Ena idled before the shop windows in Oxford Street for three-quarters of an hour, and then took a taxi to Harley Street, where she found Doctor Stanley Hepburn, a short, stout, brown-bearded man of rather abrupt manner. In his smart, up-to-date consulting-room he put the same questions to her, wearying as they were, and parrot-like she answered them. "Truly, I’m having a busy morning, doctor," she remarked, with a sigh, laughing at the same time. "Apparently," he said, smiling. "I must apologise for bothering you with all these questions. Sir Humphrey has, no doubt, gone through them all." "He has." "Well, never mind. Forgive me, and let’s get along," he said briskly. And he proceeded with question after question. At last, after an examination exactly like that conducted by Sir Humphrey, Doctor Hepburn reseated himself at his table, and said: "Well, Mrs. Morrison, I don’t think I need keep you any longer." "Are you quite satisfied with me?" she asked boldly. He was silent for a few seconds. "As far as I myself am concerned I see no reason whatever why the company should not accept the risk," was his reply. "Of course, I don’t know the nature of Sir Humphrey’s report; but I expect it coincides with my own. I can detect nothing to cause apprehension, and, in normal circumstances, you should live to quite old age." "Thanks! That is a very agreeable piece of information," she said. Then, his waiting-room being crowded—for he had given her a special appointment—he rose and, bowing, dismissed her, saying: "I shall send in my report to the company to-night, therefore the matter should go through without delay." Afterwards, as she walked along Harley Street, a great weight having been lifted from her mind, she hailed a taxi and drove back to her pretty flat in Upper Brook Street, where a dainty lunch awaited her. To answer frankly and correctly those questions had been an ordeal. Those queries were so cleverly arranged that if, after death, the replies to any of them are found to be false the company would be able to resist the claim upon it. To give a true and faithful account of your parents’ ailments and your own illnesses is difficult enough, but to give an equally true account of those of another person is extremely difficult and presents many pitfalls. And none knew that better than Ena Pollen. After lunch, she rested for an hour, as was her habit in summer, and then she took a taxi to Pont Street, where she had tea with Lilla Braybourne. To her she related her adventures among the medicos, adding: "All is serene! There’s nothing the matter with Mrs. Morrison of Carsphairn! She’s in excellent health and may live to be ninety. Hers is a first-class life!" "Bernie predicted it," said the wife of the humble insurance agent of Hammersmith. "You were passed fit in the Fitzgerald affair—you recollect." "Yes," snapped the handsome woman. "What a pity the sum wasn’t five thousand instead of five hundred."