"No; there is no organic disease. It is a languor—a wasting away."
Mr. Burkham suggested other diseases whereof the outward sign was languor and wasting.
"No," replied Valentine; "according to Dr. Doddleson there is actually no disease—nothing but this extreme prostration—this gradual vanishing of vital power. And now I come to another point upon which I want your advice. It has been suggested that this constitutional weakness may be inherited; and here I think you can help me."
"How so?"
"You attended the lady's father."
"Indeed!" cried Mr. Burkham, delighted. "This is really interesting. In what year did I attend this gentleman? If you will allow me, I will refer to some of my old case-books."
He drew out a clumsy drawer in the clumsy table, in order to hunt for old memoranda.
"I am not quite certain as to the year," answered Valentine; "but it was more than ten years ago. The gentleman died close by here, in Fitzgeorge Street. His name was Halliday."
Mr. Burkham had drawn out the drawer to its farthest extent. As Valentine pronounced this name, he let it drop to the ground with a crash, and sat, statue-like, staring at the speaker. All other names given to mortal man he might forget; but this one never. Valentine saw the sudden horror in his face, before he could recompose his features into something of their conventional aspect.
"Yes," he said, looking down at the fallen drawer with its scattered papers and case-books, "yes, I have some recollection of the name of Halliday."