However, there was no help for it; and the Doctor, philosophically resigning himself, and taking care to be sure that his latch-key was in his pocket, spoke a word to Mrs. Jessop, as a precaution against that worthy woman's putting up the chain of the hall door before she went to bed, and let himself out. It was a fine night, hot as it was, with a large bright moon hardly beginning to wane, and myriads of stars. Doctor Brudenell, as good and quick a walker now as he had been twenty years before, thought lightly of the distance between his own house and that of his patient, and soon reached his destination. It was little that he could do—in fact, he had been sent for without real need—and it was not much after twelve o'clock when he reached the railway-arch which spans the Holloway Road. He stopped for a moment, and looked up, thinking what a black bar it seemed in the yellow moonlight, and how oddly quiet the streets were, which all day long were teeming with noisy life. Most of the shops were closed, and only a few straggling foot-passengers were to be seen. Only for a moment did he thus glance about him, taking his hat off to push the damp hair from his forehead, for his quick walk had made him warm. Then he walked on under the arch, to stop before it was half traversed, for a hand suddenly placed upon his shoulders brought him to a halt.
"Your pardon, sir," said a voice in his ear. "You are a doctor, I believe?"
"I am!" The Doctor tried in the gloom of the arch to make out the face of the inquirer, but in vain. He could only tell that it was a young man by his voice and gestures, and he saw that he was considerably taller than himself.
"Doctor Brudenell, I think?"
"I am Doctor Brudenell. What is wanted?"
"Yourself, sir, if you please. A person—my—brother—is ill—almost dying, it is feared. Will you accompany me to him? There is no time to be lost."
"What is the matter with him?" asked the Doctor.
"Sir, you will know when you see him. I"—with a deprecatory shrug of the shoulders—"can I tell?"
"But is it a fit, a fever, an accident? What is it?" asked Doctor
Brudenell impatiently. "You must know that."
"Sir, it cannot be a fever, since an hour ago he was well. Pray, sir, will you come? He is very ill. Delay is dangerous."