The servant looked at him and then at me; as if he thought the one or the other of us was a lunatic about to be left there. "This way, sir," said he to the Squire and put us into a small square room that had a blue and drab carpet, and a stand of plants before the window. A little man, with deep-set dark eyes, and the hair all gone from the top of his head, soon made his appearance--Dr. Dale. The Squire plunged into explanations in his usual confusing fashion, mixing up many things together. Dr. Dale knitted his brow, trying to make sense of it. "I'm sure I should be happy to oblige you in any way," said he--and he seemed to be a very pleasant man. "But I do not quite understand what it is you ask of me." "Such a dreadful thing, you know, if she has to be put in a mad-house too!" went on the pater. "A pretty, anxious, hard-working little woman she is, as ever you saw, Dr. Dale! We think the account in your handwriting might ease her. I hope you won't mind the trouble." "The account of what?" asked the doctor. "Only this," explained the Squire, laying hold, in his zeal, of the doctor's button-hole. "Just dot down the particulars of Francis Radcliffe's death. His death here, you know. I suppose you were an eye-witness to it." "But, my good sir, I--pardon me--I must repeat that I do not understand. Francis Radcliffe did not die here. He went away a twelvemonth ago, cured." "Goodness bless me!" cried the Squire, staggering back to a chair when he had fully taken in the sense of the words, and staring about him like a real maniac. "It cannot be. I must have come to the wrong place." "This is Dale House, and I am Dr. Dale. Mr. Francis Radcliffe was under my charge for some months: I can't tell exactly how many without referring to my books; seven or eight, I think; and he then left, cured, or nearly so." "Johnny, hand me my handkerchief; it's in my hat. I can't make top or tail of this." "I did not advise his removal," continued Dr. Dale, who, I do believe, thought the Squire was bad enough for a patient. "He was very nearly, if not quite well, but another month here would have established his recovery on a sure basis. However, his brother insisted on removing him, and I had no power to prevent it." "What brother?" cried the Squire, rubbing his head helplessly. "Mr. Radcliffe, of Sandstone Torr." "Johnny, I think we must all be dreaming. Radcliffe of the Torr got a letter from you one morning, doctor--in June, I think; yes, I remember the hay-making was about--saying Francis had died; here in this house, with you: and bidding him come up to see you about it." "I never wrote any such letter. Francis Radcliffe did not die here." "Well, it was written for you by one of your people. Not die! Why, you held a coroner's inquest on him! You buried him in Finchley Cemetery." "Nothing of the sort, Mr. Todhetley. Francis Radcliffe was taken from this house, by his brother, last June, alive and well."