Doctor Levillier was writing a prescription in which bismuth was an item.  He glanced up quietly.

“The more I know of the body, the more I think of and believe in the power of the soul,” he said.  “Have that made up.  Take it three times a day and come to me again in a fortnight.  Good-morning.”

Indeed, this little man was writing prescriptions for the body and thinking prescriptions for the soul all day long.  Within him there dwelt a double mind, the mind of a great doctor and the mind of a great priest, and these two minds linked hands and lived as friends.  The one never strove against the other.  There was never a moment of estrangement.  And if there were frequent arguments and discussions between the two, they were the arguments and discussions that make friendship firmer, not enmity more bitter.  And, as Dr. Levillier very well knew, it was often the mind of the priest within him that gave to him his healing power over the body.  It was the mind of the priest that had won him testimonial clocks and silver salvers from grateful patients.  Often as he sat with some dingy-faced complainant, listening to a recital of sickness or uttering directions about avoidance of green meat, sauces, pastry, and liquids, till the atmosphere seemed that of a hospital, a pastry-cook’s shop and a bar combined, he was silently examining the patient’s soul, facing its probable vagaries, mapping out the tours it had taken, scheming for its welfare.  And, perhaps, after the dietary was arranged and the prescription was written, he would say carelessly: 

“Do you read much?  What do you read?  Ah! such and such books.  Yes, very interesting.  Do you know this book which has struck me greatly?  No?  Allow me to lend it to you.  Good-bye.”

And the patient departed, ignorant that he had received a pill for his soul from the priest as well as a pill for his body from the doctor.

In appearance Dr. Levillier was small, slight, and delicate looking.  His complexion was clear and white.  His eyes were blue.  What hair he possessed was rather soft, fluffy and reddish, with a dash of light brown in it.  He wore neither beard nor moustache, was always very neatly and simply dressed, and was remarkable for his polished boots, said to be the most perfectly varnished in London.  Although he must have been nearly fifty-five, he had never married, and some people declared that he had the intention of starting a new “order” of medical celibates, who would be father-confessors as well as physicians, and who would pray for the souls of their patients after tending their bodily needs.

For some years Valentine had been very intimate with the doctor, whom he admired for his intellect and loved for his nature.  So now he resolved to lay the case of the sittings with Julian before him and hear his opinion of the matter.  In all their conversations Valentine could not remember that they had ever discussed spiritualism or occultism.  As a rule, they talked about books, painting, or music, of which Dr. Levillier was a devoted lover.  Valentine’s note asked the doctor to dine with him that night at his club.  The messenger brought back an acceptance.