If the famous physician could have shaken his own reputation, he would have done it that afternoon.  Never before had he made himself so little welcome at the bedside.  Never before had he put off until to-morrow the prescription which ought to have been written, the opinion which ought to have been given, to-day.  He went home earlier than usual—­unutterably dissatisfied with himself.

The servant had returned.  Dr. Wybrow was ashamed to question him.  The man reported the result of his errand, without waiting to be asked.

‘The lady’s name is the Countess Narona.  She lives at—­’

Without waiting to hear where she lived, the Doctor acknowledged the all-important discovery of her name by a silent bend of the head, and entered his consulting-room.  The fee that he had vainly refused still lay in its little white paper covering on the table.  He sealed it up in an envelope; addressed it to the ‘Poor-box’ of the nearest police-court; and, calling the servant in, directed him to take it to the magistrate the next morning.  Faithful to his duties, the servant waited to ask the customary question, ‘Do you dine at home to-day, sir?’

After a moment’s hesitation he said, ‘No:  I shall dine at the club.’

The most easily deteriorated of all the moral qualities is the quality called ‘conscience.’  In one state of a man’s mind, his conscience is the severest judge that can pass sentence on him.  In another state, he and his conscience are on the best possible terms with each other in the comfortable capacity of accomplices.  When Doctor Wybrow left his house for the second time, he did not even attempt to conceal from himself that his sole object, in dining at the club, was to hear what the world said of the Countess Narona.

CHAPTER III

There was a time when a man in search of the pleasures of gossip sought the society of ladies.  The man knows better now.  He goes to the smoking-room of his club.

Doctor Wybrow lit his cigar, and looked round him at his brethren in social conclave assembled.  The room was well filled; but the flow of talk was still languid.  The Doctor innocently applied the stimulant that was wanted.  When he inquired if anybody knew the Countess Narona, he was answered by something like a shout of astonishment.  Never (the conclave agreed) had such an absurd question been asked before!  Every human creature, with the slightest claim to a place in society, knew the Countess Narona.  An adventuress with a European reputation of the blackest possible colour—­ such was the general description of the woman with the deathlike complexion and the glittering eyes.