Presently Philip was fortunate enough to make a friend.  One morning the house-physician gave him a new case, a man; and, seating himself at the bedside, Philip proceeded to write down particulars on the `letter.’  He noticed on looking at this that the patient was described as a journalist:  his name was Thorpe Athelny, an unusual one for a hospital patient, and his age was forty-eight.  He was suffering from a sharp attack of jaundice, and had been taken into the ward on account of obscure symptoms which it seemed necessary to watch.  He answered the various questions which it was Philip’s duty to ask him in a pleasant, educated voice.  Since he was lying in bed it was difficult to tell if he was short or tall, but his small head and small hands suggested that he was a man of less than average height.  Philip had the habit of looking at people’s hands, and Athelny’s astonished him:  they were very small, with long, tapering fingers and beautiful, rosy finger-nails; they were very smooth and except for the jaundice would have been of a surprising whiteness.  The patient kept them outside the bed-clothes, one of them slightly spread out, the second and third fingers together, and, while he spoke to Philip, seemed to contemplate them with satisfaction.  With a twinkle in his eyes Philip glanced at the man’s face.  Notwithstanding the yellowness it was distinguished; he had blue eyes, a nose of an imposing boldness, hooked, aggressive but not clumsy, and a small beard, pointed and gray:  he was rather bald, but his hair had evidently been quite fine, curling prettily, and he still wore it long.

“I see you’re a journalist,” said Philip.  “What papers d’you write for?”

“I write for all the papers.  You cannot open a paper without seeing some of my writing.”  There was one by the side of the bed and reaching for it he pointed out an advertisement.  In large letters was the name of a firm well-known to Philip, Lynn and Sedley, Regent Street, London; and below, in type smaller but still of some magnitude, was the dogmatic statement:  Procrastination is the Thief of Time.  Then a question, startling because of its reasonableness:  Why not order today?  There was a repetition, in large letters, like the hammering of conscience on a murderer’s heart:  Why not?  Then, boldly:  Thousands of pairs of gloves from the leading markets of the world at astounding prices.  Thousands of pairs of stockings from the most reliable manufacturers of the universe at sensational reductions.  Finally the question recurred, but flung now like a challenging gauntlet in the lists:  Why not order today?

“I’m the press representative of Lynn and Sedley.”  He gave a little wave of his beautiful hand.  “To what base uses...”

Philip went on asking the regulation questions, some a mere matter of routine, others artfully devised to lead the patient to discover things which he might be expected to desire to conceal.

“Have you ever lived abroad?” asked Philip.