“DEAR TWIDDEL,—I am happy to tell you that I am at last able to put something in your way. A gentleman in this neighbourhood, one of my most esteemed patients, has lately suffered from a severe mental and physical shock, followed by brain fever, and is still, I regret to say, in an extremely unstable mental condition. I have strongly recommended quiet and change of scene, and at my suggestion he is to be sent abroad under the care of a medical attendant. I have now much pleasure in offering you the post, if you would care to accept it. You will find your patient, Mr Mandell-Essington, an extremely agreeable young man when in possession of his proper faculties. He has large means and no near relatives; he comes of one of the best families in the county; and though he has, I surmise, sown his wild oats pretty freely, he was considered of unusual promise previous to this unfortunate illness. He is of an amiable and pleasant disposition, though at present, we fear, inclined to suicidal tendencies. I have no particular reason to think he is at all homicidal; still, you will see that he naturally requires most careful watching. It is possible that you may hesitate to leave your practice (which I trust prospers); but as the responsibility is considerable, the fee will be proportionately generous—£500, and all expenses paid.” (“Five hundred quid!” exclaimed Welsh.) “I would suggest a trip on the Continent. The duration and the places to be visited will be entirely at your discretion. It is of course hardly necessary to say that you will seek quiet localities. Trusting to hear from you at your very earliest convenience, believe me, yours sincerely, TIMOTHY WATSON.” Welsh looked at his friend with the respect that prosperity naturally excites. He smiled on him as an equal, and cried, heartily, “Congratulations again! When do you start?” Twiddel fidgeted uncomfortably, “I—er—well, you see—ah—I haven’t _quite_ made up my mind yet.” “What’s the matter?” “Hang it, Welsh—er—the fact is I don’t altogether like the job.” Scruples of any kind always surprised Welsh. “Can’t afford to leave the practice?” he asked with a laugh. “That’s—ah—partly the reason,” replied Twiddel, uncomfortably. “Rot, old man! There’s a girl in the case. Out with it!” “No, it isn’t that. You see it’s the very devil of a responsibility.” At this confession of weakness he looked guiltily at his heroic friend. From the bottom of his heart he wished he had screwed up his courage in private. Welsh had so little imagination. “By Gad,” exclaimed Welsh, “I’d manage a nunnery for £500!” “I daresay you would, but a suicidal, and possibly homicidal, lunatic isn’t a nunnery.” Welsh looked at his friend with diminished respect. “Then you are going to chuck up £500 and a free trip on the Continent?” he said. “Dr Watson himself admits the responsibility.” “With a—what is it?—agreeable young man?”