With professional suspicion Lefevre told himself that if Julius, with his magnificent health, was fallen ill, it must be for some outrageous reason.  But even if he was ill, he need not be unmannerly:  he might have let his friends who had been in the habit of seeing him daily know what had come to him.  Was it possible, the doctor thought, that he was repenting of having given Nora and her mother so much cause to take his assiduous attentions seriously?  He resolved to see Julius at once, if he were at his chambers.

He left his wine unfinished (to the delight of his grave and silent man in black), hastily took his hat from its peg in the hall, and passed out into the street, while his man held the door open.  In two minutes he had passed the northern gateway of the Albany, which, as most people know, is just at the southern end of Savile Row.  Courtney’s door was speedily opened in response to his peremptory summons.

“Is your master at home, Jenkins?” asked Lefevre of the well-dressed serving-man, who looked distinguished enough to be master himself.

“No, doctor,” answered Jenkins; “he is not.”

“Gone out,” said Lefevre, “to the club or to dinner, I suppose?”

“No, doctor,” repeated Jenkins; “he is not.  He went away four days ago.”

“Went away!” exclaimed Lefevre.

“He do sometimes go away by himself, sir.  He is so fond of the country, and he likes to be by himself.  It is the only thing that do him good.”

“Becomes solitary, does he?” said Lefevre.  “Yes; intelligent, impulsive persons like him, that live at high pressure, often have black moods.”  That was not quite what he meant, but it was enough for Jenkins.

“Yes, sir,” said Jenkins; “he do sometimes have ’em black.  He don’t seem to take no pride in himself, as he do usual—­don’t seem to care somehow if he look a gentleman or a common man.”

“But your master, Jenkins,” said Lefevre, “can never look a common man.”

“No, sir,” said Jenkins; “he cannot, whatever he do.”

“He is gone into the country, then?” asked Lefevre.

“Yes, sir; I packed his small port-mantew for him four days ago.”

“And where is he gone?  He told you, I suppose?”

“No, sir; he do not usual tell me when he is like that.”

It did not seem possible to learn anything from Jenkins, in spite of the apparent intimacy of his conversation, so Lefevre left him, and returned to his own house.  He had sat but a little while in his laboratory (where he had been occupying his small intervals of leisure lately in electrical studies and experiments) when, as chance would have it, the last post brought him a note from Dr Rippon.  Its purport was curious.