It wanted only a week to Christmas, and the weather was quite of the traditional Dickens kind. Deep snow almost overwhelmed the quaint little Essex town, and this, hardened by many nights of frost, sparkled like jewels in the clear radiance of street-lamps and shop-lights. The short winter's day drew to a bitterly cold close, and although the pedestrians, crowding the narrow, twisted streets, were, for the most part, warmly clad, many of the more sensitive shivered in the cutting east wind. But Jerce, having a sufficiency of flesh to cover his bones, and a fur-lined overcoat to protect that same flesh, stepped out briskly and comfortably, without regard to the chills of the season. The man in grey followed him at a respectful distance, keenly observant. The shops, already decked for Yule-tide, looked unusually lavish with their blaze of lights, their mistletoe, and red-berried holly branches, and their extra display of Santa Claus presents and Christmas provisions. But the doctor did not look at the glittering windows, nor did the man in grey. Jerce, who appeared to be well known, nodded smilingly, right and left, to respectful townspeople, and his follower took note of this popularity. Finally, the physician turned down a somewhat dark side-lane--for it was not yet an official street--and entered an iron gate on the left-hand side, some distance down. This admitted him into the grounds of a large, square Georgian mansion of mellow red brick, covered with ivy and snow, and looking like a house with a history. The watcher was compelled to remain outside the high iron railings, as he was unable to give any plausible reason for entering. When Jerce rang the bell and finally disappeared inside the mansion, the grey man muttered an impatient word or two, and resigned himself to sauntering up and down the lane, until such time as the doctor should emerge. But the air was nipping, while the man in grey was thin and thinly clothed. Shortly he began to shiver and turn blue. Glancing down the semi-lane, where it led into the truly rural country, he noticed the brilliant lights of an ambitious inn. Measuring with his eye the distance from the Georgian mansion to this hostel, the man in grey saw that he could shelter therein, and yet keep an eye on the gate, out of which the doctor presumably would come. The opportunity was too tempting. Crossing the road, he entered the bar, which looked warm and cheery. Jerce would scarcely return to London for an hour or so, therefore the watcher thought that, with an occasional glance out of the bar-room door, he could very well keep guard over the doctor's comings and goings. But the first thing he did, when inside, was to demand a Bradshaw.