"Can you tell me what is worrying and perplexing you?" he asked, kindly, after a moment's thought.
"Not yet, Ned," I answered; "though I expect I shall have to tell you soon. Give me something to make me sleep quietly: that is all I want now."
"Can't you go out of town?" he inquired.
"I do not want to go out of town," I answered.
"I will make you up something to strengthen your nerves," he said, after a pause; "but if you are not better—well, before the end of the week, take my advice, and run down to Brighton over Sunday. Now, you ought to give me a guinea for that," he added, laughing. "I assure you, all the gold-headed cane, all the wonderful chronometer doctors who pocket thousands per annum at the West End, could make no more of your case than I have done."
"I am sure they could not," I said, gratefully; "and when I have the guinea to spare, be sure I shall not forget your fee."
Whether it was owing to his medicine, or his advice, or his cheery, health-giving manner, I have no idea; but that night, when I walked towards the Uninhabited House, I felt a different being.
On my way I called at a small corn-chandler's, and bought a quartern of flour done up in a thin and utterly insufficient bag. I told the man the wrapper would not bear its contents, and he said he could not help that.
I asked him if he had no stronger bags. He answered that he had, but he could not afford to give them away.
I laid down twopence extra, and inquired if that would cover the expense of a sheet of brown paper.