"Time enough for that,"
he told me once, "when I can furnish a good house, and set up a
brougham, and choose my patients, and have a few hundreds lying idle in
the bank."
Meantime, as no one of these items had yet been realized, he lived in
lodgings, ate toasted haddocks with his morning coffee, and smoked and
read novels far into the night.
Yes, I could go and breakfast with Munro. Just then it occurred to me
that the gas I had left lighted when I went to bed was out; that the
door I had left locked was open.
Straight downstairs I went. The gas in the hall was out, and every door
I had myself closed and locked the previous morning stood ajar, with the
seal, however, remaining intact.
I had borne as much as I could: my nerves were utterly unhinged.
Snatching my hat and coat, I left the house, and fled, rather than
walked, towards London.
With every step I took towards town came renewed courage; and when I
reached Ned's lodgings, I felt ashamed of my pusillanimity.
"I have been sleep-walking, that is what it is," I decided. "I have
opened the doors and turned off the gas myself, and been frightened at
the work of my own hands. I will ask Munro what is the best thing to
insure a quiet night."
Which I did accordingly, receiving for answer--
"Keep a quiet mind.
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