“Not in our neighborhood, sir.  But I know of one within half an hour’s walk of us.”

“Take the cab at the door; and, if you find him at home, bring him back in it.  Say I am waiting here for his opinion on a very serious case.  He shall be well paid, and you shall be well paid.  Make haste!”

The woman left the room.

Kirke sat down alone, to wait for her return.  He hid his face in his hands, and tried to realize the strange and touching situation in which the accident of a moment had placed him.

Hidden in the squalid by-ways of London under a false name; cast, friendless and helpless, on the mercy of strangers, by illness which had struck her prostrate, mind and body alike—­so he met her again, the woman who had opened a new world of beauty to his mind; the woman who had called Love to life in him by a look!  What horrible misfortune had struck her so cruelly, and struck her so low?  What mysterious destiny had guided him to the last refuge of her poverty and despair, in the hour of her sorest need?  “If it is ordered that I am to see her again, I shall see her.”  Those words came back to him now—­the memorable words that he had spoken to his sister at parting.  With that thought in his heart, he had gone where his duty called him.  Months and months had passed; thousands and thousands of miles, protracting their desolate length on the unresting waters had rolled between them.  And through the lapse of time, and over the waste of oceans—­day after day, and night after night, as the winds of heaven blew, and the good ship toiled on before them—­he had advanced nearer and nearer to the end that was waiting for him; he had journeyed blindfold to the meeting on the threshold of that miserable door.  “What has brought me here?” he said to himself in a whisper.  “The mercy of chance?  No.  The mercy of God.”

He waited, unregardful of the place, unconscious of the time, until the sound of footsteps on the stairs came suddenly between him and his thoughts.  The door opened, and the doctor was shown into the room.

“Dr. Merrick,” said the landlady, placing a chair for him.

“Mr. Merrick,” said the visitor, smiling quietly as he took the chair.  “I am not a physician—­I am a surgeon in general practice.”

Physician or surgeon, there was something in his face and manner which told Kirke at a glance that he was a man to be relied on.

After a few preliminary words on either side, Mr. Merrick sent the landlady into the bedroom to see if his patient was awake or asleep.  The woman returned, and said she was “betwixt the two, light in the head again, and burning hot.”  The doctor went at once into the bedroom, telling the landlady to follow him, and to close the door behind her.

A weary time passed before he came back into the front room.  When he re-appeared, his face spoke for him, before any question could be asked.

“Is it a serious illness?” said Kirke his voice sinking low, his eyes anxiously fixed on the doctor’s face.