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“My dear Major,” I cried, “under what delusion are you labouring? Mr. Jenkinson, believe me, is incapable of hurting a fly. You must have mistaken your man. Come and see him for yourself.” And drawing him to the window, I pointed after the figure of the retreating jeweller.

The Major’s brow cleared. “No,” he admitted, “that is not in the least like him. Still, he gave me his name as Jenkinson. Oh! decidedly that is not the man.”

“The name is not uncommon,” said I. “Excuse me, I must hurry, or he will be out of sight!” And I ran downstairs and out into the street as Mr. Jenkinson disappeared around the corner. Following briskly, I brought him into sight again a moment before he turned aside into a small tavern–‘The Lamb and the Flag’–half-way down the Mall.

Now ‘The Lamb and the Flag’ enjoyed a low reputation, and for a citizen of ordinary respectability to be seen entering it at that hour–well, it invited surmise. But I knew Mr. Jenkinson to be above suspicion; he might be the ground-landlord–I had heard of his purchasing several small bits of property about the town. In short, it was almost with consternation that, following into the dirty bar, I surprised him in the act of raising a glass of brandy to his lips with a trembling hand.

I certainly took him aback, and he almost dropped the glass. “Excuse me, Dr. Frampton,” he stammered, “pray do not think–this indulgence–not a habit, I assure you. Oh, doctor! I have passed a fearful night!”

“Indeed?” said I sympathetically. “If my services can be of use–“

“No, no,” he interrupted, paused, and seemed to consider. “At least, not yet.”

“It seems, then, that I am doubly inopportune,” I said, “for I have been following you to ask a small favour–not for myself, but for a certain Major Dignum, at the Grand Pump Hotel; nothing more than the attesting of a signature–a mere matter of form.”

“Major Dignum? Ah, yes! the name is familiar to me from the Courant’s Visitors’ List.” Mr. Jenkinson passed an agitated hand across his forehead. “I cannot recall seeing him in my shop. By all means, doctor–to oblige the gentleman–in my unhappy frame of mind– it will be a–a distraction.”

So back I led the jeweller, explaining on the way how I had caught sight of him from the hotel window, and ushered him up to the apartment where the Major sat impatiently awaiting us.

“Good morning, sir,” the Major began, with a bow. “So your name’s Jenkinson? Most extraordinary! I–I am pleased to hear it, sir.”

“Extraordinary!” the Major repeated, as he bent over the papers to sign them. “I am asking you, Mr. Jenkinson, to witness this signature to my last will and testament. In the midst of life–by the way, what is your Christian name?”

“William, sir.”

“Incredible!” The Major bounced up from his chair and sat down again trembling, while he fumbled with his waistcoat pocket. “Ah, no!–to be sure–I gave it to my seconds,” he muttered. “In the midst of life–“

“You may well say so, sir!” The jeweller took a seat and adjusted his spectacles as I sanded the Major’s signature and pushed the document across the table. “A man,” Mr. Jenkinson continued, dipping his pen wide of the ink-pot, “on the point of exchanging time for eternity–“

“That thought is peculiarly unpleasant to me just now,” the Major interrupted. “May I beg you not to enlarge upon it?”

“But I must, sir!” cried out Mr. Jenkinson, as though the words were wrested from him by an inward agony; and tearing open his coat, he plucked a packet of folded papers from his breast-pocket and slapped it down upon the table. “You have called me in, gentlemen, to witness a will. I ask you in return to witness mine–which must be at least ten times as urgent.”