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Harvey Munden had settled himself in a corner of the club smoking-room, with a cigar and a review. At eleven o’clock on a Saturday morning in August he might reasonably expect to be undisturbed. But behold, there entered a bore, a long-faced man with a yellow waistcoat, much dreaded by all the members; he stood a while at one of the tables, fingering newspapers and eyeing the solitary. Harvey heard a step, looked up, and shuddered.

The bore began his attack in form; Harvey parried with as much resolution as his kindly nature permitted.

‘You know that Dr. Shergold is dying?’ fell casually from the imperturbable man.

‘Dying?’

Munden was startled into attention, and the full flow of gossip swept about him. Yes, the great Dr. Shergold lay dying; there were bulletins in the morning papers; it seemed unlikely that he would see another dawn.

‘Who will benefit by his decease?’ inquired the bore. ‘His nephew, do you think?’

‘Very possibly.’

‘A remarkable man, that–a most remarkable man. He was at Lady Teasdale’s the other evening, and he talked a good deal. Upon my word, it reminded one of Coleridge, or Macaulay,–that kind of thing. Certainly most brilliant talk. I can’t remember what it was all about–something literary. A sort of fantasia, don’t you know. Wonderful eloquence. By the bye, I believe he is a great friend of yours?’

‘Oh, we have known each other for a long time.’

‘Somebody was saying that he had gone in for medicine–walking one of the hospitals–that kind of thing.’

‘Yes, he’s at Guy’s.’

To avoid infinite questioning, Harvey flung aside his review and went to glance at the Times. He read the news concerning the great physician. Then, as his pursuer drew near again, he hastily departed.

By midday he was at London Bridge. He crossed to the Surrey side, turned immediately to the left, and at a short distance entered one of the vaulted thoroughfares which run beneath London Bridge Station. It was like the mouth of some monstrous cavern. Out of glaring daylight he passed into gloom and chill air; on either side of the way a row of suspended lamps gave a dull, yellow light, revealing entrances to vast storehouses, most of them occupied by wine merchants; an alcoholic smell prevailed over indeterminate odours of dampness. There was great concourse of drays and waggons; wheels and the clang of giant hoofs made roaring echo, and above thundered the trains. The vaults, barely illumined with gas-jets, seemed of infinite extent; dim figures moved near and far, amid huge barrels, cases, packages; in rooms partitioned off by glass framework men sat writing. A curve in the tunnel made it appear much longer than it really was; till midway nothing could be seen ahead but deepening darkness; then of a sudden appeared the issue, and beyond, greatly to the surprise of any one who should have ventured hither for the first time, was a vision of magnificent plane-trees, golden in the August sunshine–one of the abrupt contrasts which are so frequent in London, and which make its charm for those who wander from the beaten tracks; a transition from the clangorous cave of commerce to a sunny leafy quietude, amid old houses–some with quaint tumbling roofs–and byways little frequented.

The planes grow at the back of Guy’s Hospital, and close by is a short narrow street which bears the name of Maze Pond. It consists for the most part of homely, flat-fronted dwellings, where lodgings are let to medical students. At one of these houses Harvey Munden plied the knocker.

He was answered by a trim, rather pert-looking girl, who smiled familiarly.

‘Mr. Shergold isn’t in, sir,’ she said at once, anticipating his question. ‘But he will be very soon. Will you step in and wait?’

‘I think I will.’

As one who knew the house, he went upstairs, and entered a sitting-room on the first floor. The girl followed him.