about four years after I started practice in Cromwell Road, but if I recollect rightly, my dear Brown, you had but little to do with them. The man was certainly very objectionable, although he was without a doubt a gentleman, as far as blood and education were concerned.
I can still easily call to mind the first time that I met Rita Manne-Martyn, although I knew her by sight before.
It was on a cold wet night, and I was comfortably settled in a big chair with a pipe of Perique, and Haeckel's "Riddle of the Universe," when the sound of the night-bell made me groan. "Always the way," I growled, "one is certain to have a night visit if the weather is extra bad."
As everybody else was in bed I went to the door, which, as I opened it, admitted a bitter blast of north wind accompanied by drifting sleet, and also a female figure in a white cloak—an opera-cloak—ye gods! for a night like that.
"Are you Dr. d'Escombe," gasped a particularly sweet voice. "Please let me come in, and do shut the door."
"Yes, I am Dr. d'Escombe," I answered, as I carried out her order. "Please come
