“I take the gifts of the gods, you see, and ask no questions,” said Thorndyke.

“Devilish handsome of you, Thorndyke—­unsociable beggar like you, too,” rejoined Mr. Brodribb, a fan of wrinkles spreading out genially from the corners of his eyes; “but the fact is I have come, in a sense, on business—­always glad of a pretext to look you up, as you know—­but I want to take your opinion on a rather queer case.  It is about young Calverley.  You remember Horace Calverley?  Well, this is his son.  Horace and I were schoolmates, you know, and after his death the boy, Fred, hung on to me rather.  We’re near neighbours down at Weybridge, and very good friends.  I like Fred. He’s a good fellow, though cranky, like all his people.”

“What has happened to Fred Calverley?” Thorndyke asked, as the solicitor paused.

“Why, the fact is,” said Mr. Brodribb, “just lately he seems to be going a bit queer—­not mad, mind you—­at least, I think not—­but undoubtedly queer.  Now, there is a good deal of property, and a good many highly interested relatives, and, as a natural consequence, there is some talk of getting him certified.  They’re afraid he may do something involving the estate or develop homicidal tendencies, and they talk of possible suicide—­you remember his father’s death—­but I say that’s all bunkum.  The fellow is just a bit cranky, and nothing more.”

“What are his symptoms?” asked Thorndyke.

“Oh, he thinks he is being followed about and watched, and he has delusions; sees himself in the glass with the wrong face, and that sort of thing, you know.”

“You are not highly circumstantial,” Thorndyke remarked.

Mr. Brodribb looked at me with a genial smile.

“What a glutton for facts this fellow is, Jervis.  But you’re right, Thorndyke; I’m vague.  However, Fred will be here presently.  We travel down together, and I took the liberty of asking him to call for me.  We’ll get him to tell you about his delusions, if you don’t mind.  He’s not shy about them.  And meanwhile I’ll give you a few preliminary facts.  The trouble began about a year ago.  He was in a railway accident, and that knocked him all to pieces.  Then he went for a voyage to recruit, and the ship broke her propeller-shaft in a storm and became helpless.  That didn’t improve the state of his nerves.  Then he went down the Mediterranean, and after a month or two, back he came, no better than when he started.  But here he is, I expect.”

He went over to the door and admitted a tall, frail young man whom Thorndyke welcomed with quiet geniality, and settled in a chair by the fire.  I looked curiously at our visitor.  He was a typical neurotic—­slender, fragile, eager.  Wide-open blue eyes with broad pupils, in which I could plainly see the characteristic “hippus”—­that incessant change of size that marks the unstable nervous equilibrium—­parted lips, and wandering taper fingers, were as the stigmata of his disorder.  He was of the stuff out of which prophets and devotees, martyrs, reformers, and third-rate poets are made.