After a hasty breakfast, he shut himself up in his study. London seemed strangely quiet. Even here within four walls, and without looking at the outside world, one felt that it was Sunday; one felt also that almost everybody was out of town. A pall of grey brooded over the city. Isaacson turned on the electric light, stood for a moment in front of the fire, then went over to his writing-table. The letters he intended to answer were arranged in a pile on the right hand side of his blotting-pad. Many of them--most of them--were from people who desired to consult him, or from patients about their cases. These letters meant money. Numbers of them he could answer with a printed card to which he would only have to add a date and a name. Monotonous work, but swiftly done, a filling up of many of the hours of his life which were near at hand.

He sat down, took a packet of his printed engagement forms, and a pen, put them before him, then opened one of the letters: "4, Manton Street, Mayfair, Jan. 2.

"Dear Doctor Isaacson: "My health," etc., etc.

He opened another: "200, Park Lane, Jan. ---"Dear Doctor Isaacson: "I don't know what is the matter with me, but--" etc., etc.

He took up a third: 1x, Berkeley Square, Jan. ---Dear Doctor Isaacson: "That strange feeling in my head has returned, and I should like to see you about it," etc., etc.