There followed a letter in which the good lady set forth, with great lack of reserve, the painful and familiar symptoms of her malady, stating how, after a night of darkness, an angel from Heaven (disguised as a next-door neighbour) appeared, and urged her to try Enoch’s Instantaneous Cold Cure. Whereon she, despaired of by the luminaries of the faculty, secured a phial of the magic decoction, which not only dissipated the cold, but actually relieved her of an almost chronic dyspepsia and a lifelong tendency to sciatic rheumatism. “What do you think of that?” demanded Mr. Dyson, in conclusion. “I am too familiar with the form to be greatly impressed.” “Will you try a bottle?” “I had very much rather not.” Mr. Dyson’s mouth shut like a trap. “Comes to this,” he said. “You won’t try to help me out.” The poor invalid waved his head from side to side. “Oh, very well,” he conceded. “I’ll take it if it gives you any satisfaction.” “That’s the style,” cried the manager. “I’ll get you a bottle right away. Mark my words, you’ll be fit for anything by night.” And, slapping a hat on his head, he clattered from the room. He was back five minutes later with a neat chemist’s parcel in his hand. “Bought one for myself, too,” he said. “Felt a bit snivelly this morning. Now, come on and have a dose at once.” “I have just had a little beef-tea,” replied Eliphalet, “but I promise to take it in half-an-hour. In the meantime, I believe, with your assistance, I could snatch a few moments’ sleep.” “Don’t see how I can help in that direction.” “Perhaps not,” said Eliphalet; “but I daresay if you left me alone I could manage it by myself.” “Righto! See you at the theatre, then. Don’t forget the physic, mind.” “I won’t forget.” But he did forget. It was eleven o’clock when Mr. Dyson left, and it was after five when Eliphalet awoke from a profound slumber. The room was quite dark, save for the light from a street lamp which percolated through the muslin curtains and cast strange shadows on the ceiling. He sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes. The troublesome itching behind them had abated. His nasal passages were clearer—they actually admitted air. “I believe I am better,” he said. Then, striking a match, he lit the gas-jet by the bed, and looked at his watch. “A quarter past five! Old boy, if we are going to play to-night, we had better get up.” Very unwillingly he withdrew his feet from the cosy coverings and, as he came to a sitting posture and made a tentative search with his toes for the carpet slippers, his eyes fell upon the little paper parcel where Mr. Dyson had left it. “Good gracious, I have broken my promise!” he exclaimed. “I must take the stuff at once.” He picked up the parcel, broke the pink string and extracted a small blue glass bottle bearing a label covered all over with microscopic print. “Now, the question is whether I should not be just as well off without this,” he mused. “However!”