way.... I had just written that last sentence when a servant brought in a card inscribed "Colonel Simpson." I got my sunshade and walked round to my sitting-room, where I found a tall, pensive-looking man. Thinking he must be a friend of Boggley's, I held out my hand frankly, and having shaken it, the man went on holding it.
Like Captain Hook, I murmured to myself, "This is unusual," but I tried to conceal my astonishment, and we sat down together on the sofa. Then he began to feel my pulse. By this time I had made up my mind he must be a lunatic, and I had a wild idea of snatching away my hand and making a bound for the window; but feeling that my legs were too weak with fright to be of any real use to me, I remained seated.
"Are you sick?" he asked.
"Not in the least, thank you," I stammered.
A doubtful look flickered over his pensive countenance.
"Are you not my patient?" he asked.
"No," I answered truthfully.
"But—I was sent for to a Mrs. Woodward; this was the address, and I was shown in here."
He was so upset that I hastened to assure him
