Dr. Birnie patted her face and went out of the door. He walked rapidly up Little Queer Street and through the Dials, making his way into New Oxford Street. Then he turned up past the Museum, and into Russell Square. Leaving the square, and turning into one of the streets branching off from it, he became aware of something shiny on a doorstep that seemed to shine right _at_ him. He looked up. He nodded pleasantly, for he had recognised the highly polished face of Mr. Duck, the clerk of his legal advisers. ‘Fine morning, Mr. Duck!’ ‘Doctor,’ gasped the shiny one, running after him, and grabbing him by the coat-tails, for Birnie had walked on rapidly, ‘Doctor, one moment. I wish you’d come in and see Mrs. Turvey. She’s quite queer in her head. I can’t make her out.’ ‘What, Mr. Egerton’s housekeeper?’ ‘Yes, doctor. She’s quite light-headed. Swears she’s seen his ghost. Just come in and see her, sir, if you will. It’s the rummest case I ever heard of.’ The doctor walked back with Mr. Jabez. ‘It’s shock to the system,’ he said; ‘that’s all. When did she hear the news of his death?’ ‘Last night, sir,’ answered Mr. Duck. ‘I told her, sir. Thought it was best. Old and faithful servant, sir—very much attached. He’s left her five hundred pounds in his will—as of course you know, sir, being executor.’ ‘Of course,’ muttered the doctor, and then he silently followed his guide into Gurth Egerton’s house. As he passed through the hall, and saw the late owner’s picture hanging there, his memory went back to a time when he, Oliver Birnie, and this very Gurth Egerton were companions in adversity, and were not quite sure where their next pound was coming from. Now he was a rising practitioner, with a balance at his banker’s, and Gurth—well, Gurth had been drowned in the _Bon Espoir_, and had left his housekeeper five hundred pounds. CHAPTER V. MISS DUCK HAS A WORD TO SAY. Mr. Duck was at breakfast one morning in his eight-roomed house at Dalston, and his revered sister, Miss Georgina, was pouring out the first cup of tea in the pot for him, and selecting the worst piece of bacon and the most suspicious-looking egg from the dish before her. Having jerked these delicacies on to his plate, and thus ensured the survival of the fittest, she proceeded to help herself to the remainder. ‘Jabez,’ said Miss Georgina suddenly, ‘some day you will die!’ ‘Lor’, Georgie, don’t!’ exclaimed Jabez, bolting a particularly cindery piece of bacon, and thereby nearly bringing his sister’s prophecy off there and then. When he had coughed and choked and increased in shininess from ten to thirty candle power, he gradually recovered, and, polishing his perspiring face with a large red handkerchief, proceeded to expostulate with Georgina on the impropriety of talking of death to a man with his mouth full. ‘You are a weak-minded idiot, Jabez!’ answered the lady. ‘All men are. Do you imagine that you _won’t_ die?’