By Clifford Ashdown,
Author of "The Adventures of Romney Pringle."
How I Acted for an Invalid Doctor.
a complete story.
"I THINK you'll like the berth at Crowham," said Adamson, the medical agent, as I stood in his office. "It's not a large fee, but Dr. Ringmer says there's very little doing, and if it hadn't been for his club practice he wouldn't have taken the trouble to get a locum down at all as he hopes to be up and about again in a week."
It was a curious coincidence that although I had hardly heard of the place before, on my way to Waterloo the next day I caught sight of the name on the contents bill of a newspaper. From all accounts it was far too sleepy a little town to make any figure in the world, but at the station I got an evening paper, and there it was, sure enough. It appeared there had lately been a series of burglaries in the neighbourhood, and some comment had been made on the fact that they had all taken place in the middle of the night, and not, as is usual in the case of attempts on country houses, during the dinner-hour. The burglars were believed to be members of an expert gang, and so persistent and daring had they become that a regular panic seemed to have sprung up round about the place. After all, the news did not interest me much; I had no valuables to lose. But as the train was slow, even for a southern railway, I had plenty of time to learn all that was said on the subject before I arrived at Crowham.
As there was no one to meet me at the station I left my bag in the cloak-room, and cycled up through the town. Dr. Ringmer had said, according to Adamson, that he did much of his work on a cycle, and the "C.T.C." road-book spoke highly of the going thereabouts. The station-master had directed me to the house opposite the fire-station. "You can't miss it; it's a straight road," said he. So it was, but he forgot to add that it was a sharp down-grade all the way, and although I jammed on the brake the machine nearly ran away with me, and I had shot by the fire-station before I noticed it. Something was wrong with the brake; damaged in the train, I concluded. So I dismounted at the foot of the hill, and had a weary push up again. The doctor's house contrasted with its neighbours, which were nearly all rough-cast and timbered, being of a neat red brick with a three-windowed front, the central opening on each floor a blank, reminiscent of the days of Mr. Pitt's window-tax. There was a coach-house at the side, and as I drew up a man came out and touched his forelock.
"Are you Dr. Wilkinson, sir?" as he took the machine from me. "I'd have met you at the station, but the doctor didn't know what train you were coming by."
When I got inside I was quite charmed with the house. It was such a queer old
