At Crewe Station he had to alight, wait a quarter of an hour, and then change into another train. As he was slowly pacing the platform, whom should he see coming towards him but Kester St. George, who, on his side, was waiting for the express to London. The two men passed each other once, and then again, for Lionel was daring in the matter; but not the slightest look of recognition flashed into Kester’s eyes as they rested for a moment on the face of the Rev. Horace Brown. A few minutes later their different trains came up, and each went his separate way. Kester St. George’s way was London-wards. He drove straight to his chambers; and, after dressing, strolled out westward, and presently found himself at his club. There were a number of men there whom he had not seen for some time, who came up to him in ones and twos and shook hands with him, and said, “How are you, old fellow? Glad to see you back;” or, “Ah, here you are, dear boy. Quite missed you for ever so long,” and then passed on. Kester’s monosyllabic answers were anything but propitiatory, and by-and-by he was left to eat his dinner in sulky solitude. Truth to say, he was fagged and worn, and was, in addition, seriously uneasy with regard to the state of his health. For the last two months he had been telling himself day after day that he would consult his physician, but he had not yet found courage to do so. It was an ordeal from which he shrank as a young girl might shrink at the sight of blood. So long as he had not consulted his doctor, and did not know the worst, he flattered himself that there could not be anything very serious the matter with him. “Once get into those vampires’ hands,” he said, “and they will often keep a fellow lingering on for years.” So he went on from day to day, and put off doing what he felt in his secret heart he ought to have done previously. “I believe it’s neither more nor less than indigestion,” he would mutter to himself. “I believe that half the ills that flesh is heir to, spring from nothing but indigestion.” He was sitting moodily over his claret, and the club-room was almost deserted, when who should come stepping daintily in but Bolus, the well-known fashionable doctor. The evening was rather chilly, and Dr. Bolus walked up to the fire and began to air his palms, before sitting down to the evening paper. Glancing round, after a minute or two, he saw Kester sitting alone no great distance away. “Evening, St. George. Revenons toujours, eh?” he said with a nod and a smile. St. George rose languidly and crossed towards the fireplace. “Why not tell Bolus?” he said to himself. “Capital opportunity for getting his opinion unprofessionally as between one friend and another. If anybody can put me on my pins again, Bolus can.”