She nodded, smiling across the table at him. “Doctor,” she said, “I do not believe I shall ever come back here to see you--as a patient of yours.” “No,” he affirmed; “I do not believe you will ever come back--as a patient of mine.” “But, if I may, I should like to come sometimes, just to look at that face--that dead face with its living message for me.” “Madam,” he told her, “you may have it on two conditions--namely, that you keep it in your own room, and that you do not tell its story--the story I have just told you--to any other person. I have reasons of my own for making those conditions.” “In my own room is exactly where I would keep it,” she said. “I promise to do as you ask. I shall never part with it. But how can you part with it?” “Oh, I think I know where I can get another copy,” he said, “The original mould has not been destroyed. I am sure my--my friend--has it. This one will be delivered at your home before night. My servant shall take it to you.” “No,” she said. “If you do not mind, I shall take it with me now--in my own hands.” She clasped the gift to her breast, holding it there as though it were a priceless thing--too priceless to be intrusted to the keeping of any other than its possessor. For perhaps five minutes after the departure of his recent patient the great specialist sat at his desk smiling gently to himself. Then he touched with his forefinger a button under the desk. His manservant entered. “You have heard of troubles being started by a lie, haven't you?” asked the doctor abruptly. “Yes, sir--I think so, sir.” The man was not an Englishman, but he had been trained in the school of English servants. His voice betrayed no surprise. “Well, did you ever hear of troubles being ended by a lie?” “Really, sir, I can't say, sir--offhand.” “Well, it can be done,” said the doctor; “in fact, it has been done.” The man stood a moment. “Was that all, sir?” “No; not quite,” said the master. “Do you remember an Italian pedlar who was here the other day?” “An Italian pedlar, sir?” “Yes; don't you remember? A street vender who passed the door. I called him in and bought a plaster cast from him--for seventy-five cents, as I recall.” “Oh, yes, sir; I do remember now.” The man's eyes flitted to an empty space on the wall moulding above the bookcase behind his employer's chair, and back again to his employer's face. “Well,” said the doctor, “you keep a lookout for him, in case he passes again. I want to buy another of those casts from him. I think it may be worth the money--the last one was, anyhow.” CHAPTER III. CHAPTER III. MR. FELSBURG GETS EVEN