Round the Red Lamp

the scattered gas lamps. The footpaths are narrow, and the causeway is paved with rounded cobblestones, so that the endless drays roar along it like breaking waves. A fe

uropean reputation can afford to live where he likes. In his particular

reaked and dripping glass, throwing little circles upon the glistening cobblestones. The air was full of the sounds of the rain, the thin swish of its fall, the heavier drip from the eaves, and the swirl

ut face, with some subtle, nameless peculiarity in its expression, something of the startled horse in the white-rimmed eye, something too of the helpless child in the drawn cheek an

e doct

n hesi

, sir. He does not like to be distu

rd.” He fumbled with his trembling fingers in trying to draw one from his case. “Sir Francis N

nied it. “Better hang your coat up here in the hall. It is very wet. Now if you will wait he

d sombre, with broad gold lettering upon their backs. Beside him was the high, old-fashioned mantelpiece of white marble—the top of it strewed with cotton wadding and bandages, graduated measures, and little bottles. There was one with a broad neck just above him containing bluestone, and another narrower one with what looked like the ruins of a broken pipestem and “Caustic” outside upon a red label. Thermometers, hypodermic syringes bistouries and spatula

e light glinted off from the table, little stains upon the leather of the desk, chemical formulae scribbled upon the labels of the phials—nothing was too slight to arrest his attention. And his sense of hearing was equally alert. The heavy ticking of the solemn black clock above the mantelpiece stru

ng back into the dull murmur of conversation. And then suddenly he heard the creaking of a door and a step in

his mouth was too good to cover—large, flexible, and sensitive, with a kindly human softening at either corner which with his brown sympathetic eyes had drawn out many a shame-struck sinner’s secret. Two masterful little bushy side-whiskers bristled out from under his ears spindling away upwards to merge in the thick curves of his brindled hair.

ceive—a host’s to his guests and an adviser’s to his patient. But now I a

I am

his will never do! This miserable night has

not. And it is not the night which has

e patted the arch of the young man’s knee,

g over his shoulder at the pa

urning up the right leg of his trousers he pulled down his sock and thrust forwar

h le

only

dde

morn

um

inger and thumb down the line of his chin.

N

ess came into the

o you that unless the m

e here and tell you lies. Once for all, I have nothing to regret.” He was a pitiful, half-tragic and half-grotesque figure, as he stood with one trouser leg rolled to the

tooped and ran his finger down the line of the young man’s shin, raising it at o

ve been a l

them, and again made the gentle, clicki

the patient’s eye. As he did so a glow of pleasure came over his large expressive face, a flush of such enthusiasm as the botanist feels w

writing a monograph upon the subject. It is singular that you should have been able to furnish so well-marked a case.” He had so forgotten the patient in h

. “If, for example, I were to say that you have interstitial keratitis, how would you be the wiser? There are in

doctor sprang to a side-table and poured out half a glass of liqueur brandy which he held

r, “but you must have known the nature of your comp

t only today when my leg grew ba

from him

u have heard of Sir Rupert N

he vile set with whom he consorted had shrunk away from him in horror, and left him to a sinister old age with the barmaid wife whom he had married in some drunken frolic. As he looked at the young man still leaning back in the leather chair, there seemed for the instant to f

told; but not more horribly than he had lived. My father was his only son. He was a studiou

were cutaneous

e used to ask me so often about my own health, and I thought him so fussy, for how could I tell what the meaning of it

rothers or

thank

ch come in my way. You are no lonely sufferer, Sir Francis.

—music and poetry and art. The coarse and animal is abhorrent to me. Ask any of my friends and they would tell you that. And now that this vile, loathsome thing—ach, I am polluted to the marrow, soaked in abomination! And why? Haven’t I a right to ask why? Did I do it? Was it my fault? Could I

t take these great questions upon trust. What are we, after all? Half-evolved creatures in a transition stage, nearer perhaps to the Medusa on the one side than to perfected humanity on the other. With half a complete brain we can’t ex

blood in your veins; mine is putrid. And yet I am as innocent as you. What would words do for you if you were in this chair and I in that? Ah, it’s such a mockery and a make-believe! Don’t think me rude, though, doctor. I don’t mea

sir. I have every

as spent itself on me? Do you think tha

on,’ says the trite old text. You may in time eliminate it from you

d on Tuesday,” whi

tion to his seasoned nerves. He sat in silence while the babble of the card-table broke in upon them again. “We ha

ed the doctor severe

onvulsively. “You are a man of the world, Dr. Selby. You have seen or heard of such things before. Give me some

ned into two straight lines, an

ge must not

hat am

s it must no

ust give

e no questio

it a small photograph, holding it out towards the

t more now that I have seen that. But there is no alt

. But realise it, man. I am to be married on Tuesday. This coming Tuesday, you understand. An

e done. My dear lad, the

break the engagement at the last moment wit

d the doctor thoughtfully. “His device was a singular one. He deliberately committed a penal

nour is as yet unstained,” said he. “I have littl

nice dilemma, and the

no other s

n to have proper

on

u have

es

ough. Then you might write to say that urgent business affairs have compelled you to start

think of her position. The house full of wedding presents—guests coming

shrugged hi

aps you would let me use your desk. Thank you. I am so sorry to

Then with a sudden impulse he tore it to

is. I will think it over and let you know my decision. You must allow me to double your fee as I have tak

these powders every morning, and the chemist will put all directions upon the ointment box. You are placed i

rrow m

street! You have your waterproof there. You w

y through the yellow splotches of the gas lamps, and into the broad bars of darkness between. It was but his own shadow which trailed up the wall as he passe

d. A paragraph in the Daily News caused him to push away his breakfast untasted, and turned him

aracter, and he expired while being conveyed to the hospital. An examination of his pocketbook and cardcase shows beyond any question that the deceased is none other than Sir Francis Norton, of Deane Park, who has only within the last year come into the baronetcy. The accident is made the more deplorable as the deceased, who was onl