When metal is molten it can be poured into any vessel; and at that moment a certain deep receptacle stood on the very door-step.
The doctor heard the bell, sat up briskly, stuffed the letter back into his pocket, and buttoned his waistcoat.
"A patient at last!" and instantly there arose a vision of a simple operation, a fabulous fee, and twelve sickly millionaires an hour ever after. The door opened, and a loud voice hailed him familiarly.
"Only Welsh," he sighed, and the vision went the way of all the others.
The gentleman who swaggered in and clapped the doctor on the back, who next threw himself into the easiest chair and his hat and coat over the table, was in fact Mr. Robert Welsh. From the moment he entered he pervaded the room; the stethoscope seemed to grow less conspicuous, Dr. Twiddel's chin more diminutive, the apartment itself a mere background to this guest. Why? It would be hard to say precisely. He was a black-moustached, full-faced man, with an air of the most consummate assurance, and a person by some deemed handsome. Yet some-
