* * * * * You may wonder what connection I trace between this episode and the life of Bovingdon Street. There is a connection; but it traced itself. I left the Muntz’s stately mansion feeling in need of distraction, and that distraction I sought from Doctor Brink and James. And James was full of news. "I’ve begun my professional education," she said. "I administered chloroform to a case last week. Fee sixpence. Fatty still owes it me." I turned to Fatty for his explanations. "Pity me," said that gentleman, "I have a hussy for a daughter. One who makes sport of her poor old father’s need. I do owe her the money. I shall continue to owe it. I am entitled to owe it. I only got half-a-crown for the whole thing—anæsthetist’s fee included. "Men like Marmaduke Wilkins get a hundred guineas for the same operation. And then the patient has to pay another ten or twenty for the anæsthetist. When a high-class, if modest surgeon, like myself, consents to perform these things for a wage which would offend the dignity of a dustman, why, damme, it is his _duty_ to swindle the anæsthetist. Why——" "What was your patient?" I asked. "The patient? Oh, a girl in Mulberry Street. Works at the pickle factory. Pretty girl, only eighteen. James cried. Rather unprofessional, what? Now she has the cheek to ask for sixpence!" "What was—er—the result of your high-class surgery? Is the girl alive?" "Alive! Why, my insulting young friend, she’s back again at the pickle works. Went to work on the sixth day. _My_ girls don’t die." "At work again in six days—after—after _that_! And you let her!" "Better work than starve," said the doctor brusquely.... "How did you enjoy yourself at Hampstead this afternoon?" *XXII* *LOST!* It isn’t often that Dr. Brink permits himself to have emotions during business hours, but even the doctor looked astonished when O’Flannigan came into his consulting-room. We called him O’Flannigan, because he did not leave a visiting-card, and we had to call him _something_. And he spoke with a trace of the Irish accent. He was a very tall man and very stout, having dead-white hair, which he wore in curls, and a very red face. His clothes were all of them black, and they shone in places with a sort of oily lustre. He wore black gloves and a black tie, and he carried a black umbrella. "Evenin’, Doctorrr," said he; "ut’s a fine place ye got hearrr!" The doctor bowed. "Ut is a fine place," repeated the visitor, tapping the oilcloth with his umbrella point; "but, begad, ’tis a mericle how you kin do ut. Privut inkum purrhaps?" "Why, yes," acknowledged Dr. Brink, "my income is certainly a private matter." "The divil ut is!" commented the visitor. "Me own’s so damned privut Oi’ve lost sight of ut this ten yeers past. Midwifery connection is good, Oi onderstand. Ut’s a sound, domestic practus, Doctorrr?"