"Yes; of Plantagenet Square."
"Well, not much. I have heard him called Dowager Doddleson; and I believe he is very popular among hypochondriac old ladies who have more money than they know what to do with, and very little common sense to regulate their disposal of it."
"Is Dr. Doddleson a man to whom you would intrust the life of your dearest friend?"
"Most emphatically no!" cried the surgeon, growing red with excitement.
"Very well, Mr. Burkham; my dearest friend, a young lady—well, in plain truth, the woman who was to have been my wife, and whom I love as it is not the lot of every plighted wife to be loved—this dear girl has been wasting away for the last two or three months under the influence of an inscrutable malady, and Dr. Doddleson is the only man called to attend her in all that time."
"A mistake!" said Mr. Burkham, gravely; "a very great mistake! Dr. Doddleson lives in a fine square, and drives a fine carriage, and has a reputation amongst the class I have spoken of; but he is about the last man I would consult as to the health of any one dear to me."
"That is precisely the opinion which I formed after ten minutes' conversation with him. Now, what I want from you, Mr. Burkham, is the name and address of the man to whom I can intrust this dear girl's life."
"Let me see. There are so many men, you know, and great men. Is it a case of consumption?"
"No, thank God!"
"Heart-disease, perhaps?"