“The latter is a guess; the former a certainty. Under your somewhat sparse long hair in front there is an outcropping of very fine hairs. Some special cause exists for that new growth. The most likely cause, at your age, is typhoid. As you’ve kept in good training, it isn’t likely that you’d have had any other serious ailment recently. On that I took a chance. The small scars at the back of your ears could be nothing but the marks of that little pest of the tropics, the _bête rouge_. I’ve had him dug out of my skin and I know something of him.” “Right on every count,” declared Mr. Clyde. “You’ve given me cumulative proof of your value to me. I’ll tell you. Forget formalities. Let me ‘phone for a cab; we’ll go to your hotel, get your things, and you come back with me for the night. In the morning you can look the ground over, and decide, with the human documents before you, whether you’ll undertake the campaign.” The younger man smiled a very pleasant and winning smile. “You go fast,” said he. “And as in all fast motion, you create a current in your direction. Certainly, if I’m to consider your remarkable plan I’d best see the whole family. But there’s one probable and perhaps insurmountable obstacle. Who is your physician?” “Haven’t such a thing in the house, at present,” said Mr. Clyde lightly. Then, in a graver tone, “Our old family physician died six months ago. He knew us all inside and out as a man knows a familiar book.” “A difficult loss to replace. Knowledge of your patient is half the battle in medicine. You’ve had no one since?” “Yes. Six weeks ago, my third boy, Charley, showed signs of fever and we called a distant cousin of mine who has a large practice. He felt quite sure from the first that it was diphtheria; but he so managed matters that we had no trouble with the officials. In fact, he didn’t report it at all, though I believe it was a very light case of the disease.” Dr. Strong’s eyes narrowed. “At the outset, I’ll give you two bits of advice, gratis, Mr. Clyde. First, don’t ever call your doctor-cousin again. He’s an anarchist.” “Just what do you mean by that?” “It’s plain enough, isn’t it? Anarchist, I said: a man who doesn’t believe in law when it contravenes his convenience.” Mr. Clyde rubbed his chin again. “Hum,” he remarked. “Well! the second gift of advice?” “That you either respect the law yourself or resign the presidency of the Public Health League.” A distinct spot of red appeared on each of the elder man’s smooth cheeks. “Are you trying to provoke me to a quarrel?” he asked brusquely. Then his expression mollified. “Or are you testing me?” “Neither. I’m giving you my best and most honest advice. If you expect me to do as your substitute physician did, to guard your household in violation of the law which tries to protect the whole public equally, you’ve got the wrong man, and your boasted judgment has gone askew,” was the steady reply.