"I see my way back to London," I said, "to consult Mr. Bruff. If he

can't help me----"

"Yes, sir?"

"And if the Sergeant won't leave his retirement at Dorking----"

"He won't, Mr. Franklin!"

"Then, Betteredge--as far as I can see now--I am at the end of my

resources. After Mr. Bruff and the Sergeant, I don't know of a living

creature who can be of the slightest use to me."

As the words passed my lips, some person outside knocked at the door of

the room.

Betteredge looked surprised as well as annoyed by the interruption.

"Come in," he called out, irritably, "whoever you are!"

The door opened, and there entered to us, quietly, the most

remarkable-looking man that I had ever seen. Judging him by his figure

and his movements, he was still young. Judging him by his face, and

comparing him with Betteredge, he looked the elder of the two. His

complexion was of a gipsy darkness; his fleshless cheeks had fallen into

deep hollows, over which the bone projected like a pent-house. His nose

presented the fine shape and modelling so often found among the ancient

people of the East, so seldom visible among the newer races of the

West. His forehead rose high and straight from the brow. His marks and

wrinkles were innumerable. From this strange face, eyes, stranger still,

of the softest brown--eyes dreamy and mournful, and deeply sunk in

their orbits--looked out at you, and (in my case, at least) took

your attention captive at their will. Add to this a quantity of thick

closely-curling hair, which, by some freak of Nature, had lost its

colour in the most startlingly partial and capricious manner. Over the

top of his head it was still of the deep black which was its natural

colour. Round the sides of his head--without the slightest gradation

of grey to break the force of the extraordinary contrast--it had turned

completely white. The line between the two colours preserved no sort

of regularity. At one place, the white hair ran up into the black; at

another, the black hair ran down into the white. I looked at the man

with a curiosity which, I am ashamed to say, I found it quite impossible

to control. His soft brown eyes looked back at me gently; and he met

my involuntary rudeness in staring at him, with an apology which I was

conscious that I had not deserved.

"I beg your pardon," he said. "I had no idea that Mr. Betteredge was

engaged." He took a slip of paper from his pocket, and handed it to

Betteredge. "The list for next week," he said. His eyes just rested on

me again--and he left the room as quietly as he had entered it.

"Who is that?" I asked.

"Mr. Candy's assistant," said Betteredge. "By-the-bye, Mr. Franklin, you

will be sorry to hear that the little doctor has never recovered that

illness he caught, going home from the birthday dinner. He's pretty

well in health; but he lost his memory in the fever, and he has never

recovered more than the wreck of it since. The work all falls on his

assistant. Not much of it now, except among the poor. THEY can't help

themselves, you know. THEY must put up with the man with the piebald

hair, and the gipsy complexion--or they would get no doctoring at all."




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