I found the doctor a very complacent brisk little man, having spectacles, black side-whiskers supported by an ample collar, and a head as shiny and almost as bald as a gas globe. “Now, sir, what can I do for you?” he said, having hurried into the room and made his bow. I apologised, with some embarrassment, for my venturing to claim even a fraction of his precious time to a matter which, to put it brusquely, was unconnected with professional emoluments. Naturally enough, perhaps, he requested me thereupon to state my business with a reasonable brevity. “It touches, sir,” I said, “upon the birth of a child some twenty or more years ago; at which birth, I believe, you assisted.” “Wait,” he said. “A police case, is it?” “Not,” I answered, venturing something, “if that can be avoided.” “Well,” he said, “of whose child do you speak?” “The mother was a young woman of the name of Carey. She lived in White Square.” He lifted, and readjusted his spectacles; then, canvassing me over them, knitted his fingers lightly before him, and twiddled his thumbs. “My memory, sir, is, I may say, retentive. The case recurs to me. What about it?” “It is desired to find the father of that child.” He shook his head, smiling. “My dear sir, I am no clairvoyant. What is my position in these matters? I come, I see, I deliver. The mother is my sole concern.” “You don’t know who he was?” “Not from Adam.” My face fell, obviously enough, I suppose. “By the way,” he remarked casually, “you know, of course, that the child died very shortly after it was born?” What was he saying in that matter-of-fact voice? what unimpassioned thunderbolt launching from the blue of his little spectacled eyes? A quick sharp vertigo seemed to seize my brain. I stared stupidly at him. “Died!” I muttered. “O, you must be mistaken!” “Wait,” he said. “I keep, and have always kept, a minute record of my cases. I can verify it in an instant.” He went to a shelf, selected from it one of several thin manuscript volumes, and rapidly skipped over its leaves. “Here it is,” he said. “February 7th, 1860: Carey (Georgina), White Square: obstetric: child, male; died two days later. Certified cause, atelectasis pulmonum.” He shut the book with a snap, returned it to its shelf, and faced round on me, his hands under his coat tails. “Anything more I can do for you?” “But,” I stammered, “if--if the child died, it must have been buried?” “Doubtless,” he answered; “but scarcely by me. Still, it was buried, I suppose.” “You don’t know?” “O, my dear sir! Think for a moment. White Square! and its reputation--but perhaps you are ignorant there. There are ways and places--for disposing economically of these superfluous defunct. I don’t assert anything; but I daresay you have read of them. The child died, that is all I can certainly state.” I came to myself, and held out my hand gratefully.