Events worked curiously in Hugh’s life from first to last. Sir Roderick’s accident had brought about his meeting with Lilia, of whom he constantly thought, although he had not written—after his first note to announce his safe return to Sir Roderick—and he had not received any communication from the Pinewood. It had also led to this special notice from Dr. Hildyard; and that special notice brought about a strange _rencontre_, which was destined to be of lasting import in his extraordinary life. It had been an unusually busy time in the hospital. Still, he was so much haunted by thoughts and memories of the Pinewood, and his experiences there, that, to distract himself, he gave every spare hour to the treatise he was writing when Sir Roderick’s accident changed the current of his thoughts. He was at his desk one morning, when a note was brought to him from Dr. Hildyard, asking him, as a special favour, to dine with him that evening (one of his “evenings off”). Seven o’clock found him dining _tête-à-tête_ with the genial specialist, in his house in B—— Street. The family were away. The doctor, never at any time a lover of social ceremony, dismissed the servants as soon as possible, and then told Hugh what he wanted of him. “I have a most interesting but puzzling case,” he said. “There are some nice people I know in the neighbourhood, the widow of a general practitioner and her two daughters, who add to a small income by letting lodgings. I generally send them patients of mine who come up from the country for treatment. The other day a doctor in Stainbury, an old friend of mine, wrote to me. A sad accident had occurred at the theatre there, during the performance of an opera by a travelling company. A scenic staircase, or tower, or something, had given way, and the young lady who was singing had a remarkably awkward fall. Her spine was not fatally injured, but the concussion had been followed by symptoms so new to him that he wished to send the case on to me, provided he could raise a subscription. The girl was poor and friendless, etcetera. Well, of course, I was only too glad to do what I could. I wrote back, if he would see to her removal here, and could get some of his rich friends and patients to help a bit, I would see to her for nothing, and her lodging could be paid out of a fund I keep going for poor patients. You see, Paull, sometimes matters go very well very unexpectedly with my special cases. (I was going to say _our_ special cases, for I see you are doomed to nerve specialism.) Then the patient’s friends often get gushing. Some gush in words, but some wish to ‘give me some little token,’ as they call it. Then, when I know they can afford it, I bring out the account book of the poor patients’ fund, and get a handsome subscription or donation, or both. Well, the girl came up, and has been with Mrs. Draper for the last three weeks. They are very kind to her. She has a nurse, of course. But we make no progress. To-day I feared she