“Are you bringing your brother to the hospital to follow my mad example?” asked Mr. Bernard, as he shook hands with me.

“Not exactly, Jack!  But we really have an object in coming here.  Can you give us ten minutes’ talk, somewhere in private?  We want to know about one of your patients.”

He led us into an empty room, on the ground-floor of the building.  “Leave the matter in my hands,” whispered Ralph to me, as we sat down.  “I’ll find out everything.”

“Now, Bernard,” he said, “you have a man here, who calls himself Mr. Turner?”

“Are you a friend of that mysterious patient?  Wonderful!  The students call him ‘The Great Mystery of London;’ and I begin to think the students are right.  Do you want to see him?  When he has not got his green shade on, he’s rather a startling sight, I can tell you, for unprofessional eyes.”

“No, no—­at least, not at present; my brother here, not at all.  The fact is, certain circumstances have happened which oblige us to look after this man; and which I am sure you won’t inquire into, when I tell you that it is our interest to keep them secret.”

“Certainly not!”

“Then, without any more words about it, our object here, to-day, is to find out everything we can about Mr. Turner, and the people who have been to see him.  Did a woman come, the day before yesterday?”

“Yes; and behaved rather oddly, I believe.  I was not here when she came, but was told she asked for Turner, in a very agitated manner.  She was directed to the Victoria Ward, where he is; and when she got there, looked excessively flurried and excited—­seeing the Ward quite full, and, perhaps, not being used to hospitals.  However it was, though the nurse pointed out the right bed to her, she ran in a mighty hurry to the wrong one.”

“I understand,” said Ralph; “just as some women run into the wrong omnibus, when the right one is straight before them.”

“Exactly.  Well, she only discovered her mistake (the room being rather dark), after she had stooped down close over the stranger, who was lying with his head away from her.  By that time, the nurse was at her side, and led her to the right bed.  There, I’m told, another scene happened.  At sight of the patient’s face, which is very frightfully disfigured, she was on the point (as the nurse thought) of going into a fit; but Turner stopped her in an instant.  He just laid his hand on her arm, and whispered something to her; and, though she turned as pale as ashes, she was quiet directly.  The next thing they say he did, was to give her a slip of paper, coolly directing her to go to the address written on it, and to come back to the hospital again, as soon as she could show a little more resolution.  She went away at once—­nobody knows where.”

“Has nobody asked where?”