“I will freely do what I can for you, Julius,” said the doctor, still without looking at him, “though I am too overcome, too bewildered, yet to say much to you.”

“Thank you.  You will hear my story and understand.  It contains a secret which I, like a blind fool, have only used for myself, but which you will apply for the wide benefit of mankind.  The request I have to make of you is small, but it may seem extraordinary,—­be my companion for twelve hours.  I cannot talk to you here, enclosed and oppressed with streets of houses.  Come with me for a few hours on the water; I have a fancy to see the sun rise for the last time over the sea.  I have my yacht ready near London Bridge, and a boat waiting at the steps by Cleopatra’s Needle; a cab will soon take us there.  Will you come?”

Lefevre did not look up.  The voice of Julius sounded like an appeal from the very abode of death.  Then he glanced in spite of himself in his face, and was moved and melted to unreserved compassion by the strained weariness of his expression—­the open, luminous wistfulness of his eyes.

“Yes; I’ll go,” said he.  “But can’t I do something for you first?  Let me consider your case.”

“There’s nothing now to be done for me, Lefevre,” said Julius, shaking his head.  “You will perceive that when you have heard me out.”

The doctor went to find his man and tell him that he was going out for the night to attend on an urgent case.  When he returned he stood a moment touched with misgiving.  He thought of Lady Mary—­he thought of his mother and sister.  Ought he not to leave some hint behind him of the strange adventure upon which he was about to embark, and which might end he knew not how or where?  Julius was observing him, and seemed to divine his doubt.

“You need have no hesitation,” said he.  “I ask you only for twelve hours.  You can easily get back here by noon to-morrow.  There is a south-west wind blowing, with every prospect of settled weather.  I am quite certain about it.”

Fortified with that assurance, Lefevre put on a thicker overcoat and an old soft hat, turned out the lights in the dining-room and in the hall, closed the door with a slam, and stood with the new, the strange Julius in the street, fairly embarked upon his adventure.  It was only with an effort that he could realise he was in the company of one who had been a familiar friend.  They walked towards Regent Street without speaking.  At the corner of Savile Row they came upon a policeman, and Lefevre had a sudden thrill of fear lest his companion should, at length, be recognised and arrested.  Courtney himself, however, appeared in no wise disturbed.  In Regent Street he hailed a passing four-wheeler.

“Wouldn’t a hansom be quicker?” said Lefevre.

“It is better on your account,” said Julius, “that we should sit apart.”