressed; but the doctor smiled always a sphinx-like smile, and reiterated his belief in the unfitness of mid-stream as an ideal place for swopping horses. The more he declined, and the better he talked, the more eager Charles became each day to secure him. And, as if on purpose to draw him on, the doctor each day gave more and more surprising proofs of his practical abilities. "I _am_ not a specialist," he said. "I just ketch the drift, appropriate the kernel, _and_ let the rest slide." He could do anything, it really seemed, from shoeing a mule to conducting a camp-meeting; he was a capital chemist, a very sound surgeon, a fair judge of horseflesh, a first class euchre player, and a pleasing baritone. When occasion demanded he could occupy a pulpit. He had invented a cork-screw which brought him in a small revenue; and he was now engaged in the translation of a Polish work on the "Application of Hydrocyanic Acid to the Cure of Leprosy." Still, we reached New York without having got any nearer our goal, as regarded Dr. Quackenboss. He came to bid us good-bye at the quay, with that sphinx-like smile still playing upon his features. Charles clutched the dispatch-box with one hand, and Mrs. Quackenboss's little palm with the other. "_Don't_ tell us," he said, "this is good-bye--for ever!" And his voice quite faltered. "I guess so, Mr. Porter," the pretty American replied, with a telling glance. "What hotel do you patronise?" "The Murray Hill," Charles responded. "Oh my, ain't that odd?" Mrs. Quackenboss echoed. "The Murray Hill! Why, that's just where we're going too, Elihu!" The upshot of which was that Charles persuaded them, before returning to Kentucky, to diverge for a few days with us to Lake George and Lake Champlain, where he hoped to over-persuade the recalcitrant doctor. To Lake George therefore we went, and stopped at the excellent hotel at the terminus of the railway. We spent a good deal of our time on the light little steamers that ply between that point and the road to Ticonderoga. Somehow, the mountains mirrored in the deep green water reminded me of Lucerne; and Lucerne reminded me of the little curate. For the first time since we left England a vague terror seized me. _Could_ Elihu Quackenboss be Colonel Clay again, still dogging our steps through the opposite continent?