"Only too delighted," he stuttered. "Clarice, then." "Clarice _now_, I rather think," she laughed, and, wondering at the confusion of this usually self-contained physician, returned forthwith to the topic which had created this conversation. "What can be the matter with Uncle Henry?" she said again. Jerce became the medical man at once, and shook his head. "Ten years of attendance on Horran have left me where I was at the beginning." "How strange." "Everything connected with medicine is strange. The human body is a box of tricks, with which we play, in the dark." "A box of bricks, you mean." "As you please. We doctors build up the bodies of the sick, so I suppose flesh and bones, muscles and nerves, are the bricks. But this case--Horran's case--humph!" he resumed his walk with knitted brows, "yes, quite so. I confess that a post-mortem would settle the matter." Clarice rose with a horrified look. "What a cold-blooded speech. He is your oldest friend." "Forgive me. Science is not quite human at times. Of course, I am here to cure Horran, not to kill him. I should indeed regret losing my best, and, as you say, my oldest friend. But how can I cure a man, when I don't know what is the matter with him?" "What does Dr. Wentworth say?" Jerce looked at the girl's pretty face and fairly laughed. "Wentworth is not a prospective knight," said he, dryly. "Which means--?" "That I don't wish to boast." This time Clarice coloured. "I beg your pardon, doctor. I know that you are everybody and that Dr. Wentworth is nobody. You live in Harley Street and attend to titled people, while he works in a quiet Essex town amongst the middle-class and the poor. All the same," she was determined to have the last word, "the mouse may be able to assist the lion." "I prefer a feminine mouse," said the doctor, smiling. "Suppose you assist me by detailing exactly what has happened." Clarice leaned an elbow on the mantelpiece, and absently ruffled her brown hair before replying. "Mr. Horran has been complaining of headaches," she said at length, "and once or twice he has been sick. Also on rising suddenly from a chair, he has always felt giddy." "You tell me nothing new, Miss--I mean Clarice. For ten years Horran has suffered in this way. Humph! The attacks of giddiness have not been so frequent, Wentworth tells me." "No. Only every now and then." "Humph! And his behaviour?" "Well," Clarice hesitated, "he has been a trifle excited at times, and by Dr. Wentworth's advice he gave up his one glass of whisky at night." "I see," Jerce once more scratched his chin. "Alcohol excites him." "Anything unusual seems to excite him, doctor. Mr. Horran gets quite hysterical at times, and is always thinking of his health." "Hypochondria!" muttered Jerce, with his eyes on the ground. "And on this particular occasion?"