Now, I had wit enough to observe that the Doctor had not said "I am glad," but "I shall be glad," and I asked, "Do _you_ think I am wrong in health?" "Not seriously," he replied; "but I think it will be well for you to see the letter, and if you will be so good as to accompany me to my lodging, I will show it to you." Dr. Khayme's "lodging" proved to be a small cottage on one of the side streets. There was a miniature garden in front: vines clambered over the porch and were trained so that they almost hid the windows. An old woman, who seemed to be housekeeper, cook, and everything that a general servant may be, opened to his knock. "I never carry a key," said the Doctor, seemingly in response to my thought. I was led into a bright room in the back of the house. The windows looked on the sunset. The floor was bare, except in front of the grate, where was spread the skin of some strange animal. For the rest, there was nothing remarkable about the apartment. An old bookcase in a corner seemed packed to bursting with dusty volumes in antique covers, A writing-table, littered and piled with papers, was in the middle of the room, and there were a few easy-chairs, into one of which the Doctor motioned me. Excusing himself a moment, he went to the mantel, took down a pipe with a long stem, and began to stuff the bowl with tobacco which I saw was very black; while he was doing so, I recognized on the pipe the carven image of an idol. "Yes," he said; "I see no good in changing." I did not say anything to this speech; I did not know what he meant. He went to his desk, took my father's letter from a drawer, and handed it to me. I read:-- "MY DEAR SIR: Pardon the liberty I take in writing to you. My son, who is under your charge in part, causes me great uneasiness. I need not say to you that he has a mind above the average--you will have already discovered this; but I wish to say that his mind has passed through strange experiences and that possibly he must--though God forbid--go through more of such. A friend of mine has convinced me that you can help my boy. Yours very truly, "JONES BERWICK, SR." When I had read this letter, it came upon me that it was strange, especially in its abrupt ending. I looked at the Doctor and offered the letter to him. "No," said he; "keep it; put it in your pocket." I did as he said, and waited. For a short time Dr. Khayme sat with the amber mouthpiece of his pipe between his lips; his eyes were turned from me. He rose, and put his pipe back on the mantel; then turning toward me, and yet standing, he looked upon me gravely, and said very slowly, "I do not think it advisable to ask you to tell me what the mental experiences are to which your father alludes; it may be best that you should not speak of them; it may be best that you should not think of them. I am sure that I can help you; I am sure that your telling me your history could not cause me to help you more."