He had very pronounced "views," though he seldom troubled his brethren with them; for he was not of those who can hold a belief firmly only if it is also held by others. More than a week had passed without discovery or promise of light, when one afternoon he went to the hospital resolved to compass some explanation. He walked at once, on entering the ward, to the bedside of his puzzling patient, who still lay limp as a dish-clout and drowsy as a sloth. He tested--as he had done almost daily--his nervous and respiratory powers with the exact instruments adapted for the purpose, and then, still unenlightened, he questioned him closely about his sensations. The young officer answered him with tolerable intelligence. "I feel," he ended with saying, "as if all my energy had evaporated,--and I used to have no end,--just as a spirit evaporates if it is left open to the air." The saying struck Lefevre mightily. "Energy" stood then to Lefevre as an almost convertible term for "electricity," and his successful experiments with electricity had opened up to him a vast field of conjecture, into which, on the smallest inflaming hint, he was wont to make an excursion. Such a hint was the saying of the young officer now, and, as he walked away, he found himself, as it were, knocking at the door of a great discovery. But the door did not open on that summons, and he resolved straightway to discuss the subject with Julius Courtney, who, though an amateur, had about as complete a knowledge of it as himself, and who could bring to bear, he believed, a finer intelligence. He first sought Julius at the Hyacinth Club, where he frequently spent the afternoon. Failing to find him there, he inquired for him at his chambers in the Albany. Hearing nothing of him there, and the ardour of his quest having cooled a little, he stepped out across the way to his own home in Savile Row. There he found a note from his mother, with a touch of mystery in its wording. She said she wanted very much to have a serious conversation with him; she had been expecting for days to see him, and she begged him to go that evening to dinner if he could. "Julius," said she, "will be here, and one or two others." The mention of Julius as a visitor at his mother's house reminded him of his promise to that lady to find out how the young man was connected: engrossed as he had been with his strange case, he had almost forgotten the promise, and he had done nothing to fulfil it but tap ineffectually for admission to his friend's confidence. He therefore considered with some anxiety what he should do, for Lady Lefevre could on occasion be exacting and severe with her son. He concluded nothing could be done before dinner, but he went prepared to be questioned and perhaps rated. He was pleased to find that his mother seemed to have forgotten his promise as much as he had, and to see her in the best of spirits with a tableful of company.