They found a man in Devonshire Place who was a mutual friend of both. He was a specialist in unpronounceable diseases, a Knight Commander of St. Michael and St. George, a Fellow of the two Colleges, and the author of half a dozen works of medical science. Angel addressed him as “Bill.” The great surgeon deftly dressed the damaged head of Jimmy, and wisely asked no questions. He knew them both, and had been at Oxford with one, and he permitted himself to indulge in caustic comments on their mode of life and the possibilities of their end. “If you didn’t jaw so much,” said Angel, “I’d employ you regularly; as it is, I am very doubtful if I shall ever bring you another case.” “For which,” said Sir William Farran, as he clipped the loose ends of the dressing, “I am greatly obliged to you, Angel Esquire. You are the sort of patient I like to see about once a year--just about Christmas-time, when I am surfeited with charity toward mankind, when I need a healthy moral corrective to tone down the bright picture to its normal grayness--that’s the time you’re welcome, Angel.” “Fine!” said Angel ecstatically. “I’d like to see that sentence in a book, with illustrations.” The surgeon smiled good-humoredly. He put a final touch to the dressing. “There you are,” he said. “Thank you, Bill,” said Jimmy. “You’re getting fat.” “Thank you for nothing,” said the surgeon indignantly. Angel struck a more serious tone when he asked the surgeon in an undertone, just as they were taking their departure-- “Where will you be to-night?” The surgeon consulted a little engagement book. “I am dining at the ‘Ritz’ with some people at eight. We are going on to the Gaiety afterwards, and I shall be home by twelve. Why?” “There’s a gentleman,” said Angel confidentially, “who will make a valiant attempt to kill one of us, or both of us to-night, and he might just fail; so it would be as well to know where you are, if you are wanted. Mind you,” added Angel with a grin, “you might be wanted for _him_.” “You’re a queer bird,” said the surgeon, “and Jimmy’s a queerer one. Well, off you go, you two fellows; you’ll be getting my house a bad name.” Outside in the street the two ingrates continued their discussion on the corpulency that attends success in life. They walked leisurely to Piccadilly, and turned towards the circus. It is interesting to record the fact that for no apparent reason they struck off into side streets, made unexpected excursions into adjoining squares, took unnecessary short cuts through mews, and finally, finding themselves at the Oxford Street end of Charing Cross Road, they hailed a hansom, and drove eastward rapidly. Angel shouted up some directions through the trap in the roof. “I am moved to give the two gentlemen who are following me what in sporting parlance is called ‘a run for their money,’” he said. He lifted the flap at the back of the cab, glanced through the little window, and groaned. Then he gave fresh directions to the cabman.