"You can do that, if you'll take the trouble to call on him," said the doctor, in an off-hand way.
"Where can I find him?" asked the man.
"He lives a little way out of town; about three miles on the Fredrick turnpike."
"Ah, so far?"
"Yes. Go out until you come to the three-mile stone; then keep on to the first road, turning off to the right, along which you will go about a quarter of a mile, when you will see a brick house. Mr. Johnson lives there."
The thin, sallow-faced man bowed and retired. As he left the store, the doctor gave a low chuckle, and then said, half aloud—"I guess he won't try to find this Mr. John Johnson."
But he was mistaken. Three hours afterwards, the sick man entered the shop, and, sinking upon a chair with an expression of weariness, said, in a fretful tone—
"Well, doctor, I've been out where you said, but no Mr. John Johnson lives there."
"Mr. Johnson lives at the place to which I directed you," said the doctor, positively.
But the man shook his head.