‘I don’t like to speak with an air of authority. After all, I am only a surgeon who has bungled himself into pauperdom. You must see a competent man; that much I can tell you in all earnestness.
Do you use your eyes much?’
‘Fourteen hours a day, that’s all.’
‘H’m! You are a literary man, I think?’
‘I am. My name is Alfred Yule.’
He had some faint hope that the name might be recognised; that would have gone far, for the moment, to counteract his trouble. But not even this poor satisfaction was to be granted him; to his hearer the name evidently conveyed nothing.
‘See a competent man, Mr Yule. Science has advanced rapidly since the days when I was a student; I am only able to assure you of the existence of disease.’
They talked for half an hour, until both were shaking with cold. Then Yule thrust his hand into his pocket.
‘You will of course allow me to offer such return as I am able,’ he said. ‘The information isn’t pleasant, but I am glad to have it.’
He laid five shillings on the chest of drawers—there was no table. The stranger expressed his gratitude.