“All humorists are worth saving,” he said with a smile, as she poured out tea.  “We can’t afford to lose a single one in these strenuous days.  I will go and see your friend at the first opportunity.”

She thanked him elaborately, effusively, with many words, and he, with much difficulty, kept the conversation thenceforward strictly to the teapot.

And, as a result of this conversation, and a little more he had gathered by means best known to himself and his secretary, he was whizzing in his motor-car one afternoon a few days later up the Putney Hill to have his first interview with Felix Pender, the humorous writer who was the victim of some mysterious malady in his “psychical region” that had obliterated his sense of the comic and threatened to wreck his life and destroy his talent.  And his desire to help was probably of equal strength with his desire to know and to investigate.

The motor stopped with a deep purring sound, as though a great black panther lay concealed within its hood, and the doctor—­the “psychic doctor,” as he was sometimes called—­stepped out through the gathering fog, and walked across the tiny garden that held a blackened fir tree and a stunted laurel shrubbery.  The house was very small, and it was some time before any one answered the bell.  Then, suddenly, a light appeared in the hall, and he saw a pretty little woman standing on the top step begging him to come in.  She was dressed in grey, and the gaslight fell on a mass of deliberately brushed light hair.  Stuffed, dusty birds, and a shabby array of African spears, hung on the wall behind her.  A hat-rack, with a bronze plate full of very large cards, led his eye swiftly to a dark staircase beyond.  Mrs. Pender had round eyes like a child’s, and she greeted him with an effusiveness that barely concealed her emotion, yet strove to appear naturally cordial.  Evidently she had been looking out for his arrival, and had outrun the servant girl.  She was a little breathless.

“I hope you’ve not been kept waiting—­I think it’s most good of you to come—­” she began, and then stopped sharp when she saw his face in the gaslight.  There was something in Dr. Silence’s look that did not encourage mere talk.  He was in earnest now, if ever man was.

“Good evening, Mrs. Pender,” he said, with a quiet smile that won confidence, yet deprecated unnecessary words, “the fog delayed me a little.  I am glad to see you.”

They went into a dingy sitting-room at the back of the house, neatly furnished but depressing.  Books stood in a row upon the mantelpiece.  The fire had evidently just been lit.  It smoked in great puffs into the room.

“Mrs. Sivendson said she thought you might be able to come,” ventured the little woman again, looking up engagingly into his face and betraying anxiety and eagerness in every gesture.  “But I hardly dared to believe it.  I think it is really too good of you.  My husband’s case is so peculiar that—­well, you know, I am quite sure any ordinary doctor would say at once the asylum—­”