This done, I made the best of my way out of the town again, and roamed the lonely moorland country which surrounds Frizinghall, until my watch told me that it was time, at last, to return to Mr. Candy’s house.

I found Ezra Jennings ready and waiting for me.

He was sitting alone in a bare little room, which communicated by a glazed door with a surgery.  Hideous coloured diagrams of the ravages of hideous diseases decorated the barren buff-coloured walls.  A book-case filled with dingy medical works, and ornamented at the top with a skull, in place of the customary bust; a large deal table copiously splashed with ink; wooden chairs of the sort that are seen in kitchens and cottages; a threadbare drugget in the middle of the floor; a sink of water, with a basin and waste-pipe roughly let into the wall, horribly suggestive of its connection with surgical operations—­comprised the entire furniture of the room.  The bees were humming among a few flowers placed in pots outside the window; the birds were singing in the garden, and the faint intermittent jingle of a tuneless piano in some neighbouring house forced itself now and again on the ear.  In any other place, these everyday sounds might have spoken pleasantly of the everyday world outside.  Here, they came in as intruders on a silence which nothing but human suffering had the privilege to disturb.  I looked at the mahogany instrument case, and at the huge roll of lint, occupying places of their own on the book-shelves, and shuddered inwardly as I thought of the sounds, familiar and appropriate to the everyday use of Ezra Jennings’ room.

“I make no apology, Mr. Blake, for the place in which I am receiving you,” he said.  “It is the only room in the house, at this hour of the day, in which we can feel quite sure of being left undisturbed.  Here are my papers ready for you; and here are two books to which we may have occasion to refer, before we have done.  Bring your chair to the table, and we shall be able to consult them together.”

I drew up to the table; and Ezra Jennings handed me his manuscript notes.  They consisted of two large folio leaves of paper.  One leaf contained writing which only covered the surface at intervals.  The other presented writing, in red and black ink, which completely filled the page from top to bottom.  In the irritated state of my curiosity, at that moment, I laid aside the second sheet of paper in despair.

“Have some mercy on me!” I said.  “Tell me what I am to expect, before I attempt to read this.”

“Willingly, Mr. Blake!  Do you mind my asking you one or two more questions?”

“Ask me anything you like!”

He looked at me with the sad smile on his lips, and the kindly interest in his soft brown eyes.

“You have already told me,” he said, “that you have never—­to your knowledge—­tasted opium in your life.”

“To my knowledge,” I repeated.

“You will understand directly why I speak with that reservation.  Let us go on.  You are not aware of ever having taken opium.  At this time, last year, you were suffering from nervous irritation, and you slept wretchedly at night.  On the night of the birthday, however, there was an exception to the rule—­you slept soundly.  Am I right, so far?”