"He has had one or two severe illnesses," she admitted slowly; "brain fever once; and I'm afraid he used to drink too much now and then. The doctor told him that he must be very careful not to excite himself." "Who was the doctor and where does he live?" I asked quickly. "Dr. Schofield. He lives on the Lincoln Road, about a mile away. Why have you asked me this?" she added anxiously. I evaded a direct reply. "Never mind now," I said. "If anything comes of it, I will let you know." She tried to detain me with further questions, but I hurried away and she did not follow me out of the door. "Cis," I said, as I scrambled up to his side, "I want you to go home by the Lincoln Road and call at Dr. Schofield's. It isn't far out of the way." He nodded. "All right. You haven't found out anything about old Hart, have you? What was the question you went back to ask Milly?" "Only about her father's health. No; I haven't found out anything. It's only an idea of mine I want to clear up." Cecil looked as though he thought I might have told him what the idea was, but he said nothing. In a few minutes he pulled up outside a neat, red-brick house, which, as a shining brass plate indicated, was Dr. Schofield's abode. The doctor was in and disengaged. He came at once into the waiting-room, where I had been shown--a respectable family practitioner, with intelligent face and courteous manner. I explained my position as an acquaintance of Miss Hart's, interested in the mysterious disappearance of her father. It had occurred to me to make inquiries as to the state of his health, or, rather, his constitution, I added. Perhaps his prolonged absence might be accounted for by sudden and dangerous illness. Could Dr. Schofield give me any information? His manner was encouraging. He bade me take a seat and went into the matter gravely. "To tell you the truth," he said, "I am rather surprised that I have not been appealed to before. In an ordinary case I should feel bound to maintain a strict secrecy with regard to the ailments of my patients, but this is different. As you have asked me this question, I feel bound to tell you what I would not otherwise divulge. Mr. Hart was my patient on two several occasions during the last two years for delirium tremens, and once within my recollection he had a distinct touch of brain fever." "His mind would not be very strong, then?" I remarked. Dr. Schofield hesitated. "He had a wonderful constitution," he said slowly--"a constitution of iron. In ordinary circumstances I cannot bring myself to think that he could suddenly and completely have lost his reason. But supposing he had received some severe shock, such as a railway accident, or something of that sort, why, then it would be possible, even probable, he might become a raving lunatic in a moment." "And would his madness be incurable?"