"I remember, you said you were here on business." "What business?" "Professional. I am a doctor: I have a patient in my care." "Male or female?" "Male." "The disease?" "Madness." CHAPTER XXXIII. A FOUL DEED. Leonard gazed fixedly at Dr. Peterssen, doubting for the moment whether the man was in earnest. There was no doubt of it, however. Dr. Peterssen was speaking the truth. "I will enlighten you," said Dr. Peterssen, "I am not quite a pretender. I am a doctor with a diploma, and I have practised in all parts of the world. My specialty is diseases of the mind. I do not say I am fond of the study, but when needs must, the devil drives. Returning home--that is, to England, which I look upon as home--chance throws me in the way of a patient with a rich father. The father cannot keep his son at home, and he shrinks from sending him to a regular madhouse. Can he find a capable man who, for a consideration, will take charge of the young man and devote himself to him? I present myself; I am ready to do anything for a consideration. Between ourselves, my diploma is not exactly what it should be, and I could not practise regularly in England; there would be difficulties in my way, there are so many censorious people about. I have no difficulty in convincing the father of my patient that I am what I represent myself to be, and a bargain is struck. The young man, whose name is George Street, is given into my charge, and away we go. One reason that the father wishes to obtain without delay a guardian for his son is that he himself is compelled to leave England for a year or two for his health; another reason is that about twice a year he has a dangerous fit upon him. It lasts for two or three days, and he has to be carefully watched. While the father is absent I have to write to him on the first of every month, acquainting him with the condition of his son. I am to do what I like with the young man, to the extent of indulging in foreign travel for the purpose of diverting his mind. My expenses are paid, but I have to render a strict account, and though I garble them a little I cannot make much out of it. Then I am, like yourself, naturally extravagant, and I am also at heart, I am afraid, a bit of a gambler. I have not been very fortunate hitherto, but my turn will come. In addition to the trifle I make out of cooked accounts--shockingly mild cooking, Leonard, my patient's father being the soul of meanness--I receive three hundred a year. Of course, all my personal expenses are paid, but what can a man do with three hundred a year? It is a miserable pittance. My patient is now asleep; he is perfectly harmless, and he sleeps fifteen hours out of the twenty-four. I have no difficulty with him. He is as tractable as a lamb. 'Get up.' He gets up. 'Come out.' He comes out. 'Read for an hour.' He reads for an hour, or pretends to. 'Sit still till I return.' He sits still till I return. Thus all is plain sailing, and I