It seemed suspiciously as though the name of Wynd was an assumed one. If a false address had been given by the Major at Doctors' Commons, then in all probability the surname was likewise false. Fatigued, hungry, and dusty, I at last found myself once again in Rowan Road before the door of Bob Raymond's house, and entered with my latch-key. Old Mrs Bishop came forward excitedly to meet me. "Oh, Doctor," she cried, "wherever had you been all this week? I felt certain that something had happened to you, and yesterday I got my daughter to write a line to Dr Raymond. But I'm so glad you are back again sir. It's given my daughter and me such a fright. We imagined all sorts of horrible things like those we read of in _Lloyd's_ and _Reynolds'_." "Well, I'm back again, Mrs Bishop," I answered as carelessly as I could. "And I'm confoundedly hungry and tired. Get me a cup of tea and a chop, there's a good woman." And I ascended to Bob's cosy little den from which I had been so suddenly called seven days before. So Mrs Bishop had written to Bob, and no doubt he would be very surprised that I had disappeared and left the practice to take care of itself. He would certainly consider that my gratitude took a curious form. Therefore, I decided to send him a wire, telling him of my return and promising explanations later. I cast myself wearily into the big leather armchair, and sat plunged in thought until the old housekeeper entered fussily with my tea. "Well," I asked, "I suppose there have been no new patients during my absence?" "Oh, yes. One, sir." "Who was it?" "A lady, sir. She came about noon on the second day of your absence, and said she wished to consult you. I told her that you'd been called out two days ago, and that you had not returned. She asked when you'd be in, and I said I didn't know for certain. So she called again later, and seemed very disappointed and anxious. She came next day; but as you were still absent, she left her card. Here it is." And Mrs Bishop took a card from the tray on a side-table and handed it to me. Upon it was the name, "Lady Pierrepoint-Lane." "Was she young or old?" "Rather young, sir--not more than thirty, I think. She was dressed in deep mourning." "And you have seen nothing more of her?" I inquired interestedly. "There's no address on the card." "She came again two days ago, and finding that you had not returned, left this note, telling me to give it to you on arrival." And the woman fumbled behind the mirror on the mantelshelf and handed me a dainty note, the envelope of which bore a neat coat-of-arms. The heading was "88, Gloucester Square, Hyde Park," and the brief note ran-- "Lady Pierrepoint-Lane would esteem it a favour if Dr Colkirk could make it convenient to call upon her at his earliest opportunity."