"Very well," said Leopold, rising. "And now let us go and have some breakfast."
"My dear fellow, you must excuse me. I have not seen my parents this trip, and I ought to go up to the house and take breakfast with the family."
"All right," said Leopold, "rush that pseudonym right along, so I can send the manuscripts to Cooper. And don't forget to drop in and see me next time you come to the city."
On his way to Beacon Street Quincy suddenly stopped and regarded a sign that read, Paul Culver, M.D., physician and surgeon. He knew Culver, but hadn't seen him for eight years. They were in the Latin School together under pater Gardner. He rang the bell and was shown into Dr. Culver's office, and in a few minutes his old schoolmate entered. Paul Culver was a tall, broad-chested, heavily-built young man, with frank blue eyes, and hair of the color that is sometimes irreverently called, or rather the wearers of it are called, towheads.
They had a pleasant talk over old school days and college experiences, which were not identical, for Paul had graduated from Yale College at his father's desire, instead of from Harvard. Then Quincy broached what was upper-most in his mind and which had been the real reason for his call. He stated briefly the facts concerning Alice's case, and asked Paul's advice.
Dr. Culver salt for a few moments apparently in deep study.
"My advice," said he, "is to see Tillotson. He has an office in the Hotel Pelham, up by the Public Library, you know."
"Is he a 'regular'?" asked Quincy.
"Well," said Culver, "I don't think he is. For a fact I know he is not an M.D., but I fancy that the diploma that be holds from the Almighty is worth more to suffering humanity than a good many issued by the colleges."
"You are a pretty broad-minded allopath," said Quincy, "to give such a sweeping recommendation to a quack."