I solemnly believe that I should have continued to succeed in the practice of my profession if it had not happened that fate was once more unkind to me, by throwing in my path one of my old acquaintances. I had a consultation one day with the famous homeopath Dr. Zwanzig. As we walked away we were busily discussing the case of a poor consumptive fellow who previously had lost a leg. In consequence of this defect, Dr. Zwanzig considered that the ten-thousandth of a grain of aurum would be an overdose, and that it must be fractioned so as to allow for the departed leg, otherwise the rest of the man would be getting a leg-dose too much. I was particularly struck with this view of the case, but I was still more, and less pleasingly, impressed at the sight of my former patient Stagers, who nodded to me familiarly from the opposite pavement. I was not at all surprised when, that evening quite late, I found this worthy waiting in my office. I looked around uneasily, which was clearly understood by my friend, who retorted: “Ain’t took nothin’ of yours, doc. You don’t seem right awful glad to see me. You needn’t be afraid--I’ve only fetched you a job, and a right good one, too.” I replied that I had my regular business, that I preferred he should get some one else, and pretty generally made Mr. Stagers aware that I had had enough of him. I did not ask him to sit down, and, just as I supposed him about to leave, he seated himself with a grin, remarking, “No use, doc; got to go into it this one time.” At this I, naturally enough, grew angry and used several rather violent phrases. “No use, doc,” said Stagers. Then I softened down, and laughed a little, and treated the thing as a joke, whatever it was, for I dreaded to hear. But Stagers was fate. Stagers was inevitable. “Won’t do, doc--not even money wouldn’t get you off.” “No?” said I, interrogatively, and as coolly as I could, contriving at the same time to move toward the window. It was summer, the sashes were up, the shutters half drawn in, and a policeman whom I knew was lounging opposite, as I had noticed when I entered. I would give Stagers a scare, charge him with theft--anything but get mixed up with his kind again. It was the folly of a moment and I should have paid dear for it. He must have understood me, the scoundrel, for in an instant I felt a cold ring of steel against my ear, and a tiger clutch on my cravat. “Sit down,” he said. “What a fool you are! Guess you forgot that there coroner’s business and the rest.” Needless to say that I obeyed. “Best not try that again,” continued my guest. “Wait a moment”; and rising, he closed the window. There was no resource left but to listen; and what followed I shall condense rather than relate it in the language employed by Mr. Stagers.