this, I suppose he can afford to marry. You ought to know about him."

"I believe I know as much as any one."

"He has no profession?" queried the lady.

"He has no profession; but I suppose he could afford it," said Lefevre musingly.

"You don't like the idea," said his mother.

"Not much. I scarce know why. But I somehow think of him as not having enough sense of the responsibility of life."

"I suppose his people are of the right sort?"

"I suppose they are; though I don't know if he has any people," said he, with a laugh. "He is the kind of man who does not need parents or relations."

"Still, hadn't you better try to find out what he may have in that line?"

"Yes," said Lefevre; "perhaps I had."

Chapter II.

A Mysterious Case.

The two friends returned, as they had arranged, to the Hyacinth Club for dinner. Courtney's coruscating brilliancy sank into almost total darkness when they parted from Lady and Miss Lefevre, and when they sat down to table he was preoccupied and silent, yet in no proper sense downcast or dull. Lefevre noted, while they ate, that there was clear speculation in his eye, that he was not vaguely dreaming, but with alert intelligence examining some question, or facing some contingency; and it was natural he should think that the question or contingency must concern Nora as much as Julius. Yet he made no overture of understanding, for he knew that Courtney seldom offered confidence or desired sympathy; not that he was churlish or reserved, but simply that he was usually sufficient unto himself, both for counsel and for consolation. Lefevre was therefore surprised when he was suddenly asked a question, which was without context in his own thought.

"Have you ever found something happen or appear," said Julius, "that completely upsets your point of view, and tumbles down your scheme of life, like a stick thrust between your legs when you are running?"

"I have known," said Lefevre, "a new fact arise and upset a whole scientific theory. That's often a good thing," he added, with a pointed glance; "for it compels a reconstruction of the theory on a wider and sounder basis."

"Yes," murmured Julius; "that may be. But I should think it does not often happen that the new fact swallows up all the details that supported your theory,—as Aaron's rod, turned into a serpent, swallowed up the serpent-rods of the magicians of Egypt,—so that there is no longer any theory, but only one great, glorious fact. I do admire," he exclaimed, swerving suddenly, "the imagination of those old Greeks, with their beautiful, half-divine personifications of the Spirits of Air and Earth and Sea! But their imagination never conceived a goddess that embodied them all!"

"I have often thought, Julius," said Lefevre, "that you must be some such embodiment yourself; for you are not quite human, you know."

The doctor said that with a clear recollection of his mother's request. He hoped that his friend would take the cue, and tell him something of his family. Julius, however, said nothing but "Indeed." Lefevre then tried to tempt him into confession by talking about his own father and mother, and by relating how the French name "Lefevre" came to be domiciled in England; but Julius ignored the temptation, and dismissed the question in an eloquent flourish.

"What does a man want with a family and a name? They only tie him to the earth, as Gulliver was tied by the people of Lilliput. We have life and health,—if we have them,—and it is only veiled prurience to inquire whence we got them. A man can't help having a father and a mother, I suppose; but he need not be always reminding himself of the fact: no other creature on earth does. For myself, I wish I were like that extraordinary person, Melchizedek, without father and without mother, without descent, having neither beginning of days nor end of life."

In a little while the friends parted. Lefevre said he had work to do, but he did not anticipate such work as he had to turn to that night. Though the doctor was a bachelor, he had a professional residence apart from his mother and sister. They lived in a small house in Curzon Street; he dwelt in Savile Row. Savile Row was a place of consequence long before Regent Street was thought of, but now they are few who know of its existence. Fashion ignores it. It is tenanted by small clubs, learned societies, and doctors. It slumbers in genteel decorum, with its back to the garish modern thoroughfare. It is always quiet, but by nine o'clock of a dark evening it is deserted. When Dr Lefevre, therefore, stepped out of his hired hansom, and prepared to put his latch-key in his own door, he was arrested by a hoarse-voiced hawker of evening news bursting in upon the repose of the Row with a continuous roar of "Special—Mystery—Paper—Railway—Special—Brighton—Paper—Victoria—Special!" It was with some effort, and only when the man was close at hand, that he interpreted the sounds into these words.

"Paper, sir," said the man; and he bought it and went in. He entered his dining-room, and read the following paragraph;—

"A Mysterious Case.

"A report has reached us that a young man, about two or four and twenty years of age, whose name is at present unknown, was found yesterday (Sunday) to all appearance dead in a first-class carriage of the 5 P.M. train from Brighton to Victoria. The discovery was only made at Grosvenor Road Station, where tickets are taken before entering Victoria. At Victoria the body was searched for purposes of identification, and there was found upon him a card with the following remarkable inscription:—'I am not dead. Take me to the St. James's Hospital.' To St. James's Hospital accordingly the young man was conveyed. It seems probable he is in a condition of trance—not for the first time—since he was provided with the card, and knew the hospital with which is associated in all men's minds the name of Dr Lefevre, who is so famous for his skill in the treatment of nervous disorders."

In matters of plain duty Dr Lefevre had got into the excellent habit of acting first and thinking afterwards. He at once rang the bell, and ordered the responsible serving-man who appeared to call a cab. The man went to the door and sounded his shrill whistle, grateful to the ears of several loitering cabbies. There was a mad race of growlers and hansoms for the open door. Dr Lefevre got into the first hansom that drew up, and drove off to the hospital. By that time he had told himself that the young man must be a former patient of his (though he did not remember any such), and that he ought to see him at once, although it is not customary for the visiting physician of a hospital to appear, except between fixed hours of certain days. He made nothing of the mystery which the newspaper wished, after the manner of its kind, to cast about the case, and thought of other things, while he smoked cigarettes, till he reached the hospital. The house-physician was somewhat surprised by his appearance.

"I have just read that paragraph," said Lefevre, handing him the paper.

"Oh yes, sir," said the house-physician. "The man was brought in last night. Dr Dowling" [the resident assistant-physician] "saw him, and thought it a case of ordinary trance, that could easily wait till you came, as usual, to-morrow."

"Ah, well," said Lefevre, "let me see him."

Seen thus, the physician appeared a different person from the cheerful, modest man of the Hyacinth Club. He had now put on the responsibility of men's health and the enthusiasm of his profession. He seemed to swell in proportions and dignity, though his eye still beamed with a calm and kindly light.

The young man led the