Curiosity prompted me to turn to Debrett's _Baronetage_, in Raymond's bookcase, and from it I discovered that her ladyship was the wife of Sir Henry Pierrepoint-Lane, Bart., a wealthy landowner and the patron of several livings in Yorkshire and Shropshire whose principal seat was Atworth, in Wiltshire. His wife was the eldest daughter of General Sir Charles Naylon, late of the Indian army. Having re-read the short paragraph in the _Baronetage_, which gave a facsimile of the coat-of-arms upon the envelope, I sipped my tea and then wrote a short note regretting my absence from home, and stating my intention to call upon the following morning at eleven o'clock. This I dispatched by boy-messenger. Hence it was that next morning, when I passed down Stanhope Street and turned into Gloucester Gardens, I felt in no mood to humour and sympathise with the whims and imaginary maladies of a fashionable patient. With a feeling of irritation and low spirits, I mounted the steps of the house in Gloucester Square and inquired for my new patient. I was ushered into a pretty morning-room, and shortly afterwards there entered a slim, youngish-looking woman, not exactly handsome, but of refined appearance, dark, with hair well coiled by an expert maid, and wearing a simple dress of pearl-grey cashmere, which clung about her form and showed it to distinct advantage. Before she had greeted me I saw that she was a type subject to nerve-storms, perhaps with a craving for stimulants after the reaction. "Good morning, Doctor," she exclaimed, crossing the room and greeting me pleasantly. "I received your note last night. You were absent each time I called." "Yes," I responded. "I was called out to an urgent case, and compelled to remain." "Does that happen often in your profession?" she asked, sinking into a chair opposite me. "If it does, I fear that doctors' wives must have an uncomfortable time. Your housekeeper was quite concerned about you." "But when one is a bachelor, as I am, absence is not of any great moment," I laughed. At that moment her dark, brilliant eyes met mine, and I fancied I detected a strange look in them. "Well," she said with some hesitation, "I am very glad you have come at last, Doctor, for I want to consult you upon a secret and very serious matter concerning myself, and to obtain your opinion." "I shall be most happy to give you whatever advice lies in my power," I responded, assuming an air of professional gravity, and preparing myself to listen to her symptoms. "What is the nature of your ailment?" I inquired. "Well," she answered, "I can scarcely describe it: I seem in perpetually low spirits, although I have no cause whatever to be sad, and, further, there is a matter which troubles me exceedingly. I hardly like to confess it, but of late I have developed a terrible craving for stimulants."