I had foreseen the likelihood of the failure of the search upon which I had entered with Emilia, and the surer arrow in my quiver to which I referred when I spoke to Emilia about returning to London was Dr. Peterssen. It was my intention, if all else failed, to break a lance with him, directly or indirectly, and with this object in view I had instructed Bob Tucker to find out where he lived, what kind of establishment he kept, what his neighbors thought of him, the character he bore, and, in short, anything and everything about his establishment which could possibly be learned. Bob was delighted with the task, and undertook it eagerly.
"Does he live in London?" he asked.
"Don't know," I answered.
This increased Bob's delight, and he said he would show me something when he made report to me. Of course I told him all I knew of the man, and that he had charge of at least one patient who was not in his right mind.
"Well, Bob?" I said, on this evening.
"Give me a drink first," was Bob's rejoinder.
I gave him one, and took one myself. We clinked our glasses and emptied them. Then Bob lit a cigar, and so did I.
"Ready?" said he.
"Quite ready," said I.
"Keeps a private madhouse," said Bob.