I came to London to look for you, and somehow the figure I saw in my dreams had got mixed up with you. And mind, your life,—more than your life—hangs upon your choice. You are afraid—that here in London—I shall not be a success. No one had lived here since old man Remenham had died some eighteen months ago, for the heir, so it was rumoured, was a relative with property of his own. And then scratched it out and wrote instead, “Gérard”. But they were too late. ‘Do you need an excuse?’ ‘Oh, you know what doctors are.
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