“That,” said Thorndyke, “is a very proper resolution.  Pride and reserve between people who are going to be husband and wife, is an absurdity.  But why buy a practice?  Have you forgotten my proposal?”

“I should be an ungrateful brute if I had.”

“Very well.  I repeat it now.  Come to me as my junior, read for the Bar and work with me, and, with your abilities, you will have a chance of something like a career.  I want you, Jervis,” he added, earnestly.  “I must have a junior, with my increasing practice, and you are the junior I want.  We are old and tried friends; we have worked together; we like and trust one another, and you are the best man for the job that I know.  Come; I am not going to take a refusal.  This is an ultimatum.”

“And what is the alternative?” I asked with a smile at his eagerness.

“There isn’t any.  You are going to say yes.”

“I believe I am,” I answered, not without emotion; “and I am more rejoiced at your offer and more grateful than I can tell you.  But we must leave the final arrangements for our next meeting—­in a week or so, I hope—­for I have to be back in an hour, and I want to consult you on a matter of some importance.”

“Very well,” said Thorndyke; “we will leave the formal agreement for consideration at our next meeting.  What is it that you want my opinion on?”

“The fact is,” I said, “I am in a rather awkward dilemma, and I want you to tell me what you think I ought to do.”

Thorndyke paused in the act of refilling my cup and glanced at me with unmistakable anxiety.

“Nothing of an unpleasant nature, I hope,” said he.

“No, no; nothing of that kind,” I answered with a smile as I interpreted the euphemism; for “something unpleasant,” in the case of a young and reasonably presentable medical man is ordinarily the equivalent of trouble with the female of his species.  “It is nothing that concerns me personally at all,” I continued; “it is a question of professional responsibility.  But I had better give you an account of the affair in a complete narrative, as I know that you like to have your data in a regular and consecutive order.”

Thereupon I proceeded to relate the history of my visit to the mysterious Mr. Graves, not omitting any single circumstance or detail that I could recollect.

Thorndyke listened from the very beginning of my story with the closest attention.  His face was the most impassive that I have ever seen; ordinarily as inscrutable as a bronze mask; but to me, who knew him intimately, there was a certain something—­a change of colour, perhaps, or an additional sparkle of the eye—­that told me when his curious passion for investigation was fully aroused.  And now, as I told him of that weird journey and the strange, secret house to which it had brought me, I could see that it offered a problem after his very heart.  During the whole of my narration he sat as motionless as a statue, evidently committing the whole story to memory, detail by detail; and even when I had finished he remained for an appreciable time without moving or speaking.