"Is Dr. Doddleson a man to whom you would intrust the life of your dearest friend?" "Most emphatically no!" cried the surgeon, growing red with excitement. "Very well, Mr. Burkham; my dearest friend, a young lady--well, in plain truth, the woman who was to have been my wife, and whom I love as it is not the lot of every plighted wife to be loved--this dear girl has been wasting away for the last two or three months under the influence of an inscrutable malady, and Dr. Doddleson is the only man called to attend her in all that time." "A mistake!" said Mr. Burkham, gravely; "a very great mistake! Dr. Doddleson lives in a fine square, and drives a fine carriage, and has a reputation amongst the class I have spoken of; but he is about the last man I would consult as to the health of any one dear to me." "That is precisely the opinion which I formed after ten minutes' conversation with him. Now, what I want from you, Mr. Burkham, is the name and address of the man to whom I can intrust this dear girl's life." "Let me see. There are so many men, you know, and great men. Is it a case of consumption?" "No, thank God!" "Heart-disease, perhaps?" "No; there is no organic disease. It is a languor--a wasting away." Mr. Burkham suggested other diseases whereof the outward sign was languor and wasting. "No," replied Valentine; "according to Dr. Doddleson there is actually no disease--nothing but this extreme prostration--this gradual vanishing of vital power. And now I come to another point upon which I want your advice. It has been suggested that this constitutional weakness may be inherited; and here I think you can help me." "How so?" "You attended the lady's father." "Indeed!" cried Mr. Burkham, delighted. "This is really interesting. In what year did I attend this gentleman? If you will allow me, I will refer to some of my old case-books." He drew out a clumsy drawer in the clumsy table, in order to hunt for old memoranda. "I am not quite certain as to the year," answered Valentine; "but it was more than ten years ago. The gentleman died close by here, in Fitzgeorge Street. His name was Halliday." Mr. Burkham had drawn out the drawer to its farthest extent. As Valentine pronounced this name, he let it drop to the ground with a crash, and sat, statue-like, staring at the speaker. All other names given to mortal man he might forget; but this one never. Valentine saw the sudden horror in his face, before he could recompose his features into something of their conventional aspect. "Yes," he said, looking down at the fallen drawer with its scattered papers and case-books, "yes, I have some recollection of the name of Halliday." "Some very strange and agitating recollection it would seem by your manner, Mr. Burkham," said Valentine, at once assured that there was something more than common in the surgeon's look and gesture; and determined to fathom the mystery, let it be what it might.