In that neighborhood there are four or five basement houses of the style that is affectioned by milliners, dentists, and physicians. One of these particularly claimed Mistrial's attention. He saw a woman in gray enter it, and almost simultaneously a woman come out; then a man leading a child went in; and in a little while the first woman reappeared. Mistrial glanced at his watch; it lacked a minute of one. "He has a larger practice than I thought," he reflected. The woman in gray had now nearly reached the cab in which he sat, and from sheer force of habit he was preparing to scrutinize her as she passed, when the door of the house reopened and Thorold appeared on the step. He looked up the street, then down. He had his hat on, and his every-day air. In a second Mistrial had drawn the curtain and was peering through the opening at the side. He saw Thorold leave the step and turn toward Fifth Avenue; he signalled to the driver, and the cab moved on. At the corner Thorold turned again, the cab at his heels, and Mistrial saw that the physician was moving in the direction of Madison Square. It occurred to him that Thorold might be going to Mr. Dunellen's, and on the block below, as the latter crossed the asphalt, he made sure of it. But opposite the Brunswick the cab stopped; Thorold was entering the restaurant. Cold chicken looks attractive in print. A minute or two later, as Mistrial examined the bill of fare, he ordered some for himself; he ordered also a Demidorf salad,--a compound of artichokes' hearts and truffles, familiarly known as Half-Mourning,--and until the waiter returned hid himself behind a paper. Thorold meanwhile, who was seated at an adjoining table, must have ordered something which required longer preparation, for Mistrial finished the salad before the physician was served. But Mistrial was in no hurry; he had a pint of claret brought him, and sipped it leisurely. Now and then he glanced over at Thorold, and twice he caught his eye. At last Thorold called for his bill. Mistrial paid his own, and presently followed him out into the street. When both reached the sidewalk, Mistrial, who was a trifle in the rear, touched him on the arm. "Thorold," he said; and the physician turned, but there was nothing engaging in his attitude: he held his head to one side, about his lips was a compression, a contraction in his eyes; one arm was pendent, the other pressed to his waistcoat, and the shoulder of that arm was slightly raised. He looked querulous and annoyed--a trifle startled, too. "Thorold," Mistrial repeated, "give me a moment, will you?" The physician raised the arm that he had pressed against his waistcoat, and, with four fingers straightened and the fifth askew, stroked an imaginary whisker. "It is about Justine," Mistrial continued. "She is out of sorts; I want you to see her." "Ah!" And Thorold looked down and away.