"Dr. Ritchie's coming round to see you in a minute," I said, with assumed cheerfulness. "He'll tell us what's the matter. I don't suppose it's anything very serious. Do you think you ate something that upset you yesterday?" He shook his head. "No, sir. I had my dinner here, and after that all I took was my usual glass of beer at the Granville, round the corner. I don't think it can be anything--" A sudden spasm of pain contracted his face, cutting short his words. "Well, you must lie quite still," I said soothingly, "and not worry about anything. We can rub along all right; if necessary, I'll get someone else in to help. All you've got to think about is getting fit again." He looked up, a flash of gratitude lighting his suffering face. "Thank you, sir," he said faintly. As he spoke, there came a sharp ring at the front-door bell. "I expect this is Ritchie," I said. "Now we shall find out what the trouble is." It was not the doctor, however, that the girl announced when she came into the room a minute later. "If you please, sir," she said, "Mr. Furnivall has called. I have shown him into the dining-room." For a moment I wondered who the deuce this new visitor might be; then I suddenly remembered that "Maurice Furnivall" was the name of Northcote's cousin, about whose good faith my double seemed to cherish certain dark suspicions. "Very well," I said, "I'll come up. If Dr. Ritchie calls while Mr. Furnivall is here, ask him to look in before he goes." I mounted the stairs again, feeling just a little apprehensive about the approaching interview. I was still too new to my position to have complete confidence in my likeness to Northcote, amazingly successful as it had been up to now; and, with the possible exception of Milford, Maurice Furnivall seemed the most likely person to detect any shade of difference. However, this feeling lent a spice to the situation, and when I entered the dining-room it was with a certain sense of amused elation. I took an immediate dislike to Master Maurice the moment I set eyes on him. A tall, sleek, well-groomed young gentleman, with black hair carefully parted in the middle and plastered down on each side, he was lounging comfortably in the arm-chair which I had lately vacated. "Hullo," he drawled, "you're uncommon early this morning. What's up?" "Milford's seedy," I said a little curtly. "What's the matter with the fellow?" he asked. "I don't know," I said. "I've just sent for Ritchie." He shrugged his shoulders. "Well, you're doing him in style. A Harley Street specialist for a butler sounds all right. I should have called in someone a bit cheaper." "I've no doubt you would," I said. Something in my tone must have warned him that I was not feeling particularly amiable, for a distinct change came over his manner. "I was only joking," he said a little lamely. "I'm sorry the poor fellow's off colour. A beastly nuisance for you, too."