the town to the other—­and even as far as Leith and Portobello.  I trembled.  And my reason for trembling was that the celebrated bald expert had quite recently examined me for my Final in surgery.  On that dread occasion I had made one bad blunder, so ridiculous that Toddy’s mood had passed suddenly from grim ferociousness to wild northern hilarity.  I think I am among the few persons in the world who have seen and heard Toddy MacWhister laugh.

I hoped that he would not remember me, but, like many great men, he had a disconcertingly good memory for faces.

“Ah!” he said, “I’ve seen ye before.”

“You have, sir.”

“You are the callant who told me that the medulla oblongata—­”

“Please—­” I entreated.

Perhaps he would not have let me off had not Sir Cyril stood immediately behind him.  The impresario explained that Toddy MacWhister (the impresario did not so describe him) had been in the audience, and had offered his services.

“What is it?” asked Toddy, approaching Alresca.

“Fracture of the femur.”

“Simple, of course.”

“Yes, sir, but so far as I can judge, of a somewhat peculiar nature.  I’ve sent round to King’s College Hospital for splints and bandages.”

Toddy took off his coat.

“We sha’n’t need ye, Sir Cyril,” said he casually.

And Sir Cyril departed.

In an hour the limb was set—­a masterly display of skill—­and, except to give orders, Toddy had scarcely spoken another word.  As he was washing his hands in a corner of the dressing-room he beckoned to me.

“How was it caused?” he whispered.

“No one seems to know, sir.”

“Doesn’t matter much, anyway!  Let him lie a wee bit, and then get him home.  Ye’ll have no trouble with him, but there’ll be no more warbling and cutting capers for him this yet awhile.”

And Toddy, too, went.  He had showed not the least curiosity as to Alresca’s personality, and I very much doubt whether he had taken the trouble to differentiate between the finest tenor in Europe and a chorus-singer.  For Toddy, Alresca was simply an individual who sang and cut capers.

I made the necessary dispositions for the transport of Alresca in an hour’s time to his flat in the Devonshire Mansion, and then I sat down near him.  He was white and weak, but perfectly conscious.  He had proved himself to be an admirable patient.  Even in the very crisis of the setting his personal distinction and his remarkable and finished politeness had suffered no eclipse.  And now he lay there, with his silky mustache disarranged and his hair damp, exactly as I had once seen him on the couch in the garden by the sea in the third act of “Tristan,” the picture of nobility.  He could not move, for the sufficient reason that a strong splint ran from his armpit to his ankle, but his arms were free, and he raised his left hand, and beckoned me with an irresistible gesture to come quite close to him.